Chasing Happy Endings [Rumple]
May 17, 2013 15:06:58 GMT -5
Post by semper on May 17, 2013 15:06:58 GMT -5
Gavroche McCullie-St. Cloud
[/size][/justify]
My mother once mentioned how much my eyes looked like the ones that belonged to that cretin of a man who is my biological father. They’re a mixture of blue, grey, and green, and usually one of those three colors tends to dominate depending on the light you view them in. But when my father would get angry, I’ve never seen a more terrifying color. It was like green flames raging behind those irises – it’s the one thing that I still see in my nightmares. The emotions are very real, too, but the terror element comes from his eyes. My uncle even told me that I had my father’s eyes. I feel bad for having snapped at Uncle when he said that, but back then (and now, still) I refuse to have any similarity with that wretched man.
I can feel hatred burning inside of me like some wildfire greedily eating up dry grass. My hands tighten around Jason’s neck – his pulse beats slowly underneath my palms and I feel a warm liquid just lightly brushing my fingers.
I don’t properly come to my senses until I hear Lise screaming and feel a tugging on my shoulders. The anger fades and I’m left looking down at the rather pale face of Jason, whose eyes are closed, and behind his head is blood. Stone-cold terror creeps into my very core and fear replaces the look of hatred on my face. I’ve killed him – oh my Ripred I’ve killed him. I quickly jerk my hands away from his neck, my anxious gaze turning and looking at those behind me.
Lise stands with a look of fear on her face, and behind her my uncle is doing the same. He must have come out of the kitchen when he heard all the commotion. The look of disappointment on his face, though, is unmistakable.
I quickly look back at Jason beneath me and suddenly I’m nauseous. I killed him, I’ve killed him. But… no, he’s not dead. People die with their eyes open, not closed, so he’s still alive. As if he didn’t have a reason to beat me up earlier. Woozy and lightheaded, I stand up and stumble backwards, hands clutching to my chest.
Terror holds me captive, frozen in place as I watch Uncle go over to Jeremy and put a finger gingerly on his neck. Whether or not he finds a pulse, I don’t know – I’m too busy dealing with a hyperactive mind that’s conjuring up all these consequences. The penalty for murder is death. The penalty for assault is a whipping. Shaking, I back up until I’m against the wall and then slide down, keeping my knees as close to my chest as possible and never once taking my gaze off Jeremy.