twister // [d6/fin]

siban { t w i s t e r } ulric

My pa and me never saw eye to eye. He wasn't comfortable with the way I tried to bring up my ma' every so often in the same way I wasn't fond of his lady-friend he replaced her with, Marcel. She was always nagged (and her words chewed on my skin, the way she bitched) to my father about how I wasn't allowing our family to 'heal' as if she had been some antidote for it, and that I wouldn't allow myself to view her as my mother. And it was true, because she wasn't my mother and she wouldn't be her either - ever.

My pa, though, he always loved her like the way she loved Ripred and I loved the way popping my knuckles against some asshole's face felt, so for the first few months I was fine with her weasling her way into my life; besides, there isn't much a thirteen year old can do besides groan behind closed doors.

The both of them look down on me though, and it's so obvious to tell that even the man they thought me to be could've spelled it out. Once Marcel married into the name Ulric, she infected him like poison and they've both glared at me like the rest of these assholes; like my worth is based solely off the talent to find what ever the hell x is or that my behavour grants me less of an entitlement to a future than them. And for all they know they're right, because for everything I know that they don't I could get the dc filled. I could probably get my pa himself locked up if I tried hard enough, but that'd make me a snitch and I might as well put the gun to my head myself afterwards because that's the easiest way to get yourself killed.

With me and my pa's history there'd be something there though, some point where I'd probably would've been better off leaving earlier than I did and whether they would believe it or not, I think a lot and a lot about when I was under their roof. Back when I cut my hair short out of my eyes because it was what the other boys were doing and felt that the fact that my eyes matched the same blue of my mother's; before I grew a damn backbone.

By the metaphoric laws of childhood, I wasn't raised correctly and my history of personal cracked bones including the crook in my broken nose feeds to that like gasoline. And I know this because my favorite memory was the first fight I had; although, a piss poor one that was, mostly just me pushing my father back and getting squared for a busted lip, but I was a little proud of myself. It's euphoric, not being a little bitch for once. Never have I thought to regret leaving that home, and never have I regret becoming just a grunt - but it's hard to be disappointed with being head of the lot.

I never think about it as me being kicked out; I would've left on my own terms sooner or later anyhow, and if I'm a street rat it's own my own terms. And no matter how much violence I live through, I am my own name. Though, there's nothing that comes with the name head grunt other than getting to decide who gets to kick who's ass (and it's almost as entertaining as doing it myself) and it comes with a grin at the fact that my pa won't see me as head of anything.

But I am head grunt for a reason, whether it be the work of my tact or fists, and I'm tagged to the cartel until the day I die because of it. And whether it be from getting a reason to batter out a pay check of the ones entitled to more than me for nothing or to have more of a future than having maggots eat through my trachea by the time I'm twenty, I'm okay with dying for it. Because the cartel fed me with enough chances, and I wouldn't leave even if I could. Maybe I'm an idiot after all like my pa said, but I am more than broken bones.

I am a twister.