storypaint (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
storypaint) wrote2009-06-29 06:42 pm
storypaint) wrote2009-06-29 06:42 pm
Growing Up (Charlie gen)
Title: Growing Up
Fandom: Dead Like Me
Length: 899 words
Prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
31_days 14 July 09 // forever was so many different things; cliche_bingo: backstory
Pairing: Charlie gen
Other: Charlie is the pet Reaper from episodes 1x14, 2x8, and 2x13.
Excerpt: He didn't understand what she meant until he was crouching down next to the cat on the side of the road. After brushing his hand along the crusted fur, he staggered off and retched into the bushes.
His name was Charlie and he'd been nine for seven years now. Sometimes Mary baked him a birthday cake, but he couldn't care anymore.
Charlie Beshdel, nine years old, dead from an unpleasant encounter between his skateboard and a drunk teenager. He'd found himself in the middle.
"My mom is going to kill me," Charlie said.
"I'm Rube," the man said to him. "External Influences. You'll be in Pets, I think."
"My mom is going to kill me," Charlie said again, staring at the street. He'd been on the sidewalk, just like he was supposed to be. The girl had drifted.
"Well, here's the good news, then," Rube said, clapping his shoulder. "She can't."
No one could see them, but Rube pulled them away before the ambulance could load his body.
"Not good for a kid to see," he mumbled. "Where is Mary, now?"
*
Mary turned out to be the head of Pets. She was short, plump, red-headed, and she'd died from falling off her horse and underneath a raging warthog on an expedition to Africa with her husband Marcus Fairdale in 1922. She was constantly smiling.
"Marcus and I wanted children," she said, ruffling his hair on the ride back to her house. Charlie squirmed under her touch and wished this would start making sense.
*
There were six of them altogether-- Mary (28 years old, 1922, warthog), her partner Katie (22 years old, 1919, childbirth), Thomas (7 years old, 1945, polio), Anna (11 years old, 1987, epileptic shock), Nita (16 years old, 1993, wouldn't tell), and Dillon (13 years old, 2001, misaimed gunshot). They had family dinner every night. Afterward Mary handed out the next day's assignments, carefully printed in schoolteacher handwriting. The day that Charlie moved in, she'd baked a cake.
"I know it's been difficult for you," she said, smiling hopefully, "but I want you to feel welcome here."
Charlie said nothing, staring at her. When Mary gave in and showed him to his room, he slammed the door and wouldn't come out the next morning until the house was quiet.
When he crept downstairs, there was a Post-It on the table. A name, a time, a place.
Charlie raided the kitchen cabinets and went back to his room.
*
Mary didn't scold him when she got home. She just sighed, like his mother did when she was disappointed in him. Like she used to, before he died.
"Let's go rescue the poor thing, shall we?"
He didn't understand what she meant until he was crouching down next to the cat on the side of the road. After brushing his hand along the crusted fur, he staggered off and retched into the bushes.
When they got back to the house, Mary gave him a new note, a kiss on the forehead, and a suggestion that he brush his teeth and go to bed.
"You're not my mom," he muttered. She nodded, but she was still smiling when he turned away to go upstairs.
*
He found himself in schools a lot of times. Plenty of things go wrong during show-and-tell. It was weird realizing that he'd never have to learn algebra or memorize Middle-Eastern geography. He hadn't really wanted to, but now... now he felt a little cheated.
Sometimes he stole lunches from the kids whose pets he reaped. He couldn't tell you why, if you'd asked. It was something about the care a mother put into her children's food. It wasn't his mother. Neither was Mary.
The lunches were always unsatisfying.
*
"Why do we reap pets?" he asked Mary one day after a particularly difficult asignment. He picked aimlessly at his tattered sleeve. The dogbite had healed, but his shirt had had it.
"People love their pets so much that they give them souls," Mary said without looking over her shoulder. The dishes in the sink clinked together familiarly.
Charlie scowled. His dog had died about a year before he had and he remembered how difficult that had been. Mary turned on the water to rinse.
"How can you give something a soul? I thought you were born with one." His parochial education had been spotty at best, but that's how he'd understood it.
"Well, every living thing has a soul, but we don't reap everything," Mary said. She looked over her shoulder at him. "There's something special about human beings." She winked as if sharing a joke.
They know what they're missing, Charlie thought, looking down at his small hands. He'd just turned nine for the fourth time. The dog he'd reaped that day had been the pet of a schoolfriend. The boy hadn't recognized him.
The next week, he left Mary's. She let him go, as long as he came back for his Post-Its.
"Everyone needs some time to grow up," she said when her partner asked.
*
Sometimes Charlie met other reapers than the ones he had lived with. They rarely seemed as angry as Charlie felt.
The Toilet Seat Girl was the only one he'd seen who had the same look in her eyes. Cheated by death, she thought. Charlie thought so too.
But he'd been dead longer than her, and maybe he was dealing with it.
One of these days, he'd step forward into the lights. He could almost hear his dog barking now.
Fandom: Dead Like Me
Length: 899 words
Prompt:
31_days 14 July 09 // forever was so many different things; cliche_bingo: backstoryPairing: Charlie gen
Other: Charlie is the pet Reaper from episodes 1x14, 2x8, and 2x13.
Excerpt: He didn't understand what she meant until he was crouching down next to the cat on the side of the road. After brushing his hand along the crusted fur, he staggered off and retched into the bushes.
His name was Charlie and he'd been nine for seven years now. Sometimes Mary baked him a birthday cake, but he couldn't care anymore.
Charlie Beshdel, nine years old, dead from an unpleasant encounter between his skateboard and a drunk teenager. He'd found himself in the middle.
"My mom is going to kill me," Charlie said.
"I'm Rube," the man said to him. "External Influences. You'll be in Pets, I think."
"My mom is going to kill me," Charlie said again, staring at the street. He'd been on the sidewalk, just like he was supposed to be. The girl had drifted.
"Well, here's the good news, then," Rube said, clapping his shoulder. "She can't."
No one could see them, but Rube pulled them away before the ambulance could load his body.
"Not good for a kid to see," he mumbled. "Where is Mary, now?"
*
Mary turned out to be the head of Pets. She was short, plump, red-headed, and she'd died from falling off her horse and underneath a raging warthog on an expedition to Africa with her husband Marcus Fairdale in 1922. She was constantly smiling.
"Marcus and I wanted children," she said, ruffling his hair on the ride back to her house. Charlie squirmed under her touch and wished this would start making sense.
*
There were six of them altogether-- Mary (28 years old, 1922, warthog), her partner Katie (22 years old, 1919, childbirth), Thomas (7 years old, 1945, polio), Anna (11 years old, 1987, epileptic shock), Nita (16 years old, 1993, wouldn't tell), and Dillon (13 years old, 2001, misaimed gunshot). They had family dinner every night. Afterward Mary handed out the next day's assignments, carefully printed in schoolteacher handwriting. The day that Charlie moved in, she'd baked a cake.
"I know it's been difficult for you," she said, smiling hopefully, "but I want you to feel welcome here."
Charlie said nothing, staring at her. When Mary gave in and showed him to his room, he slammed the door and wouldn't come out the next morning until the house was quiet.
When he crept downstairs, there was a Post-It on the table. A name, a time, a place.
Charlie raided the kitchen cabinets and went back to his room.
*
Mary didn't scold him when she got home. She just sighed, like his mother did when she was disappointed in him. Like she used to, before he died.
"Let's go rescue the poor thing, shall we?"
He didn't understand what she meant until he was crouching down next to the cat on the side of the road. After brushing his hand along the crusted fur, he staggered off and retched into the bushes.
When they got back to the house, Mary gave him a new note, a kiss on the forehead, and a suggestion that he brush his teeth and go to bed.
"You're not my mom," he muttered. She nodded, but she was still smiling when he turned away to go upstairs.
*
He found himself in schools a lot of times. Plenty of things go wrong during show-and-tell. It was weird realizing that he'd never have to learn algebra or memorize Middle-Eastern geography. He hadn't really wanted to, but now... now he felt a little cheated.
Sometimes he stole lunches from the kids whose pets he reaped. He couldn't tell you why, if you'd asked. It was something about the care a mother put into her children's food. It wasn't his mother. Neither was Mary.
The lunches were always unsatisfying.
*
"Why do we reap pets?" he asked Mary one day after a particularly difficult asignment. He picked aimlessly at his tattered sleeve. The dogbite had healed, but his shirt had had it.
"People love their pets so much that they give them souls," Mary said without looking over her shoulder. The dishes in the sink clinked together familiarly.
Charlie scowled. His dog had died about a year before he had and he remembered how difficult that had been. Mary turned on the water to rinse.
"How can you give something a soul? I thought you were born with one." His parochial education had been spotty at best, but that's how he'd understood it.
"Well, every living thing has a soul, but we don't reap everything," Mary said. She looked over her shoulder at him. "There's something special about human beings." She winked as if sharing a joke.
They know what they're missing, Charlie thought, looking down at his small hands. He'd just turned nine for the fourth time. The dog he'd reaped that day had been the pet of a schoolfriend. The boy hadn't recognized him.
The next week, he left Mary's. She let him go, as long as he came back for his Post-Its.
"Everyone needs some time to grow up," she said when her partner asked.
*
Sometimes Charlie met other reapers than the ones he had lived with. They rarely seemed as angry as Charlie felt.
The Toilet Seat Girl was the only one he'd seen who had the same look in her eyes. Cheated by death, she thought. Charlie thought so too.
But he'd been dead longer than her, and maybe he was dealing with it.
One of these days, he'd step forward into the lights. He could almost hear his dog barking now.