| Fic. Again?! "Dear Mother" |
[May. 23rd, 2007|01:48 pm] |
Title: Dear Mother
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to NBC and Tim Kring.
Character: Sylar. Well, Gabriel.
Table/Prompt: Table 4, Prompt 02 (Silence).
Word Count: 588
Spoilers: ‘Six Months Ago’, though it’s set before that.
Summary: Mom. I have something important to tell you, but I don't know how to say it.
Author's Notes: I’m really pleased with this one. The style’s quite experimental, and I really enjoyed writing it. Have at!
Mother
This word is crossed out, the sheet of paper crumpled and dropped into a wire bin.
Dear Mom
It’s essential that he write this in a letter. When faced with the non-judgemental white of paper, the quiet (but no longer silence) of an empty room, he can collect his thoughts and say all he wants. He won’t forget things. He won’t start shouting. There’s a chance she’ll read through to the end and actually listen.
Mrs Gre --no.
But how can he tell her something as important as this, when he doesn’t even know how to address her?
Mom. Something’s happening to me.
No preamble. No more stalling. If he puts this off he’ll lose his nerve.
I can hear things. You’ll think I’m pretending but it’s true. I’m not attention-seeking and I’m not hearing voices. It’s ticking.
No matter how he words his defence, it always seems to sound like the petulant whining of a child who’s feeling ignored. He pauses, discontent, the nib of his pen quivering over the page.
Please don’t just say that I work in a clock repair shop so of course I’ll hear ticking. It’s not the clocks. Everything ticks. Everything has a rhythm and a right way of running and if it’s broken then
Another pause. He isn’t explaining this very well, even on paper.
it’s arrhythmic. That’s not strong enough, it’s worse than that, but I don’t think there’s a word for it in any language.
He taps the end of the pen against his lip. He knows his mother.
Please don’t worry about me.
He skims through what he’s written so far and groans aloud, crumpling the letter and all but throwing it into the bin at his feet. This is even harder than he’d expected, and for a moment hot anger flashes at his mother for making the bridge between them so hard to cross. A deep breath, a fresh sheet of paper, a fresh start.
Dear Mom
Here we go again.
I have something important to tell you. You asked me a few weeks ago how I knew your kitchen clock was fast. And dad wanted to know how I’d suddenly become better at his own job than he was.
He feels a tingle of pride at the memory, though it’s overcast by the sheer irritation that, of all the skills in the world, it’s his everyday family business that he’s become good at.
I can hear how things work.
Not the most illuminating sentence in the world, but he has to start somewhere.
I hear it as ticking, rhythmic ticking, fast or slow, telling me how things should go and how to fix them. It started a month ago and it’s getting clearer, it’s constant now, ticking things, ticking people, I thought it would stop but it hasn’t
He stops writing, stares for a moment or two, and clarifies.
I don’t want it to.
Sometimes he misses the sound of silence. But no-one else can do this. This is special.
I just thought you ought to know.
His writing trails off, and when he’s dotted the final full stop he starts tapping his pen again, in time with a sound only he can hear. Gabriel reads the letter through, before starting to fold it into neat fractions. Halves. Then fourths. Then, with a violent movement, he crumples it and hurls it into the bin.
With a frustrated sigh, Gabriel Grey rests his face in his hands, closes his eyes and listens to the ticking. |
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