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kh_drabble2008-09-05 05:11 am
de-yaten.livejournal.com) wrote in kh_drabble2008-09-05 05:11 am
Entry tags:
challenge entry - 159
Challenge: [159] In Another Life
Title: Paper Cranes
Word Count: 504
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Warning for mentions of child-abuse, violence. This is also the first thing I've written in about a month... I feel rusty, lol. The temptation of another "other" story was too much for me.
Summary: He never asked for much - just paper.
(one, two three)
He never asked for much in his life - he had no friends, no money, and a family that loved to hate him. Loved to hurt him. He didn’t argue when he was punished for doing nothing, he didn’t protest the taunts from his classmates. He was trash, nothing, a nobody that wouldn't amount to anything in life - they all knew it and so he knew it, too.
(forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight)
He never expected to be saved by anyone, or rescued, or taken away to a happy home. He didn't tell the old lady in the suit that mommy never fed him, and he didn't tell the police that daddy loved to bruise him, bruise his heart, bruise his bones.
(one-hundred-eighty-two, one-hundred-eighty-three, one-hundred-eighty-four)
He only asked for one thing: paper. Paper, he said, when his mother slurred her words and wanted to make him go away. Paper, he said, when his dad frowned and asked what would keep his little Dyme quiet. Stationary, notebook, scraps or napkins or anything foldable, really—he wanted whatever they would give.
(three-hundred-thirty-eight, three-hundred-thirty-nine, three-hundred-fourty)
He made cranes—all day. He made them at dinner. (Dinner was sitting at the table while his mother drank and his father’s hand snaked up his leg.) He made them at lunch. (Lunch was sitting by himself on the playground while everyone else sipped milk and scarfed down sandwiches.) He made them before bed, when he (very rarely) was allowed to sleep alone.
(five-hundred-eleven, five-hundred-twelve, five-hundred-thirteen)
He kept them in his secret place; inside a hollow tree at the edge of the forest outside town. He wasn’t supposed to go there, but he figured his life was full of not-supposed-to’s, so what would one more hurt? He went once a week, and tucked the paper cranes safely inside—and repeated his wish in whispers while he carved numbers into the bark.
(eight-hundred-fifty-two, eight-hundred-fifty-three, eight-hundred-fifty-four)
He remembered the day in class when his teacher—she was nice and gave him lots of paper—showed the class how to make them, and told them that if they could make one thousand of them, they would be granted a wish. The rest of the class laughed, but Dyme started folding.
(nine-hundred-eighty-six, nine-hundred-eighty-seven, nine-hundred-eighty-eight)
He didn’t go home after school—he told his teacher about daddy and mommy and even the cranes an hour before—she smiled and put a hand on his shoulder, said not to worry anymore, dear. There were pretty red lights in the driveway and he knew enough to stay away. Let grown-ups do their grown-up thing while he wished and wished and went away forever.
(nine-hundred-ninety-four, nine-hundred-ninety-five, nine-hundred-ninety-six)
It was dark when he reached the tree—dark, and only 4’oclock. There was a scream in the distance but he couldn’t hear it.
(nine-hundred-ninety-seven, nine-hundred-ninety-eight, nine-hundred-ninety-nine)
He folded his hands, eyes wide, unblinking.
I wish I had another life.
(one-thousand)
The breeze lifted the cranes into the air as Dyme closed his eyes and the Darkness bloomed behind him.
Title: Paper Cranes
Word Count: 504
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Warning for mentions of child-abuse, violence. This is also the first thing I've written in about a month... I feel rusty, lol. The temptation of another "other" story was too much for me.
Summary: He never asked for much - just paper.
(one, two three)
He never asked for much in his life - he had no friends, no money, and a family that loved to hate him. Loved to hurt him. He didn’t argue when he was punished for doing nothing, he didn’t protest the taunts from his classmates. He was trash, nothing, a nobody that wouldn't amount to anything in life - they all knew it and so he knew it, too.
(forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight)
He never expected to be saved by anyone, or rescued, or taken away to a happy home. He didn't tell the old lady in the suit that mommy never fed him, and he didn't tell the police that daddy loved to bruise him, bruise his heart, bruise his bones.
(one-hundred-eighty-two, one-hundred-eighty-three, one-hundred-eighty-four)
He only asked for one thing: paper. Paper, he said, when his mother slurred her words and wanted to make him go away. Paper, he said, when his dad frowned and asked what would keep his little Dyme quiet. Stationary, notebook, scraps or napkins or anything foldable, really—he wanted whatever they would give.
(three-hundred-thirty-eight, three-hundred-thirty-nine, three-hundred-fourty)
He made cranes—all day. He made them at dinner. (Dinner was sitting at the table while his mother drank and his father’s hand snaked up his leg.) He made them at lunch. (Lunch was sitting by himself on the playground while everyone else sipped milk and scarfed down sandwiches.) He made them before bed, when he (very rarely) was allowed to sleep alone.
(five-hundred-eleven, five-hundred-twelve, five-hundred-thirteen)
He kept them in his secret place; inside a hollow tree at the edge of the forest outside town. He wasn’t supposed to go there, but he figured his life was full of not-supposed-to’s, so what would one more hurt? He went once a week, and tucked the paper cranes safely inside—and repeated his wish in whispers while he carved numbers into the bark.
(eight-hundred-fifty-two, eight-hundred-fifty-three, eight-hundred-fifty-four)
He remembered the day in class when his teacher—she was nice and gave him lots of paper—showed the class how to make them, and told them that if they could make one thousand of them, they would be granted a wish. The rest of the class laughed, but Dyme started folding.
(nine-hundred-eighty-six, nine-hundred-eighty-seven, nine-hundred-eighty-eight)
He didn’t go home after school—he told his teacher about daddy and mommy and even the cranes an hour before—she smiled and put a hand on his shoulder, said not to worry anymore, dear. There were pretty red lights in the driveway and he knew enough to stay away. Let grown-ups do their grown-up thing while he wished and wished and went away forever.
(nine-hundred-ninety-four, nine-hundred-ninety-five, nine-hundred-ninety-six)
It was dark when he reached the tree—dark, and only 4’oclock. There was a scream in the distance but he couldn’t hear it.
(nine-hundred-ninety-seven, nine-hundred-ninety-eight, nine-hundred-ninety-nine)
He folded his hands, eyes wide, unblinking.
I wish I had another life.
(one-thousand)
The breeze lifted the cranes into the air as Dyme closed his eyes and the Darkness bloomed behind him.
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there ya go!