I need a thread
Thread Topic: I need a thread
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I wrote so much omfg
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My internet had to be fixed (cus it sucks) and I wrote so much
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ITS SO BAD
SO MANY SWEARS
so much incest
too much f---ed up s---
I'll post it here. -
Time has proven that in the most dysfunctional of families, they themselves are the last to know they're dysfunctional. The children take it the worst, being haunted by screams in the night and the silence of the day, and often it drives them to eccentricity, or depression. It is a given that at one point or another, those children will display their learned neurosis. How can a child of dysfunction become anything but?
Ashton Cussler sat out on dock beside his parents house, feet cooled by the water on the hottest day of the summer. The still water was a harsh contrast against all else, the screaming and cursing of both parents erupted from the vacation cottage, and as if the water had influenced it, the day went silent. The young boy of barely ten sprung from his ledge, as his mother shrieked a profane warning; the blazing day felt colder, and he sped back down through burning sand to the porch. He peered though the recently shattered window to a sight that chilled him to the bone.
With two bloody fists, his father looked like a raging machine, a vicious bull seeing red: he reared like one, and charged forward toward Ashton's mother. She evaded, just barely, and slipped out the front door with little Madeline at her side. The monster didn't bother to follow, instead slumping down near a pile of shattered glass, reaching out for a bottle of liquor.
"Cmon, Ashton," she beckoned, taking him with the other hand, putting the siblings into the car and hauling away. Ashton put his thumb in mouth, cradled his sister with his free arm and leaned against the seat. The narrow road was desolate, the radio hummed an oldie, and his mother looked fraught with anxiety. It wouldn't be the last time he saw her like that. -
"You know, mother, I'm not twelve. You don't have to cook dinner for me."
Looking like a page out of playboy, Jeanine Cussler handed her son a plate of food, topped with a sauce and a side of vegetables to remain untouched. "But you've grown up so well. Wouldn't want you to ruin that, baby."
He snickered, sipping on a glass of wine. He had to agree with his mother, he thought, sitting in the overstuffed chair in the corner. The broken home he'd been raised in had somewhat mended itself, with the abusive father no longer in the picture, Ashton had at least become a decent man. Other than this, he'd failed at holding jobs for himself, depending on his mother for most things, and taking his sister's money. Neither seemed to mind this, loving the now young man above most else.
He couldn't depend on looks alone to get him through life like his father had for so long. His father was very handsome, muscular, dark haired and fair eyed; as an actor, it was a wonderful quality to look gruff, which Raymond Cussler embodied. At over six foot five, Ashton's father was a tall, dark wonder.
Ashton, however, had none of this. He took mostly after his mother, and while stunning on a woman, his fair hair, thin frame and dark eyes were wasted on him. He kept his hair in an unkempt shag, and although spending most of his time outside, he broke into freckles instead of a tan. He had inherited height though, just barely breaking six foot two.
"Will you get get me another bottle, mom?" Ashton asked, sipping the remainder of the glass and picking at the warm food. She looked down with a hint of anger and fetched a new one from the rack.
"Do you not like my cooking?"
"I'm just not that hungry."
"Oh well. Maybe Madeline will like it," Ashton didn't interject, instead eating a forkful of pork to prove that he liked it. His mothers eyes lit up, and he smiled at her. As if on cue, his sister joined them, taking a seat on couch, taking a glass of wine for herself. She leaned over to her brother and kissed him, and he reciprocated. It was a bit early in the night, a look outside was enough to prove this, as the sun still lingered above.
"I'm gonna get going, momma," he whispered, giving her a kiss as well once he stood. "See you later, Maddie."
"Where are you going?" his sister questioned, he didn't look back, instead looking out the door. He untucked half of his shirt.
"Out."
"That's no reply."
"With some friends. For some drinks, or something," he replied, tossing his hair. "I don't know. I'll be back soon."
"Okay, babe," his mother said, with a hint of sadness. He slipped outside, and his sister followed after.
"Hey, hotshot," she whispered, sliding into him. "Bring me back something. And don't leave Mom waiting too long."
"I won't. I know. I love you," he smiled in the evening light, embracing her and running his hand through her hair. "I'll leave it in your shoes." -
He took off, holding up his khaki shorts with one hand, cool New England air raising the hairs on his arms, blowing through his sandy mop. His bike was never where he left it; it was always halfway around the shed. His mother did it, of course, to protect him. It was a simple thing he looked forward to, but not then. It irked him then - a sense of uneasiness, a sense of dread. He set off anyway.
Pedalling down the crooked road, few souls bothered to be out that late, and he was free to speed on. The locals were well into their sixties - a cyclist didn't draw much attention, especially in such a suburban area, and it was easy to do his business without having the cops breathing down his neck.
The crossroad was the only thing populated, barely, with a single muscle car tearing down it, like a racer on the strip. Probably just a drunk jock, Ashton thinks, looking up from his bike to the willow trees, pushing hair out of his eyes.
It was a few minutes from eight when he pulled up behind the old high school, an obsolete brick institution in the middle of nowhere, tucked away from most houses. Even the police didn't bother to travel down the gravel road, which meant it was a safe haven for graffiti artists, low key criminals, and deadbeat jocks at the right time of day. Ashton frequented the behinds of the school with his friends, too.
They weren't exactly friends, and definitely not the kind his mother would want him to have, but he had spent so much time there that it was inevitable. The kids he hung out with in school would never end up here; instead the population was a mix of thugs and good-for-nothings. He was offered a joint instantaneously by some hood rat, which he took.
"Is he around?"
"Who?" A drugged out dropout slurred.
"Geoff."
"Huh?"
"The skinny nerd kid?" Ashton narrowed his eyes, instead deciding look away and take a drag.
"Around the side," he mumbled, nearly falling asleep. Ash laughed to himself, hitting it one more time before flicking the marijuana cigarette at the kid. Geoff looked like the kind of guy that would ace his SAT his first try, which was exactly the image he liked to keep up. Among his friends, however, he donned a letterman jacket several sizes to big, and shorts to match. It took Ashton a lot not to scoff. He offered a fifty dollar bill, and Geoff took off his fake horn rims.
"Whaddya want?"
"What've you got?"
The exchange was quick, and Ashton was back pedalling around town in minutes. In the approaching night, he was safe to smoke whatever he wanted on his ride: a pleasure he exploited greatly. He backtracked his way past the crossroad to his house, darting to the left toward the liquor store.
That ordeal went poorly; the clerk, assuming with his boyish looks that he was under twenty one, also assumed his licence was fake. It was settled quickly; Ashton was on his way once more. The road was rough, Ashton noted, and he veered right through the crossroad. He ditched the bike beside his house, sitting on the porch swing to drink from the bottle of vodka he'd bought. A lone light lit the porch, which was from his mother's bedroom. The clock inside read a little past nine, which was far too early for his tastes - he left the drugs in his sister's shoes lying neatly in the tray, set aside the bottle and took off to his bike again. -
The light blue shirt he wore absorbed what was left of the sunlight - he brushed his hair out of his eyes and headed for the beach. The moonlight was beginning to break when he arrived, and he kicked off his shoes, trudging down to the waterline and sitting in the sand. Only the birds sang their melancholic tune. Ashton had none of it, lighting up again and taking off his shirt. He laughed at past events, falling back into the white sand in tears. He was glad that it was summer, and nobody bothered to go to the beach past seven, because the little kids couldn't stay up that late.
The waves were mesmerising: tearing up the shore, dragging it back and chilling him with a gentle breeze. He ran his fingers through the sand, tossing it over him in a fit of laughter, rolling over many times and sculpting castles. Ashton felt a stabbing in the pit of his stomach - this event was too much like that day his father was gone, he thought. It hurt him - he was the only man in the house now, in the world, it felt. He shrugged the feeling off, digging his feet into the ground and breaking into a laugh once more.
It was over an hour later went he dusted himself off and left his clothes on the beach to bike back to home. He knew his mother would be mad; she'd push her hair to one side, purse her lips and shake her head. Ashton snickered at the thought, veering to different sides of the road to avoid potholes. "Ashton," she'd scold, knowing he was high but not saying anything. "I thought you said you'd be back soon."
Upon his return, however, there was not a light anymore. His mother had fallen asleep: his sister had turned the light out and snuck out to meet with her boyfriend. Ashton was almost sad, sliding off his shorts when he got inside and kicking them toward his chair in the corner - he made his way up to his mother's rooms, and slid into her bed.
She was draped in a red satin dress underneath; wishing he could make out more, he draped his arm around her, and almost instantly fell to sleep. It would be hellish in the morning, he knew, but did not care. Ashton could be such a gentle man, and he doubted his mother would care too much. -
It was some time late next morning that trouble began.
"Do you want some breakfast, honey?" Jeanine asked her son, who was looking disinterested in the TV drama he watched. He ignored her, instead flipping through channels, pulling the cotton sheets up to his chest. "Hey! f---ing look at me!" He turned, furrowing thick brows and threw the controller at her.
"Shut the hell up, mom! I f---ing shook my head!"
"Don't you dare talk to me like that!"
"Or what? You'll leave me like you left dad?" Ashton said his words carefully, as if measuring out the right amount of incrimination to add. His mother recoiled and boiled into a rage. She took him by the jaw and slapped him with as much force as she could muster. It stung Ashton's face - he locked on to her with dark eyes and jumped from bed, pushing past her and trudging down the stairs. His sister reclined on the suede couch, snickering at him.
"Put some pants on."
"Whatever," Ashton sighed, slipping on his khaki shorts. "Queen b---- is mad again."
"I noticed. Take a chill pill," she smiled, swinging her legs down and handing him a bottle of medication. "Just relax."
He shook his head with a smirk, swallowed a few and took his seat in the blue seat in the corner. I'm just a young guy, Ashton thought, scoffing. I don't deserve this, he added, picking at the frayed threads.
"You know, I've never seen a TV family like this."
"What?"
"You know, like the TV families. Like in the sitcoms. They're supposed to be relatable. You're supposed to watch, laugh and think about the similar experiences you've had."
"I don't think that's what you do."
"Of course it is. I bet in ten years, they'll have sitcoms just like this, just two siblings talking about the meaning of sitcoms and life or whatever," Ashton doesn't break the stare he's held on the ground. "That's what it's all like. It's like a game or sitcom, life, I mean. You watch it pass, you reflect, and then you tell yourself that everything is fine."
"Maybe you should slow down on the chill pills. You've become Plato."
"I wish Mom would get rid of the cat."
"What? Why?"
"It's a waste of money."
"We have money. We have a lot, Ash."
"It's a waste."
"Ashton?"
"A f---ing waste," he exclaimed as if to tell his mother, then rising and rushing out the door. He scooped up his bike and took off with a running start, tearing up the loose pieces of rock from the dirt; as if it were a chess move, he swerved past a cop car - bringing the cycle to a skidding halt. He kicked the stand down. There was a feeling in his stomach again and the car window is rolled down. A blonde cop turned to observe him, red lipstick glowing in the sun, hair tossed back in wild curls. She's like Marilyn Monroe, Ashton thinks. She nodded, the car suddenly speeding away, pulling up the gravel and tar and throwing it toward him. -
Just a patrol, he thinks, but why is he here? Ashton kicked the stand up to pedal in the opposite direction. Sickness washes over him, chilling him even in the heat, turning his stomach over. He slowed his pedalling to mere pushes. He glanced up to the morning sun, cursing at the air with closed eyes. In his grief, he didn't hear the car roaring and belching smoke. Snow rains down, but it isn't snow, Ashton thinks, being thrown into the tar after flipping over the body of metal. It was glass pelting him in the stomach - the gasps of a family faded slowly, a viscous mix of red and sweat poured down his neck, he could barely feel the blood coating his bare torso. Sound returned to him slower than it left and he struggled to his feet, groaning and holding himself against the car. He took a step, abruptly losing himself and digging into the pavement, only to break the fall with his face. In the disorientation, he heard the car peels away. Karma, Ashton thought, laying in the street like roadkill.
-
He took a hit, coughing after several moments. He erupted into laughter, falling back in to his bean bag chair. He heard a desperate knock on the door - he invited in his sister, who took a knee and punched him in the arm.
"Hotshot, Mom's home. She's gonna catch you."
"You think she doesn't know? Maddie, come on."
"Listen, I know she knows. She's been on the fringe though."
"She's always on the fringe," he laughed again and leaned back. "It's Mom."
"Ash, I think this is different. She's been acting weird since you got f---ing dragged down the road."
He shrugged it off, taking another hit. Madeline punched him in the arm again, narrowing her stone grey eyes.
"Hey, you're not the only f---ing one with problems. It's not fair that you get to sit on your ass and get high, and I have to work just for you to take my money!" He looked up to her, but wasn't really focusing on her, wasn't really looking to her. His mother's footsteps echoed in the hallway below. Madeline began to look frantic. "Put it out, Ashton. Quickly, please!"
He stared forward in what seemed like an eternity only before snuffing it out and exhaling the smoke. He leaned forward and whispered. "She's gonna see the smoke, Maddie."
"I know," she murmured, sitting in the bean bag beside him. It was the envelope that went through the door first, and then Jeanine. She stopped suddenly, looking down to Ashton who had broken in to coughs, then to Madeline with a look of sorrow. The cheerful composure returned quickly - in red heels she did a pivot.
"There was a check in the mailbox. Addressed to all of us."
"How much?" Madeline perked up, glancing to Ashton before standing at her mother's side. "Is it a lot? Who's it from?"
"Fifty thousand dollars."
"Oh my god," his sister gasped, looking down to the check. "Fifty?!"
"We have money to use, but... but with this, we can take a break," tears brimmed on Jeanine's eyes. "You can stop working so young, I can take a break from work..."
"Dad," Ashton sighed. "It's from Dad."
"Shut up Ashton," Madeline interjects.
"What?"
"It's from Dad."
"Ashton," she scolds again.
"How do you... Why would you say that?"
"Because it's f---ing from Dad. He's the one who hit me."
"You saw him?"
"No, I didn't. I know it was him."
"Then you don't know."
"Mom, you're ignorant."
"Ashton!" They simultaneously call at him. His mother takes his jaw and slaps him again. He doesn't withdraw at this, instead burning a hole in her with a look, before getting up and leaving.
"f--- you," he snarled, trudging down the stairs. "I hate you."
He didn't have anywhere to go. Ashton grabbed his guitar, backpack and pair of shoes, with the intent of either running away or rooming with a friend. Not many people could deal with Raymond Cussler - he was handsome but so ugly inside. Rude, used to getting everything and conditioned, Raymond could break people with a glance. Only the idle rich could stand him, because they had too, and the woman he hired to service him.
Ashton Cussler had many friends. They liked his personality, Ashton assumed, as many of the knew his father's personality was build on vengeance. Although the bulk of them had ended up going to state college, Ashton reckoned he could find at least one that would let him stay. It was worth a try, he finally decided, walking down the road. His bike had been trashed in the crash, with enough force to tear half of it apart. He was glad his bike took the brunt of it - else I might not be here, he thinks with a snicker.
It came to him then, all of a sudden, like a dream. He stopped in the road and looked toward the direction of the beach. Only the summer before, he recalled, a good friend by the name of Trey had seen him on the beach, and talked with him for quite a bit, before saying the usual longtime friend spiel: "if you need anything, ever, I come down every summer to stay with my Mam. She's the house to the left there. Just knock up and we'll open." -
He took of in a jog, which with a guitar case and backpack was difficult. It took a few minutes, but finally the sand was burning the soles of his feet. He looked down with a grin. What was better than living on the beach? Nothing, Ashton thinks. He sees the house, and although not the grandest, was certainly lively. The flower beds beside the slab pathway exploded with colour, and not far behind, neatly trimmed bushes dotted with buds of turquoise. Ashton looked up, noting the fresh white paint and shutters of a gold shade.
He knocked on the door, stepping back to notice that the doorway was almost too short for him. Like a giant in a fairytale, he thought, smile breaking out.
"Hello, young man," the fit looking woman opened the door. "What brings you by?"
"Hello, Ms. Carter, I just wondering if Trey is around?"
"He's just stepped out, actually. He'll be back in a moment, if you don't mind sitting with an old woman." He pushed up her glasses and parted her greying hair. Ashton ducked under the door, just in case. "He's just getting some milk."
"Lovely home, Ms. Carter," he said, taking a look. Unlike the many grandmothers he'd met, Ms. Carter didn't have fifty yards of plastic over every chair, nor did she have much clutter either. It was a modern home, wood floors, central heating and all that, Ashton thought. The insides were a light blue, the windows were new, and the stair case was carpeted. He was almost jealous. Ms. Carter gladly let him set his things down beside the door.
Ashton took a seat in a white wicker chair, across from the woman who couldn't be a day over fifty. He smiled and said: "You called yourself old, but you don't look it. And your house is nice and stuff."
"Age comes in many ways," she sighed, sitting back in the love seat. "I stay young the best I can, but I've been through almost seventy five years of all sorts of things. When I was your age and Trey's age, I would have died for a house like this. Now I have it, and it's funny."
"Life is kind of weird like that, I guess."
"Damn right, I had to work hard for the little things. Some folk aren't as lucky as I was. I reckon that the school girls I knew could still be working!"
"How'd you get out of working so much, Ms. Carter?"
"Please, call me Bev. I married into money, honey. And ain't a damn thing wrong with that neither." Trey opened the door then, walking in with a bag of groceries. He set them on the table and noticed Ashton.
"Ash!" He said, Ashton standing and giving him dabs. "How you been?"
"I just need to stay here for bit, if Bev and you don't mind."
"Course not, Ash. Wanna go down to the beach then?" He asked in his southern drawl. Trey Carter was a man from the south originally, with a well known family down there as well. They were know as the C's - three generations of the family had married men named Carter. It was a bit of real life running gag that fate just played along with. Trey himself was a tall black man who'd made quite a star of himself playing baskets. He'd never take it to college level, he said, instead devoting himself to the arts.
"I don't see why not, do you have a room where I can just run my stuff up?"
"I'll care of that honey," Bev Carter said. "Go along and have fun."
Ashton thanked her, taking his guitar from the case quickly and running down to the beach with Trey. A group of people were already around a pile of wood on the far end. Trey sat across from Ashton and the conversation began. Every once in a while, they'd break into song and Ashton would play his guitar, accompanied by a hippie looking couple who'd play the tambourine.
"So Ash, how'd you get so beat up, anyway?" Trey finally asked, stripping from his tee shirt.
"Oh, I got hit by a car," he said, laughing. "It sucked because my bike got wrecked."
"s--- man. How did you deal with that?"
"Smoking a lot," the group chorused in laughter. This is like the new age sitcom, Ashton thought. He looked up to the sky which faltered in the cusp of night.
"Bonfire?" The hippie woman asked, following his gaze. An uproar of yeses nearly set the pile of sticks ablaze by themselves. Ashton set down his guitar and broke away to the shore line. A sense of doom hit him like a ton of bricks - and he glided into the water, darting like a panicked fish. He saw a boat up ahead - several, actually, and dove underwater with the laughs of many still behind.
The line that held the boat was chain, but not to far from it was a length of nylon about the thickness of a finger, and the a bit more than a yard. He held his breath, still, looping the nylon into a noose, he slipped his foot in and tied the noose and the chain. A wrap around made it look like an accident, Ashton thought. He tried to float up but couldn't - he felt his chest tighten and fought letting go of his breath.
On the shore, a minute or so passed without his return. Trey looked out over the still water and the realisation surfaced all too quickly. His feet carried him over the sand and he barely felt the cold water break. He opened his eyes below, and the stinging was nonexistent when he caught glimpse of pale flesh. Trey tried to pull Ashton but he was stopped by the rope - and like a super human he dismantled it, wrapping his friends arm round and back stroking like a pro.
Pale skin had turned white and frantic was the only word that could describe Trey. He could do CPR, he'd taken a course a long time ago, but this was differently. This was real. His hands were numbed by the cool air. -
It was July by the time Ashton had gotten desperate enough to call his Sister.
"Hello," Madeline answered the phone. "Maddie Cussler speaking."
"Maddie," Ashton said, sighing in relief. "Listen, spare me your sorrow. Can I have some money?"
"Ashton, you've got to come home."
"Didn't I just f---ing say spare me the sorrow?" He snarled, contemplating hanging up. He decided against it, softening himself. "Sorry."
"No, Ashton, you don't understand-"
"Maddie. Just some money-"
"Mom tried to kill herself," the line went silent on both ends. Ashton could imagine Maddie nervously twisting her curly brown hair, looking over her shoulder so that their mother couldn't hear, like she was snooping around. It took him a lot not to chuckle.
"How?"
"She didn't go upstairs, you know, I was thinking, well, maybe she didn't care, she'd sleep downstairs. I was going to sneak out and... Just something told me not to. To check on her."
"Like when I had that feeling it was dad, and nobody credited it?"
"Ashton, let it go."
"No. Just... Is she okay?"
"She's mental without you, Ash. She screams and then cries, doesn't eat... It's been weeks... Don't you think it's time?"
"I'll be by, but I can't promise," he muttered, putting the phone on the hook and putting on one of Trey's shirts. He lit up before leaving: to put me straight, he thought, carefully slipping past Trey's room with his stuff, down the stairs and out the door. The walk felt too quick, that time around. He was less eager to see his own mother than to see his sister. Is that a sin, he asked himself, or is Mom just a basketcase? A fruit loop? He laughed. The screen door was open, of course, and he let himself in. Maddie sat on the couch, cross legged, cross armed, waiting for him.
"Ashton, you need to talk to her," he didn't reply instead letting his belongings down and trumping up the stairs. His mother laid in bed, garbage bags over the window, slumped over with the TV on. It frightened Ashton. She looked like the living dead, pale and bleak, groaning quietly to herself, as if in pain. He tapped her on the shoulder.
"Go away, Madeline," she mumbled, looking toward the television screen. He instead sat on her bed beside her and began to undress. She finally looked over, empty eyes catching a light and tired face gaining life again. "Ashton!"
"Mommy," he mumbled, falling on top of her, with an endearing eagerness. She grabbed his hair and yanked his head up, a fire in her eyes he hadn't seen in so long.
"How could you do this to me?" She asked, kissing him and tasting his tongue. In his mouth, she murmured something else. He kissed his way down to her stomach, feeling her warmth. She was curvier before, Ashton thought, laying his head down. "You owe me," she said, pulling her robe away from her chest. He smiled up at her and nodded.
"I know, Mommy, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he mumbles, caressing her with gentle hands. "I'm so sorry."
"Ashton?" Maddie called up, a nervous quality surging through her voice. He sighed and sprung up from her, slipping out the door and looking down the stairs. His sister's eyes trailed down.
"Are you...?"
"I was going to."
"Okay," she murmured, "Tell her I love her."
"She doesn't need your love, Maddie," he said bluntly before returning, and Maddie stared in shock at where he was.
"What?" She said quietly, after, as if talking to him. "What?"
He ran into the room with a joy he hadn't felt before, and Jeanine Cussler made it her job to please him - she had her cotton sheets wrapped around her with a roguish smile. Ashton kneeled over her. She reached out, eyes taking on a look he'd never seen his mother have.
"You don't know what I'm capable of," she purred. "I did things with your father that would turn any boy into a man."
"Let me be the judge of that," Ashton snickered, leaning forward, releasing his own devious look. "Turn me into a man, mommy." -
The bar a few streets over was the Guinness family's - the most Irish family either sibling had ever been to school with. Everybody was a flaming redhead, with more freckles than one could count, or rather, one had the time to count. They were like walking stereotypes, Madeline thought. The lights inside were a tinted green, reflecting most of the Celtics gear around, and the crowd was mostly underage teenagers and fifty year old Irishmen. The Guinness' weren't one for keeping up appearances either, as the booths were torn and stripped, and the bar counter was in sorry shape.
Even in the morning, the score of leather jacket Irish types lingered. It made Madeline uneasy, and even in his somewhat despondent state, Ashton could tell. He squeezed her hand before sliding into a booth.
"Do you want something to eat?" He asked, regaining a range of pitch in his voice. She shook her head. He added to lessen the silence: "I'm quite hungry."
Maybe it's all the drugs, Ashton, she wanted to say. Instead, the youngest Cussler held her tongue.
"Would you two like something?" The waitress, one of the family, no doubt, asked. "Our specials of the morning are the egg-"
"I just want a sausage thing. With the potatoes. And a beer."
"Pitcher or pint?" Ashton looked to her sister, who shrugged and adjusted her blouse.
"Pitcher."
"Alright then, be back in a bit," he nodded, picking at the ageing table. Madeline took her brothers hand and brought her gaze to his eyes. They were dark, but not lacklustre, not like they had been.
"Are you alright?" Her voice was quiet, but probing. Unlike Mom, Ashton thought, looking to the far end of the tavern. His laughter was so sudden, Madeline felt her heart jump.
"It's a sitcom, after all."
"You don't even like sitcoms, Ashton."
"Exactly. I don't like anything about this. Mom is a bunch of nerves, you're way too overprotective for practically a teenager, and our father his me with his car. But if I'd ever watch a decent sitcom, this would be it."
"More like a soap opera. A bad one." The siblings shared a chuckle. This is how it should be, Madeline thought. Mom should be here to see her healthy, young children.
"Here's your food," the red haired waitress smiled a false grin upon return, released the pitcher and glasses and handed him a mess of sausage, cheese and potatoes. It was more appetising than it looked. "Enjoy."
It had to be an hour in to the days of their lives when a, rather tipsy, Ashton suggested they return to their delusional mother. It wasn't even a footfall out the door that Ashton took his sister by the shoulder, twirled her round and kissed her. At first it was shock that she felt; then it didn't seem like such a bad idea. This isn't normal, she thought but did nothing to fight against him. He was quite good, by her standards. She even lifted a foot off the ground.
"I love you so much," Ashton whispered into her ear, and her heart stopped.
"I love you too."
Even in the summer that never began, it took a month for August to break, and with it, a new version of trauma had reared its ugly head in the Cussler home. The month of a lifetime, Ashton thought. A hellish lifetime.
"You need a father figure in your life, Ashton!" Jeanine attempted to reiterate the line she had abused for over a month. "Someone to bond with."
"Mommy, you say the same f---ing thing every time," he made a strangled noise in his throat, ignoring his tears. Ashton Cussler slammed his fist against the wall. "It's the same thing every time you sleep with some guy. You let them treat you like trash after you bone, and then you throw them out! I don't need to hear the spiel!"
"I'm trying to do this for you!"
"You don't do anything for me, Mommy, I... I..." He wiped at his face and fished through his pockets. "You let me take you but you don't do s--- for me!"
"Ashton Ezekiel!"
"Don't do that middle name s--- with me," he warned, lighting up a joint. Ashton thought his mother would have a coronary. "Don't do it."
"You think I don't love you? Is that it?" Jeanine put her hands on Ashton's chest, looking up in a way that became more seductive than angry. "You think I don't love you?"
"Mommy," his mother took the joint out of his mouth, taking a hit and blowing the smoke at him. "Give it back."
"You think I don't love you," she repeated, putting the cigarette in his mouth, returning her hands to unbutton his shirt. "I show you how much I f---ing love you."
He looked down to her with such vacancy it hurt Jeanine to look away. She fumbled to unbutton the khaki shorts, keeping eyes locked and sliding to her knees. "Mommy, you don't have to do this." She ignored him, pulling at the fabric with desperation.
"I don't do anything I don't want to do." -
That's all I have so far.
-
I'm bored.
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