"Wolf mother, where you been? You look so worn, so thin. You’re a taker, devil’s maker. Let me hear you sing, hey ya hey ya. Wolf father, at the door, you don’t smile anymore. You’re a drifter, shapeshifter. Let me see you run, hey ya hey ya. Holy light, oh, burn the night, oh keep the spirits strong. Watch it grow, child of wolf, keep holdin’ on." - Wolf (First Aid Kit)
I’ve never actually been bowling, I just realized. [ Clarabel confessed, shrugging, her face back to it’s normal, curious expression. ]
I really like those names. Do they mean anything? Are they twins? I don’t mean to overwhelm you with questions but from what you’ve said about them they seem really interesting. Fun too.
[ She had to laugh at his observation. It wasn’t actually a scary place, she really loved living there. The mansion near the city, that’s what was scary. The gates high, everything dark and imposing. It felt more like a prison then what she assumed home was like. ]
It’s less lonely then the one I lived in before. But I’ve always found ways to entertain myself — it could be worse. [ Clarabel wasn’t going to say the privileged life she lived wasn’t good. Yes, sometimes it was intense, stuffy, but she was privileged after all. Perhaps the only benefit to having parents who were part of a sort of secret society of blood supremacists was that most of the time she was safe. Unless people found out about her secret, that is. ]
Tiernan's mouth made an 'o' shape. "You've never gone bowling?" He asked incredulously. There was a cheap old bowling alley around his friends' school that they sometimes went to on weekends or for birthdays. It was kind of sketchy and stunk of booze and smelly feet but it was a good time. "One day you have to come visit me, and I'll take you bowling."
He smiled. "Einrí is just the Irish version of the British Henry, but I think it means ruler or something? Felim means good. They're both good boys. And, yeah, they are twins! How'd you guess?" He laughed. "There's no way you could ask me too many questions about my brothers, I could talk about those ankle-biters for weeks."
Tiernan tried to picture either of Clarabel's homes, but besides thinking that maybe they had the warmth she gave off so freely, he couldn't construct any images. He thought of warm towels and open space. Maybe boardgames. "Did you have boardgames?" He asked, genuinely curious. His eyes widened at the mention of a beach. "Really? That must be nice. In the summertime? I've never really seen a beach before, except on postcards and things, but they seem really beautiful."
Alby was fifteen at the time. One more year and he'd be off at boarding school. Three more and he'd be off at university. But these were prelapsarian times, before Alby left the picture. The twins were seven, all energy and chaos. Tiernan himself was only twelve. He still believed in Santa Claus.
Mamaí gave the boys some virgin eggnog before spiking her own with a sizable amount of rum. But, as was the tradition two years running, Alby snuck into the kitchen after she'd fallen asleep on the couch and gave his own a punch.
"Hey T, you want a sip?" He'd asked with a grin on his face. Tiernan nodded, curious and eager. To this day he can still taste that eggnogg; the saccharine cream balanced out by the cinnamon and the strong undertone of sweet liquor. He had enough for his throat to feel warm and his head to go fuzzy. He smiled at the twins playing with race cars on the furniture. They only had two cars and one was missing a wheel, so for Christmas Tiernan had gotten them a new one. It was in a box covered with tape and ripped wrapping paper and a messily tied bow. Tiernan tried his best to wrap presents, but it always went somewhat askew. At least this year he didn't end up with superglue stuck to his fingers. For his mother he'd made a plaque out of clay in art class. It said '#1 MAMAÍ." He wasn't sure if she was really #1 but he thought it was a good thing to say.
A week ago, at his wit's end as to what to get Alby, he'd asked his older brother what he wanted. Alby smiled and said, "Write something for me." Write something for him? Tiernan had been incredulous at the time. His experience with writing had only been book reports for Mrs. Blake and a measly poem for the fifth grade reading event. That was all before wizard school, of course. When Tiernan asked him why, Alby had only responded he'd heard good things. From whom? It drove Tiernan mad for days. But, before he could royally screw himself over in time management, he sat down with a pencil and a sheet of paper he'd stolen from the public library and wrote out a poem. Then scratched it out and wrote it again. Then changed a few words and took some lines out. He didn't know what he wanted the poem to sound like, but he found that different changes he made gave it different feelings.
So while Alby sat in the big chair drinking his post-eggnog Irish Coffee, Tiernan snuck back to the room he shared with the twins to look over the only Christmas present he was worried about giving. Later that night, when the clock struck midnight, Alby found Tiernan asleep on top of a sheet of paper that was covered top to bottom in scribbles. It read:
"Then leave!" She screamed, pointing to the door. Her eyes were bloodshot, her lips were dry and cracked, and dark bags had made their home under her eyes. Guilt stabbed at him. How long had her two shifts today been? Long (he knew that much.) Only to come home to her son smoking pot like his no-good dad used to. It made sense that she'd freaked out. He just wished he'd taken it better, or at least not followed her into the kitchen. Okay, so he was only thirteen. Thirteen year olds aren't known for their levelheadedness. And what she'd said had stung. But he could've avoided this. If he hadn't yelled back at her...
"You stupid, ungrateful, worthless, lazy bastard!" She'd screamed when she'd found him. "You think you're above all this? You think you're better than us? Listen, just because you're feckin' gifted or whatever, you're not untouchable!"
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, okay! I said I was sorry."
"You and everybody else! You know how many times I've heard 'sorry?' Too many feckin' times. You're a brat, a worthless little cunt. You just fuck around and think everybody will clean up your mess! Well guess what, you little shite? I won't! I swear to God, Tom--"
Silence. He felt like all the air was sucked out of him. Tom.
"If all you care about is loadin' up and feckin' around like some little hoor, you can--"
"I'M NOT HIM!" He screamed. She blinked, barely registering his desperate yell. "I'M NOT! DON'T FECKIN' CALL ME BY HIS NAME, OKAY? I'M NOT HIM! I'M NOT!" He knew he was being irrational. He couldn't stop. He kept screaming, kept repeating it. Then she smacked him. He stopped and looked at her. She was near tears. He was crying. He felt so much shame. Seconds ticked by. "M'sorry." He said quietly, and his voice was hoarse. He looked at the floor. When he looked back at her, he was surprised to find more anger, as if it had been refreshed.
"You see? You see what a little shite you are? Feckin' useless! Just like your dad! You think you're anything different than him? You're the same."
"I'm not!" He pleaded. "I mean it. I'm not, mum, I'm really not." But he felt like he was lying. She didn't believe him either way. She stormed off to the kitchen and he followed like a lap dog. He wanted to let her go but he was so scared she would leave. So scared she would make him leave. She whipped around.
"What? Screaming at me wasn't enough?" He stayed quiet. She started mumbling to herself. "Ungrateful bastard. So feckin' spoiled. Y'just don't understand..." Her voice started to grow louder. "Don't respect me, don't help me, just leave me! Just go! I know you sure as hell don't care about those boys!" Tiernan felt like she was pinching an open wound.
"I do!"
"Yeah, sure, just like you care about me."
"I love them! I love you! I love you, mum! I love you!"
"Doesn't seem like it."
"I feed them! I take them to school! I have a job! I'm doing everything I can!" And yet here he was, his high gone but his guilt intact.
"OH, like you're so much better than me?" She scoffed. "Of course. Why am I not surprised? I DO EVERYTHING! YOU DO NOTHING! You have no idea!"
"That's not true!" He said, but she wasn't listening. She fished a glass out of the cabinet.
"You know, when I married that goddamn prick, I knew. I feckin' knew." He just stared at her. Instead of getting out a bottle of something, like he thought she'd do, she flung the glass at his head. He dodged it incredulously.
"What the hell, mum?" He yelled. "Stop!" She was getting out another glass.
"I KNEW!" She screamed. "AND I KNOW YOU'RE THE SAME!"
"Stop!" He walked closer to her, trying to take the second glass from her. She smashed it on the counter and held it up again, her hand bleeding from the shards. He got closer. "Stop! Please, mum... Stop." He was quiet now, so quiet. She was breathing heavily, looking from his face to his chest. Before he knew it she had slashed his stomach and he was bleeding. He tried to grab the glass from her but she worked it into his shoulder and he stopped, sat on the kitchen floor in shock, started to cry. She walked away. He sat there.
Minutes went by. He pushed himself off the floor. Cleaned up his cuts, wondered if he'd need stitches, wondered if he should take the glass out of his arm. He didn't want to go to the hospital, didn't want the inquiry, didn't want people to know. He thought about performing a healing spell on himself but he wasn't permitted to do magic outside of Hogwarts and he certainly wasn't going to risk getting kicked out.
Twenty minutes later he was still bleeding. He felt like a child. He wanted his mum. "Mamaí?" He asked, opening the door to her room. She was sitting on her bed. "I think I should go to the hospital." He said. She didn't look up at him. "Mum?" He asked again. No response. He felt his chest tighten and eyes water and he didn't want her to see him cry again. He left her room, shutting the door with a gentle thud behind him. He called his friend Johnny up on the phone but there was no answer. "Pick up!" He growled, calling again. Nothing. He fished around in his mother's untouched sewing supplies, grabbing some scissors, thread, and a needle. He got some booze from the kitchen, then sat in the bathroom, panicking. He knew what he had to do.
The cut on his stomach wasn't bleeding excessively but it was bleeding. His arm looked bad but didn't feel that bad. He didn't know what to do with it so he started with his stomach. He got in the tub and took off his shirt. Poured the alcohol over the scissors and the needle and the cut. It stung, foamed white. He picked a bit of glass and some fabric out of the skin and washed it out again. He took a deep breath. Steadied himself. Tried to remember the pillow he had sewn for class around two years ago.
When he first pushed the needle through his skin he had to stop because his hand was shaking too much. He closed his eyes, grit his teeth, breathed in and out slowly. Tried again. But he pierced too close to the surface and tore the skin when he tried to move the needle. So he tried again, this time further into his skin. It didn't hurt as much as he thought it would--it was almost like parts of the cut were numb. His hand continued to shake as he sewed a zigzag pattern from one side of the cut to the other. He felt all wrong and slightly queasy. Very queasy, actually. His head hurt and the sewing looked awful. He finished with a knot and climbed out of the tub quick enough to get his puke into the toilet.
He got back into the tub. Carefully, he removed the glass from his shoulder. It hadn't actually gone in very deep. It was bleeding profusely, but it didn't seem like he'd hurt anything serious. He washed it out with the booze and started to stitch it up just as he had his stomach. His shoulder was extremely easier. Didn't give him the same nausea or panic. His stitches looked much neater there and he couldn't help but take some pride in them. He didn't want to look at his stomach, though. He cleaned the needle and scissors, capped the alcohol, and grabbed the thread, putting everything back where it needed to go. When he was putting the sewing materials away his mother walked in. He stiffened but didn't say anything, zipping up the tiny bag.
"What're you using my kit for?" She asked, ready to yell. He shrugged. "You hear me?" He looked down. He didn't want to do this. Tiernan was tired. He had school the next day. "Tiernan Lommán, you answer me right now." She said between gritted teeth. He said nothing. "If you don't want to be a part of this family, then leave!" She screamed, pointing to the door. He whispered something under his breath. "What was that?" She asked, fury rising.
"I don't know what to do." He repeated, his voice raspy and broken up. She looked at him sternly, pressing her lips together. After a long period of staring at him she took the broom from the corner and handed it to him. "Clean up the broken glass, then." She said, almost gently. "Sorry about the mess, but you know how it is. Glasses can be slippery." She said it like she didn't believe a single word, which was honestly a relief, but he wasn't sure how to respond. So he nodded and took the broom.
That night he didn't sleep. He went from anger to guilt to sadness back to anger again. In the morning he found a quiet that stayed with him for weeks. He remained reserved with her for as long as he could, saying only the bare minimum. In the next month she brought him back things from work (a doodle on a napkin, a drink umbrella) and called him a good boy. He pretended not to care. He almost kissed a stranger. He almost ran in front of traffic. He did try acid at a party and let the world wrap him up in dimensional blankets. He couldn't look anyone in the eye.
In two weeks he cuts the stitches out. In two months he stops shaking when his mother is angry. In two years he stops being terrified of broken glass.
Tiernan figures it made him stronger, the stitching. Figures that scars can be defining. From the lines on his back to the line across his stomach to the lines of fractures in now-healed bones to the line on his shoulder--he knows he has more than enough definition. And sometimes the lines ache badly but he at least he knows how to stop from them bleeding and, most of the time, that's enough.
She was more than human to me. She was a Fairy, a Sylph, I don’t know what she was - anything that no one ever saw, and everything that everybody ever wanted. I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant. There was no pausing on the brink; no looking down, or looking back; I was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a word to her.
[ The witch regarded his smile for a few moments before falling into thought. There was an idle thought, that no matter how wonderful Tiernan’s mom would possibly be to hers, her mother would never ever associate with his. Even if she wasn’t pleasant, the fact of the matter was, her mother would look down on his, or worse — hurt hers if it came to it. Still, she kept the mood light. There was no need to bring up blood prejudice when one, she didn’t believe in it and two, it was something that was already very prominent on Durmstrang grounds. Still, her smiled dimmed and she knew that he would probably notice. Hiding things from him was something she wasn’t too good at. ]
If yours could get mine to go bowling, I’d be beyond shocked. Gunshot wounds? They seem to like excitement. Can I ask their names?
No, I mean, we used to live near people in general when I was younger. In this Wizard community in France, outside or Paris. On an estate that kept more people out than in, really. But — then we moved. To the summer home.
[ Clarabel said that last sentence with a fake air of ostentatiousness. Why they had moved? Clarabel, at the tender age of 12, had sprouted a full grown cherry blossum tree in the middle of their living room. It wasn’t the worst she’d done according to her parents but it warranted a permanent move to their summer mansion. ]
Tiernan saw Clarabel's face fall and wasn't sure why until she spoke. "Me mum's not really the bowling type either, I wouldn't worry." It was meant to be a joke but things that were funny about his mother never stayed very funny. He smiled at her asking about his brothers. Nobody really cared about them, but he knew she would. He didn't even know how he knew she would, she'd never even met them, but he knew. She had this tenderness about her, kind of the mother-like love the boys had been missing. He really wanted them to meet.
"Einrí and Felim." He beemed. "I think you'd get along really well with them." He looked down, thinking about it. He didn't realize he was smiling very widely until his cheeks hurt.
"The summer home? Dun, dun, dunnn. Sounds scary." He wanted to ask why her family made the move but he wasn't sure it was ask-able territory. Instead, he said, "Is it lonely there?" Because it sounded like it was.
It was midnight and Tiernan was supposed to be home by now. It was just that midnight was his favorite part of the night and he was so pleasantly buzzed from the beer he'd been drinking over the past hour and it was such a nice night for an outdoor party. He procrastinated by looking at the stars and having conversations about which Saw movies, if any, were good. But his procrastination lasted exactly thirty minutes before extreme guilt started to kick in. He tried to push it to the back of his mind, thought: I'm always worried for nothing. But there was lead in his stomach that told him no matter how many times there was nothing, there was always the possibility of something. Not a small possibility, either. So he took a shot of whisky and hoped the lead would dissipate. It didn't. Another shot. Still there. By 12:43 he was saying goodbye, and by 12:45 he was stumbling home.
The first thing he noticed was that the boys' bedroom lights were still on. At this time of night they'd be up, sure, but at least pretending to be asleep to appease mum. His brow furrowed. Was she still out? Judging by the lack of mess in the kitchen, she hadn't been home since he'd cleaned it up in the morning. He climbed up the stairs and peeked his head into the boys' room. "Mamaí home?" He asked, and both of them shook their heads no. "Hungry?" Nods yes. "Silent?" The two tried not to say anything, which lasted about two seconds, and broke up into laughs. Tiernan handed them some snacks he'd taken from the party. He tried not to notice how quickly they ate.
"Mamaí said we talk too much and if we don't stop she's going to leave us and go to the orphanage and find more grateful kids." Said Felim with his mouth full. Tiernan felt his stomach flip.
"She's just trying to get you to behave is all." He said. "Thinks scare tactics are the answer to everything. Bit like an army general, don'tcha think?" The boys grinned. "Now, you two go to sleep or you'll never get up for school tomorrow." He said, getting up and stretching.
"Now you sound like an army general!" Said Einrí, teasing.
"Oh, really?" Tiernan raised his eyebrows, puffing his chest out and walking robotically over to Einrí's bed. "That's because I'm not your brother, I'm a general!" He made his voice sound low and strained. "Do not disobey! Do not disobey!" He started to tickle Einrí and when Felim laughed he attacked him too until they were both exhausted.
When he finally left their room (and was 60% sure they were sleeping) he checked his mum's room, but she still wasn't there. Sighing, he decided to check around a few pubs, see if she might need some dragging back. But she wasn't at the Porterhouse or Murrays, or O'Neills or Flannerys. Finally, he found her smoking out in the back of Smyths. Or, at least, she was holding a cigarette between her fingers. The ash had worked it's way up to almost her finger. She wasn't moving, just staring off into the distance with a glazed look on her face. "Mum?" Tiernan asked, approaching her. He suddenly became aware of another person there, a man in the shadows stepped forward.
"Got a problem, lad?" The man said to him. Then he looked at his mother. "This guy botherin' you?" She remained catatonic.
"Feck off, would you?" He asked the man, patience tried and tired. The man's reddened, puffy face registered his words very slowly.
"You wanna come a little closer and say that?" He offered. Tiernan was willing and ready, but his mother suddenly spoke.
"Tiern'n? That you?" He turned his attention back towards her.
"Yeah, mum. You wanna go home now?" It was more of a plea then a question.
"No, n'time for that r'now." Her words slurred together. Tiernan gently took the cigarette from her hand and put it out on the ground.
"Take a walk with me then?" He asked. When she didn't respond he wrapped his arm around her waist and tried to lead her away. She was pliable. He risked a glance back at the man but he was gone, probably off picking a fight with or leering at someone else. When he looked back to the road, it was at a fist coming towards his face. The next thing he knew, searing pain was in his nose. His eyes teared up and he tasted metal in his mouth. How stupid, he thought. How fucking stupid was I to think this jackass would leave us alone?
"Feckin' git." The man said. Tiernan scrambled up from the ground just in time to escape a kick in the stomach. He pulled his fists up to protect himself and landed a punch in the guy's jaw. He fell back in an awkward half-braced thump. Tiernan kicked his head, hoping to knock him out. The man just seemed dazed but he didn't care to wait around. He grabbed his mum and hurried away from the scene.
By the time he got his mum into bed adrenaline was still pumping through his system. Anxious, he rustled through the pantry until he found a bottle of whiskey. He sat down at the kitchen table, pouring himself a glass. He nursed it slowly, evenly, trying to calm his nerves. Then, without warning, he started to cry. The desperate, panicky kind of cry that comes on at random in the form of sobs that shake one's whole body. He felt like boiling water that bubbled and bubbled until it finally spilled over onto the stove. He shut his eyes and tried to bare through the boiling water. After a few minutes that felt like hours he took in a long, shuddery breath and quieted himself, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. "Shite," he murmured. He fell asleep at the kitchen table.
[ She couldn’t help but let out a short laugh, even though it wasn’t extremely funny, it did lighten her mood. ]
You’re no help, Tiernan. You’re about as stuck with them as I am.
That sounds very unpleasant. My maman would have had a fit if that happened to me. Your brothers enjoyed it though? That’s a plus, I suppose.
[ Clarabel’s smile fell at fully realizing the thought of a ghost doing the same thing that it had done to Tiernan to her. ] —- Wait, you don’t think that’ll happen to me, do you?
He smiled when he saw her smile. He loved the way she smiled. The way her lips pushed her cheeks up and slightly crinkled her eyes. He had a photo he'd taken of her about a month ago that had it. She'd been deep in thought when he took it but he'd called her name and made a dumb face and she'd looked over and laughed. The shift in expression was captured in the moving photo and it was more magical than the actual magic of the thing.
"I think your old maman and me old mum should get together and go bowling." He said. "Yeah, they did. Really tickled 'em to see his gunshot wounds."
"Do you live in a muggle city? That's why the one got so attached to me, I think. Hadn't seen any magical folk in a long time."
[ Clarabel let out a scream of surprise as yet another ghost decided to run through her. Or, rather, it seemed that way. At least this time she had been holding onto her books and things for dear life instead of dropping them on the ground like she usually had when this happened. Clarabel Moreau seemed to have no grace when it came to maneuvering around the ghosts of Durmstrang. And now she was frustrated. Why? She didn’t appreciate being reprimanded harshly by the Wandering Lady — several times a day. While the other ghosts were much more mild, as far as she could tell, she was definitely not one of them. ]
I’ve been here far too long and I’m still not used to the ghosts! Not one bit. How did you get used to them?
"Still not used to them, really," Tiernan admitted. "I just try and keep an eye out. But you should've seen my house last summer. One of the ghosts in the pub down the street found out I was a wizard and wanted to start hangin' out all the time. M'brothers loved it. Me mum, on the other hand..." He laughed.
You’re sounding an awful lot like a politician now, Tier. How am I supposed to trust your invitation? Well, maybe a more…I don’t think politician is the correct word, maybe…yes, it’s coming to me.
Deviant. Like you said e x a c t l y. My parents would blow a gasket if they knew I was having a midnight breakfast with a deviant politician.
I think a lifetime of abnormal eating habits combined with a love of breakfast food led me to this deviant lifestyle. Help me abolish the morning breakfast "norm." Have midnight breakfast with me?
