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Mar. 2nd, 2007 04:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bookish_dragonTrying to write a new story. It's not titled yet. Concrit always welcome.
My name is Concerta Englehart. Don't laugh, I've had that enough. My parents named me after a chain-letter. That does tell you how much they wanted me. Why they had me, I didn't know. Even back then there were more than enough ways to get rid of unwanted children like me. It wasn't any fun, growing up in a house like that. They didn't care what I did, or who I went out with, just as long as I got home by 11. That was their only rule. I had some good friends while I was at school, and so I didn't get into trouble. Well, not any more trouble than what normal teenagers got into to.
I pulled the door closed behind me. "I am home!" I yelled towards the kitchen. It was Dad's turn to cook, and I could smell that it was something good. He was very gifted when it came to food. Heshould've been a chef or something. I dumped my bag under the coat rack and stomped upstairs. It had been a bad day. I had just lost my job. Again. Since I had left school I had not been able to keep any job longer than a week. I always got fired. After the third I stopped caring about the reasons. It was frustrating. I wanted to move out, but this way I could never get enough money to do so. This time it had been something about 'not working well with others'. I worked on my own in a news agent's. The reasons were all total bogus like that. I went into my room, slamming the door shut behind me. It was too pink in here, a remnant of my crazy girlie-girlie days. I hated it now. I flopped down on the bed, not bothering to take my boots off. I could repaint, but that would require talking to my parents. That was something I would rather avoid. They'd just sit there and look at me while I talked, and then nod, no matter what I asked. As long as it didn't entail me leaving, it seemed like. I was being raised by pod-people. No, those showed more emotions. I got everything I needed or wanted, except for attention. Like I said, I had some good friends while I was at school, or things would be a lot bleaker for me now. Sadly, they were not living nearby anymore. I stared at the ceiling. Also pink. I really had no taste when I was younger. I closed my eyes and waited until dinner was ready.
When I opened them again, Mum was standing next to the bed, arms folded in front of her. "Concerta, dinner is ready. Get clean." She turned and left. She did that a lot, barging in with no regards for my privacy. She probably didn't even know what it meant when it came to her only daughter. I got up from the bed. The hunger I had felt when I came home had now vanished. Being here always did that. I was too skinny as a result. Not that they cared. As long as I didn't die on them, it seemed like.
I walked downstairs. There was a strange man in the sitting-room. I rolled my eyes. He had 'marriage-prospect' written all over him. My parents really were strange. No affection and arranged marriages. Well, they tried to arrange a marriage for me. I looked down at my clothes. Black combat boots, black pants, black shirt. Even my hair was dyed black. I was not goth or emo. I just did not want to think about what I put on in the morning. Also, I liked black. The guy they were hoping would take me off their hands looked very uncomfortable sitting on the sofa. He was tugging the sleeves of his suit towards his wrists. It was an ill fit; he had probably borrowed it off of his brother. Most of the men who came here had. There was a sizable army of brothers out there who only served to lend out their clothes. I straightened my shoulders and walked into the room. He looked up, blushed, and got up. I ignored him and flopped down in a chair. I was not in the mood for this. I rarely was, but tonight even less than usual.
'Euhm, hello Concerta." He had walked over and stuck out his hand. I stared at it until he got the hint and dropped it.
"Hello." I went back to picking at my nails. He returned to his seat, looking bewildered. His trousers rode up as he sat down and I sighed ostentatiously.
He smiled nervously. "They are my brother's."
"I had already guessed tat. What is your name?" Not that I would take any care to remember it.
"Michael. Michael Stadpole. I work in the City."
I yawned. Sure he worked in the City. "And yet you have to borrow your brother's suit. Pull the other one, it's got bells on."
"Concerta!" Dad had walked in, his face red from his work in the kitchen. He went over to the cabinet and poured himself a drink. "Mind your language." He didn't offer to either of us.
"Bollocks I will," I muttered under my breath. Michael was staring wide-eyed, like a rabbit in a car's headlights. I couldn't blame him. Mum came in, preventing him from bolting on the spot.
During dinner there was silence. There always was. First time I noticed this was unusual was when I ate at a friend's house. Compared to us, their meal sounded like a chicken-coop after the fox had had gotten in. My parents didn't even try anymore to sell me to any suitors as they had done before. I never cooperated since I found out what all these strange men were doing here. My sullen brooding look was a thing of beauty, even if I do say so myself.
"You'll be twenty-three soon," Mum said. She was cutting her duck and didn't look at me. "You need to be married before that."
I almost choked on my potatoes. "I what?" I said, clanging down my cutlery.
She went on eating. "You need to be married soon. Meet your new husband." Both Michael and I stared at her.
"You can't do this! In this day and age!" I yelled. Michael had gone pale.
"Do not raise your voice to your mother," Dad said.
"That's rich. For the past twenty-two years you have all but ignored that I existed, and now you try and run my life? Where were you when I was in the hospital with pneumonia? When I sang in the school-choir for Christmas? Where were you then?" I stood up. They looked at me, undisturbed.
"You will marry," Mum said.
"I would rather die. You can't make me."
"While you are living here, we can. Now sit down and finish your dinner. Your father spent a lot of time on this." She turned her attention back to her duck.
"I can't marry Michael. I hardly know him." I sat down again, my arms folded over my chest.
"You will get to know him. It is what happened to your father and me."
"M-m-marriage?" Michael asked. We turned to look at him. "Nobody said anything about marriage. You can't do that to me."
"Your parents already agreed," Mum said. "Eat, Concerta."
Michael was spluttering. I knew how he felt. This was too ancient for words. "You can't do this to us," I said.
"Concerta, you need to get married. So far you have managed to drive off every halfway decent candidate. Now, you cannot. You do not have the time."
"Time? What is this about 'time'? This is not the Middle Ages. I will not die if I reach thirty while single."
"Silence! You will be married before your birthday. We have decided," Dad stated. My birthday was in two months. My heart sank. Michael seemed to have given up on the situation and was staring at the table-cloth, his head in his hands. I felt sorry for him. "You can't do this to us. I'll move out."
"Where to? You have no money, no friends who can spare the space," Dad said, with the faintest trace of smugness in his voice.
"How would you know? When is the last time you paid any attention to me?" My hands clenched into fists.
"More than you know, Concerta," Dad said.
I sat back, stunned. My parents paid attention to me? "For real?" I asked. "Why not where I could see it?"
"We only kept an eye on you, to make sure you did nothing that might spoil your chances for a good match," Mum said. They had both finished eating and looked calmly at me.
My stunnedness vanished. Typical of them, only caring about what others thought of them. "I hate you both."
"Marry Michael," Dad said.
"Never!" I yelled. The house shook. A painting fell off the wall. its glass cover scattering into tiny shards.
My parents blanched and looked at each other. "So soon? It's too early. It cannot be. Not now. It is too soon," Mum was babbling. Her voice was getting higher and higher.
"Madeline!" Dad snapped. He really was raising his voice this evening. "Not in front of the guest." Colour began to return to his cheeks.
I sat back in my chair. What was happening? I caught a glimpse of Michael's face. He was looking more bewildered than I felt.
Mum was calming down. her face slid into its usual mask, but there was something new. It was hard to place what it was.
"What just happened?" I asked. I got ignored by both parents, and dinner turned icily civil again. Even with us protesting we were informed that the wedding would take place in a month. I still could not believe what they were doing. Michael looked as if he was about to cry.
"Come on," I said. "Let's get out of here." I got up and grabbed his hand. He looked at me, nodded and got up as well.
"Concerta, sit down. We are not done yet," Dad said.
I shook my head. "Yes, we are. Have fun plotting our future. Come on Michael. We need to get drunk." With that, we left the house, Dad's protests following us out.
My name is Concerta Englehart. Don't laugh, I've had that enough. My parents named me after a chain-letter. That does tell you how much they wanted me. Why they had me, I didn't know. Even back then there were more than enough ways to get rid of unwanted children like me. It wasn't any fun, growing up in a house like that. They didn't care what I did, or who I went out with, just as long as I got home by 11. That was their only rule. I had some good friends while I was at school, and so I didn't get into trouble. Well, not any more trouble than what normal teenagers got into to.
I pulled the door closed behind me. "I am home!" I yelled towards the kitchen. It was Dad's turn to cook, and I could smell that it was something good. He was very gifted when it came to food. Heshould've been a chef or something. I dumped my bag under the coat rack and stomped upstairs. It had been a bad day. I had just lost my job. Again. Since I had left school I had not been able to keep any job longer than a week. I always got fired. After the third I stopped caring about the reasons. It was frustrating. I wanted to move out, but this way I could never get enough money to do so. This time it had been something about 'not working well with others'. I worked on my own in a news agent's. The reasons were all total bogus like that. I went into my room, slamming the door shut behind me. It was too pink in here, a remnant of my crazy girlie-girlie days. I hated it now. I flopped down on the bed, not bothering to take my boots off. I could repaint, but that would require talking to my parents. That was something I would rather avoid. They'd just sit there and look at me while I talked, and then nod, no matter what I asked. As long as it didn't entail me leaving, it seemed like. I was being raised by pod-people. No, those showed more emotions. I got everything I needed or wanted, except for attention. Like I said, I had some good friends while I was at school, or things would be a lot bleaker for me now. Sadly, they were not living nearby anymore. I stared at the ceiling. Also pink. I really had no taste when I was younger. I closed my eyes and waited until dinner was ready.
When I opened them again, Mum was standing next to the bed, arms folded in front of her. "Concerta, dinner is ready. Get clean." She turned and left. She did that a lot, barging in with no regards for my privacy. She probably didn't even know what it meant when it came to her only daughter. I got up from the bed. The hunger I had felt when I came home had now vanished. Being here always did that. I was too skinny as a result. Not that they cared. As long as I didn't die on them, it seemed like.
I walked downstairs. There was a strange man in the sitting-room. I rolled my eyes. He had 'marriage-prospect' written all over him. My parents really were strange. No affection and arranged marriages. Well, they tried to arrange a marriage for me. I looked down at my clothes. Black combat boots, black pants, black shirt. Even my hair was dyed black. I was not goth or emo. I just did not want to think about what I put on in the morning. Also, I liked black. The guy they were hoping would take me off their hands looked very uncomfortable sitting on the sofa. He was tugging the sleeves of his suit towards his wrists. It was an ill fit; he had probably borrowed it off of his brother. Most of the men who came here had. There was a sizable army of brothers out there who only served to lend out their clothes. I straightened my shoulders and walked into the room. He looked up, blushed, and got up. I ignored him and flopped down in a chair. I was not in the mood for this. I rarely was, but tonight even less than usual.
'Euhm, hello Concerta." He had walked over and stuck out his hand. I stared at it until he got the hint and dropped it.
"Hello." I went back to picking at my nails. He returned to his seat, looking bewildered. His trousers rode up as he sat down and I sighed ostentatiously.
He smiled nervously. "They are my brother's."
"I had already guessed tat. What is your name?" Not that I would take any care to remember it.
"Michael. Michael Stadpole. I work in the City."
I yawned. Sure he worked in the City. "And yet you have to borrow your brother's suit. Pull the other one, it's got bells on."
"Concerta!" Dad had walked in, his face red from his work in the kitchen. He went over to the cabinet and poured himself a drink. "Mind your language." He didn't offer to either of us.
"Bollocks I will," I muttered under my breath. Michael was staring wide-eyed, like a rabbit in a car's headlights. I couldn't blame him. Mum came in, preventing him from bolting on the spot.
During dinner there was silence. There always was. First time I noticed this was unusual was when I ate at a friend's house. Compared to us, their meal sounded like a chicken-coop after the fox had had gotten in. My parents didn't even try anymore to sell me to any suitors as they had done before. I never cooperated since I found out what all these strange men were doing here. My sullen brooding look was a thing of beauty, even if I do say so myself.
"You'll be twenty-three soon," Mum said. She was cutting her duck and didn't look at me. "You need to be married before that."
I almost choked on my potatoes. "I what?" I said, clanging down my cutlery.
She went on eating. "You need to be married soon. Meet your new husband." Both Michael and I stared at her.
"You can't do this! In this day and age!" I yelled. Michael had gone pale.
"Do not raise your voice to your mother," Dad said.
"That's rich. For the past twenty-two years you have all but ignored that I existed, and now you try and run my life? Where were you when I was in the hospital with pneumonia? When I sang in the school-choir for Christmas? Where were you then?" I stood up. They looked at me, undisturbed.
"You will marry," Mum said.
"I would rather die. You can't make me."
"While you are living here, we can. Now sit down and finish your dinner. Your father spent a lot of time on this." She turned her attention back to her duck.
"I can't marry Michael. I hardly know him." I sat down again, my arms folded over my chest.
"You will get to know him. It is what happened to your father and me."
"M-m-marriage?" Michael asked. We turned to look at him. "Nobody said anything about marriage. You can't do that to me."
"Your parents already agreed," Mum said. "Eat, Concerta."
Michael was spluttering. I knew how he felt. This was too ancient for words. "You can't do this to us," I said.
"Concerta, you need to get married. So far you have managed to drive off every halfway decent candidate. Now, you cannot. You do not have the time."
"Time? What is this about 'time'? This is not the Middle Ages. I will not die if I reach thirty while single."
"Silence! You will be married before your birthday. We have decided," Dad stated. My birthday was in two months. My heart sank. Michael seemed to have given up on the situation and was staring at the table-cloth, his head in his hands. I felt sorry for him. "You can't do this to us. I'll move out."
"Where to? You have no money, no friends who can spare the space," Dad said, with the faintest trace of smugness in his voice.
"How would you know? When is the last time you paid any attention to me?" My hands clenched into fists.
"More than you know, Concerta," Dad said.
I sat back, stunned. My parents paid attention to me? "For real?" I asked. "Why not where I could see it?"
"We only kept an eye on you, to make sure you did nothing that might spoil your chances for a good match," Mum said. They had both finished eating and looked calmly at me.
My stunnedness vanished. Typical of them, only caring about what others thought of them. "I hate you both."
"Marry Michael," Dad said.
"Never!" I yelled. The house shook. A painting fell off the wall. its glass cover scattering into tiny shards.
My parents blanched and looked at each other. "So soon? It's too early. It cannot be. Not now. It is too soon," Mum was babbling. Her voice was getting higher and higher.
"Madeline!" Dad snapped. He really was raising his voice this evening. "Not in front of the guest." Colour began to return to his cheeks.
I sat back in my chair. What was happening? I caught a glimpse of Michael's face. He was looking more bewildered than I felt.
Mum was calming down. her face slid into its usual mask, but there was something new. It was hard to place what it was.
"What just happened?" I asked. I got ignored by both parents, and dinner turned icily civil again. Even with us protesting we were informed that the wedding would take place in a month. I still could not believe what they were doing. Michael looked as if he was about to cry.
"Come on," I said. "Let's get out of here." I got up and grabbed his hand. He looked at me, nodded and got up as well.
"Concerta, sit down. We are not done yet," Dad said.
I shook my head. "Yes, we are. Have fun plotting our future. Come on Michael. We need to get drunk." With that, we left the house, Dad's protests following us out.
