microwavelength: (Default)
microwavelength ([personal profile] microwavelength) wrote2010-11-01 08:18 am

My Very First Time

((Ficlet on Luke's first kill.  Takes place in a verse where his mother sent him to live in New York with his father because she couldn't put up with him anymore.  The Gabriel in question refers to an AU Gabriel Gray who has healing but is not Sylar.))

Home run!  Luke Campbell's knocked it out of the park!
I'm usually not for baseball euphemisms.  They mean too many things to people: sexual exploits, doing well at one's job, hitting a hard to attain goal, making progress on a task.  I think my mind is going back to them because that's what is on TV right now.  Yankees.  Recaps of their latest win.  Never knew Dad was a fan. I turn my eyes towards the screen, the angle I'm viewing it at makes the picture look skewed.  Fuzzy.   Sort of like my thoughts right now.
If burning Gabriel's hand and arm had been like reaching second base, then killing someone is hitting a home run with all of the bases loaded.  Grand slam, they call it.  I just hit a grand slam.
It's the first thing that's entered my mind in almost ten minutes, judging by the blinking red light on the DVD player.  The time's never been set, so was pretending that it was exactly twelve midnight the last time our power flickered.  Right now, it is certain that it's 6:43.  In the evening.  In reality, it's just a little bit before dawn.  I've been sitting here for almost two hours now.  Just sitting.
There's a hand on the floor nearby, visible from behind the couch.  Palm up.  The fingers, if you can still call them that, are curled inward in a tight ball.  I pull my knees up to my chest and this smokey room turns into another from long, long ago.
"Hey, Luke!  Want a lollipop?"  His blue eyes are nothing like mine, bright and filled with a liquor haze where I have dark, sullen ones.  He's holding out his hand, palm up and fingers closed over it, offering me what might be inside.  "Come on over here, boy!  Close your eyes and stick out your hand." He's trying to bite back a laugh as I pause. "Guess you don't want this afterall."
There's nothing in his hand, I know it even I stand up and walk over.  I'm pigeon toed, my sneakers too big for me.  I trip over my own feet a lot, even when I'm trying to be slow and step around empty beer cans.  I close my eyes when I near him.  I hold out my arm, bare from the elbow down.  It's not candy I'm given.  Once again, he's decided that I make a far better ashtray than the one I made him for Father's Day in kindergarten.  I gasp, jerking back my arm.  I don't even bother to ask for the lollipop this time.  I know better.
I should know better now too.  The room from six years ago has turned back into the room I've spent the last few weeks in.  I never learn.  Never.  Instead, I crawl towards the hand on the floor and slowly pry apart cooked, brownish pink fingers.  There's no lollipop inside this time either, though it wasn't as if he promised me one.  I don't think lollipops have ever existed, if you want the honest truth.
My first time should be filled with joy.  I should be elated right now, pumped with adrenaline, my heart pounding in my chest.  Instead, I feel cold.  There's no guilt in my heart, no loss.  I simply feel empty.  My old man never did love me even half as much as I loved him.  He never gave me a fucking thing that wasn't wrapped up in pain.  Even now, there's no sense of accomplishment in my moment. 
There's nothing at all.

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