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OOM: Doppelganger nightmare
Feb. 3rd, 2009 06:26 pmSomething is going to happen.
Cal knows that, but he can't remember what it is. But as long as the joint he and Dad are sharing stays in Dad's hand, he won't find out. Just make sure Dad keeps it, because as soon as he passes it over, Cal will find out. He's seventeen, and that's important, too. Seventeen and tall, almost as tall as he's going to be once he's done growing, hungry all the time as his body tries to develop fast enough to fill out the height he acquired in that growth spurt a few months ago.
"Cal, take this. It's your turn."
He doesn't want his turn. But Dad pushes it into his hand, saying,
"Now, your uncle -"
No. Cal drops the joint, waits for it to hit the carpet and set it on fire. But it doesn't land.
"Just because you don't want it doesn't mean you get to waste it."
Not Dad. Cal looks up at a man he doesn't know, holding the joint elegantly like a cigarette and sitting next to him, where Dad was.
Picking up where Dad left off.
"- has taste, at least, can't keep his eyes off you lately." Looks at Cal expectantly. "It's your turn," he prompts.
"What do you mean?" Cal whispers. He's thirty-eight years old and hasn't thought of this conversation for twenty years, but he knows it by heart.
Dad looks at him, stricken. "What do you mean what do I - don't tell me you haven't - oh shit."
The man takes a drag off the joint. "Well, your uncle is how he is, you know that, but it's nothing to worry about. Just a passing fancy, I'm sure." Measured and precise, not trying to downplay or comfort: "You have changed, after all."
"Uncle Grahame is - he wouldn't - he hates me." Even the stutters, the pauses, are the same. The tremors Cal can feel taking hold. He's seventeen years old and his uncle -
"He wants to fuck you."
"That's not how it went!" Cal cries. "That's not what he said!"
"It's what he meant." He leans toward Cal, wrist propped comfortably on his bent knee, smoke from the joint expanding in a cloud, too heavy to drift up into the air. "It's what you heard. It's why you spent weeks after this talk unable to look your uncle in the eye. So you wouldn't encourage him. Eye contact makes predators strike, doesn't it?"
"No." Cal is thirty-eight years old and he doesn't have to stand for this. "He never even tr -"
"Even tried to touch you, yes, yes, dear sainted Uncle Grahame. Shame, really. You both might have ended up happier if he'd just had the guts to molest you like dirty old uncles are supposed to do."
Cal gets to his feet, backs toward the door. This is his dream and he makes the rules and if he can open the door, he'll wake up.
"For Christ's sake, Cal," Dad says, "don't get worked up. He's not going to try anything. And it's not as if
you can't hold your own if he does." The man smiles, brief and brilliant. "Strapping teenage boy versus a cripple - sounds like a fair fight to me."
The door is locked. Cal is Bound in his own bedroom. This isn't right, he's supposed to make the rules. Why can't he get away? Why can't he wake up?
"Nothing more important than the upper hand."
"No. That's not true anymore." Cal is seventeen years old and afraid, not because he might have to hurt his uncle, but because if it comes down to that, he knows he won't.
"But you did. He taught you to use whatever you had, and you're a very good student when you want to be. He would have gotten over it, Cal. He would have moved on to someone else, you know. You were hardly the love of his life. At least not until you made damn sure you were. You didn't let him move on."
He puts his hands on Cal's shoulder, one on top of the other, and rests his chin on them, mouth on level with Cal's ear. "He says he killed himself because he brought about your death, but we know the truth. He killed himself because he loved you. You made him love you," he whispers.
He puts a finger under Cal's chin and lifts, tipping his head up and making Cal look into familiar sharp gray eyes.
"You killed me," Uncle Grahame tells him.
Cal wakes with a jolt, and doesn't sleep for the rest of the night.
Cal knows that, but he can't remember what it is. But as long as the joint he and Dad are sharing stays in Dad's hand, he won't find out. Just make sure Dad keeps it, because as soon as he passes it over, Cal will find out. He's seventeen, and that's important, too. Seventeen and tall, almost as tall as he's going to be once he's done growing, hungry all the time as his body tries to develop fast enough to fill out the height he acquired in that growth spurt a few months ago.
"Cal, take this. It's your turn."
He doesn't want his turn. But Dad pushes it into his hand, saying,
"Now, your uncle -"
No. Cal drops the joint, waits for it to hit the carpet and set it on fire. But it doesn't land.
"Just because you don't want it doesn't mean you get to waste it."
Not Dad. Cal looks up at a man he doesn't know, holding the joint elegantly like a cigarette and sitting next to him, where Dad was.
Picking up where Dad left off.
"- has taste, at least, can't keep his eyes off you lately." Looks at Cal expectantly. "It's your turn," he prompts.
"What do you mean?" Cal whispers. He's thirty-eight years old and hasn't thought of this conversation for twenty years, but he knows it by heart.
Dad looks at him, stricken. "What do you mean what do I - don't tell me you haven't - oh shit."
The man takes a drag off the joint. "Well, your uncle is how he is, you know that, but it's nothing to worry about. Just a passing fancy, I'm sure." Measured and precise, not trying to downplay or comfort: "You have changed, after all."
"Uncle Grahame is - he wouldn't - he hates me." Even the stutters, the pauses, are the same. The tremors Cal can feel taking hold. He's seventeen years old and his uncle -
"He wants to fuck you."
"That's not how it went!" Cal cries. "That's not what he said!"
"It's what he meant." He leans toward Cal, wrist propped comfortably on his bent knee, smoke from the joint expanding in a cloud, too heavy to drift up into the air. "It's what you heard. It's why you spent weeks after this talk unable to look your uncle in the eye. So you wouldn't encourage him. Eye contact makes predators strike, doesn't it?"
"No." Cal is thirty-eight years old and he doesn't have to stand for this. "He never even tr -"
"Even tried to touch you, yes, yes, dear sainted Uncle Grahame. Shame, really. You both might have ended up happier if he'd just had the guts to molest you like dirty old uncles are supposed to do."
Cal gets to his feet, backs toward the door. This is his dream and he makes the rules and if he can open the door, he'll wake up.
"For Christ's sake, Cal," Dad says, "don't get worked up. He's not going to try anything. And it's not as if
you can't hold your own if he does." The man smiles, brief and brilliant. "Strapping teenage boy versus a cripple - sounds like a fair fight to me."
The door is locked. Cal is Bound in his own bedroom. This isn't right, he's supposed to make the rules. Why can't he get away? Why can't he wake up?
"Nothing more important than the upper hand."
"No. That's not true anymore." Cal is seventeen years old and afraid, not because he might have to hurt his uncle, but because if it comes down to that, he knows he won't.
"But you did. He taught you to use whatever you had, and you're a very good student when you want to be. He would have gotten over it, Cal. He would have moved on to someone else, you know. You were hardly the love of his life. At least not until you made damn sure you were. You didn't let him move on."
He puts his hands on Cal's shoulder, one on top of the other, and rests his chin on them, mouth on level with Cal's ear. "He says he killed himself because he brought about your death, but we know the truth. He killed himself because he loved you. You made him love you," he whispers.
He puts a finger under Cal's chin and lifts, tipping his head up and making Cal look into familiar sharp gray eyes.
"You killed me," Uncle Grahame tells him.
Cal wakes with a jolt, and doesn't sleep for the rest of the night.
