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Gradiva
Warnings:
Some chapters are heavy on smut, others are not. Overall, NC-17.
A fair amount of angst.
A little S&M, but nothing major at all.
Not beta-ed and written between midnight and 5 AM b/c of lack of sleep.
Random Meta:
lenajill
wanted Biblical references. Blame her.
I didn't put too many otherwise it would be a philosophy paper. If you really
want me to do that, I will, but not in a fic. I found my old notes on the Bible
and Nietzsche, so ... yeah, you REALLY don't want that.
viola69 and lenajill better be satisfied b/c I ain't rewriting this again. Also, they gave me the plot... or some of it. And pointed out stuff wrong with the original.
I didn't do the thing where Justin confronts Joanie, because:
(a) Justin is far too WASPY for a real smackdown with a woman, IMHO.
(b) Justin is fairly non-confrontational unlike, for instance, Craig.
(c) Randall and Cael are doing a fair amount of drama and smackdown, so not
going to steal their thunder.
I didn't want to RESOLVE the ending, so it's as Myrna would say "Hopeful,
if not happy."
References are from Nietzsche's "The wanderer and his shadow," "The Birth of Tragedy," and the "Antichrist." And of course, the Bible. And Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead."
* * * * * * * * *
A lifetime ago, when they were in Lindsey's tiny dorm-room, lying on the bed
mutually unsatisfied by the sex and making up for it with a joint, she asked
him if he loved his parents. She knew nothing about his past, only that he was
this quiet, complicated man with Issues, and she assumed that his parents must
be the cause of said Issues. He replied enigmatically that his father was a
bastard, and he assumed that whatever he felt for his mother was love, because
children were supposed to love their mothers. She sighed dramatically, taken
by the depth of his response, unaware that he was reciting from Ayn Rand. He
always was good at reciting, at memorizing pithy statements, mantras, quotations,
and eventually using them to create unforgettable slogans.
But he did love his mother, not just in principle, but with a gut-wrenching
intensity of emotion that blurred everything else at times. He listened to Lindsey
talking to her parents with a half-wistful half-mocking look on his face, throwing
her teddy-bears at her while Lindsey assured her parents that she was "interested
in a nice boy" but not "being stupid or careless." Every Christmas he went home
with flowers for her and a case for his dad. Her eyes would fill with tears
over how tall he'd grown and how thin he looked, and for a day things would
be... normal.
He was eight years old when he broke the telephone. He'd been running after
Claire, playing a game, and he'd awkwardly bumped against the table, sending
it crashing to the floor. He stared at it in horror as Claire stared at him.
They didn't play anymore that night - they went quietly to bed, trembling, and
his heart stuck in his throat when he heard the key turn in the lock. When the
voices got loud, his ears started to burn, and then the door burst open and
he was dragged out screaming "I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" into the hall
where he felt the first stings of the belt on his calves, just behind his knees.
He started to cry, at which the thrashing got harder, and the voice screamed
at him to stop crying and be a little man. He went to bed hiccuping, with Claire
crying softly in the other bed. His mother came in and smoothed his brow, sighing.
He clung to her hand and fell asleep.
A few weeks later, he shattered a china vase, and this time he hid under the
bed when the key turned in the lock. He was found, though, and this time his
mother did not come to his bed and he cried harder. The next day he went to
her and asked her, "Are you still angry with me?" and she sighed in her put-upon
way and said, "You really should try not to aggravate your father... why can't
you be more like Claire?" His lip trembled and he said, "I'm sorry, mom." She
patted his head and he left the room with tears in his eyes. The next month
he forgot to close the fridge door. His mother came into the darkened room,
sat down on his bed and reached for his hand. He flinched and pulled away -
it still hurt, and the flexible steel ruler had cut into it. "You said you were
sorry, Brian. I thought you meant you were going to try harder." He burst into
tears, sobbed into the pillow. She ran her fingers through his hair and whispered,
"It's okay. Tomorrow I'll start telling you the beautiful story of Jesus. He's
helped a lot of people become good, and he'll help you too." He hugged her gratefully
and went to sleep dreaming of being good.
It fascinated him, the story of Jesus, and frightened him, because he didn't
think he could ever be good. He was old enough to read the gospels in the children's
Bible, and he had them memorized in no time. Sometimes, in his dreams he saw
John reclining against Jesus, content and secure in being the Beloved. He saw
Peter rush into Jesus' arms, and thought that it would be wonderful to be loved
like that. Other times, he had nightmares. The words "Anyone who loves his son
or daughter more than me is not worthy of me" kept resounding in his head, and
he knew that if he screwed up again, his parents might not love him, they might
send him away because Jesus would not want them to have such a bad child.
He had no friends at school. He was a head taller than everyone in his class
and for some reason that made the other kids think he was different and weird,
and they lost no opportunity to point that out. When one of them brought up
girls for the first time he was horrified, and they laughed at him; when another
asked for advice on what to wear to pick up a chick, he offered his input on
fashion and they stared at him and called him a queer. He came home and asked
his parents at dinner, "What's a queer?" His parents looked at each other, his
father's face clouded with anger, his mother's with fear... and he knew he was
the worst child on the face of the earth.