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 Posted: Fri Feb 12, 2010 9:19 pm
ӽ ӽ ӽDocument[A1]A Cause for Concern
Szilard was sitting at a dining room table, arms crossed, and staring at the woman across from him. He had spoken not a word since he was invited inside. Just stared. Waiting. He was waiting for her to speak, but his gruff demeanor had made her lose her nerve. He mentally snorted and looked out the corner of his eye towards the child sitting on the floor by the table. Was this the reason he was called to the orphanage? To take care of this child? Surely not! Szilard had enough to do and bringing a kid in would screw it all up.
He grunted to show his impatience. The dumpy woman with salt and pepper hair squeaked nervously. She fiddled with her hands on the table for a few more seconds. Then, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her eyes opened again with a determined glint and opened her mouth.
“One of your friends, ah, Luke, I believe, recommended you to me for a...ah...um,” she stuttered, courage apparently spent once she decided to get straight into the issue. He grunted once more to show he was listening. I am not going to like this, he thought.
“It's about August, the child with us here today. He's...quite problematic and I haven't found anyone to adopt him. I've been asking around, but I haven't had any luck, you see, and then I talked to Luke and he suggested that you might be able...to...take...care...of...,” she trailed off once more. “After I described the situation with August he immediately suggested you!” With each word she leaned forward a bit more until it seemed the pressure on her stomach was almost painful from the edge of the table.
The blacksmith's brain halted. He stared blankly at her for a moment. WHAT?! “What,” he bit out. His fingers began drumming on his other arm. His foot began to tap.
The woman's eye grew desperate. Her hands clasped together. “Oh, please say you'll take him! The poor child is bullied day and night. He gets into fights all of the time. There's always blood whenever he's around! I've begun to fear for his safety in the presence of other children! There are only two caretakers at this orphanage! I can't possibly give him enough attention to make sure he's alright. And Luke said you would be just perfect! Please, please, take him or...or...he just might die!”
Now Szilard raised his eyebrows at that. Was there really any need to go that far? And this woman had really explained nothing at all. Luke had merely hollered to him from his stall this morning about some sort of urgent business at the orphanage nearby. He had assumed that it would involve metalwork of some kind. Not this begging and pleading. Szilard was a pragmatic man. He could not possibly possess the qualities necessary to raise a child. Aurelia, his sister, would be better suited to this, but she was far away back home with her own family.
He closed his eyes in annoyance. After he had calmed down, he direct his eyes toward the child on the floor. August's own eyes were staring at him unabashedly, expressionless. That was surprising. His gruff and rugged appearance usually put others off, especially children. The child wasn't blinking or showing any signs of stopping.
Szilard turned his eyes back to the old maid. “Age?” he demanded. Hope surged into her eyes and she opened her mouth to answer.
“Ah, well, he's about-”
“Two,” came a high voice from below. Szilard looked back to August with a raised eyebrow. Some intelligence, then.
“What's your name boy?” he demanded, the woman ignored in favor of evaluating this boy.
“...August Vladomir Rastimil,” the boy answered slowly, clearly enunciating each word. His face remained blank, eyes umoving. Szilard's eyes flicked back to the woman for confirmation. She nodded.
“What are you doing here, August?”
The boy's eyes narrowed slightly. The blacksmith noted a slight clenching of the young child's fist. “Dead. Mother gone,” the boy said, he had a very slight smile of satisfaction on his face. It left as quickly as it had arrived. Szilard wasn't even sure he had seen it, but just the feeling emanating from the boy made him believe that August had really smiled for a second. The feeling wasn't a good one. It felt cold, blank, uncaring.
The woman decided to butt in then, feeling that such a topic was inappropriate for a child so young. She leaned forward softly said, “You see, his mother died in front of his eyes. She had somehow impaled herself on a small kitchen knife. Right in the chest. It was only mother and son living together. The father died on the front. And, well, she wasn't discovered until it was too late. The neighbors brought her here a few months ago. A tragic accident, to be sure. The neighbors had only good things to say about her and her son. The grief was visible on their faces when they came to leave him here.”
It was only intuition, but Szilard highly doubted the death was an accident. The boy was seemed much too calm for the death of a parent, and a mother at that, mere months after the incident. The boy was dangerous. He had the nagging suspicion that the trouble caused at the orphanage was all his doing. If he took the boy in, it might prove disastrous. He might be more trouble than he was worth. Could he teach this boy as a parent would? He could certainly try. The old widow who had taken him in as a child wouldn't be an excellent model to emulate, but he could attempt it.
With a start, Szilard realized that he had already given a piece of his heart to this small child. Though, with what little interaction he had with August, the boy could hardly be called a child. The boy looked to be so dead to the world. So inhuman. Szilard pitied him a bit. His mother must have shaped the boy's growth to what it was now. The parent of a boy who smiled at their deaths must not have been a good parent after all. It might have even been...a bit lonely. He knew plenty about loneliness...and longing.
He sighed and rubbed his temple. In anything, he might be doing those other young orphans a favor. “Fine. Give me the boy,” he said. He picked him up and walked towards the exit, grunting in acknowledgment as the old woman thanked him profusely the whole way out.
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Posted: Mon Feb 22, 2010 9:26 pm
ӽ ӽ ӽDocument[A2]August Becomes the Puppeteer
Szilard's eyebrows were wrinkled in dismay. He held in his hand a small chisel. It used to be a chisel, anyway. For little five year old August must have been irritated by something or someone, thus leading him to venture into his forge and search for a tool of vengeance. Now the the chisel simply looked like a wooden stick. August had somehow snapped off the top metal half and the only half that made the object of any worth at all.
The big man silently walked to his window and stared out into Mrs. Barnaby's garden next door. The irritating old woman was hanging her clothes. And humming! So, he chucked the remains of the chisel at her to wipe the smile off her face. Mrs. Barnaby screamed and dropped a rather disturbing pair of bloomers (frilly, pink and large). Szilard grunted in satisfaction. That should teach her not to dump her trash onto his part of the street. Now to deal with the boy.
He trudged downstairs and into the kitchen. August was at the kitchen table reading a small book about history or goverment if the lack of pictures were anything to go by. His little legs kicked to and fro underneath the table while his eyes stared intently at the words on the page. His glasses teetered precariously on the edge of his nose. Szilard rapped the table with his knuckles.
August's shoulders stiffened. The little boy's face slowly met Szilard's. His eyes were focused on an area of the tabled and his legs had stopped kicking. The gruff man rapped the table again with more force. August flinched a little and met his eyes with his guardian's.
“My chisel, boy.”
August chewed his lip in thought. How could he explain the situation and make it seem as if he had not been at fault? He folded his hands together in his lap to stop any fidgeting that might occur.
“The truth and nothing less,” commanded Szilard. After three years together, Szilard knew enough about August's behavior that he could read the child's mind. In a few more years, he expected it would take more than just a few commanding words to get August to open his mouth. For now, however, sharp words were all he needed.
August inhaled deeply in preparation. “The boy down the street was showing off his new toy. It was a metal machine. And if you turned the thing on its back it moved.” He paused and looked at Szilard's face. Expressionless and obviously waiting for the rest of the story.
“It was okay until he thought it'd be funny to make it come after me. I didn't know. I was sitting on some steps reading. He put something sharp in the front and made it scratch my knee. I didn't bleed but it itched.” Pause. Szilard's eyes were narrowed. He did not like the direction of this story.
“I got mad so I grabbed it. Then I went into your forge and grabbed something. Then I went back outside to where the boy was crying to his mother,” spat August. The word 'mother' left a bad taste in his mouth and his contempt for such a thing as motherly love ran deep in even one so young. “He saw me with his toy and try to tackle me to get it. But he didn't and he fell. When he fell, I threw the toy to the ground and started destroying it with your chisel. I don't regret it.” Punish me however you want. I don't care.
Szilard pulled up a chair and sat down with a sigh. A lecture it was, then.“You must learn restraint, August.”
August snorted. “Why should I when he so clearly deserved it? I will give him nothing less than what he fully deserves. And he deserved to have his stupid toy taken away.”
The man sighed and rubbed his temples. He may have protected August from himself by taking him away from that filth of an orphanage, but even with supervision, the boy still found a way to get the neighbors talking. And talk was bad. It meant having Mrs. Barnaby thump on his door to give him verbal abuse.
“You can't do what you want. Others see. What they see, they will speak of and rumors will spread. The rumors will make people judge you before they have met you.”
August didn't look the least bit concerned. “Then they are people I am not interested in associating with. I will not change myself for the sake of others.”
“I did not say you had to change yourself. I am telling you, boy, that the power of sheep is more than a little wolf can handle on his own. And if those sheep decide that you are indeed a wolf, they won't treat you kindly,” Szilard said. “They will try to break you and then build you again but this time, they will make you another sheep. Another member of the herd.”
The five year old boy squirmed in his chair. “Then I'll make them ants. Ants I can crush.”
Szilard raised an eyebrow. “You? One little boy against the world? Don't dream fantasies, boy. They won't get you anywhere. Think instead of how you can live in this place so that the sheep will not think of you as a wolf.”
August chewed his lip once more. The next few minutes passed in silence as he thought. Szilard waited. “Think, boy. The answer is clear. I've been spoon feeding it to you since the beginning of this conversation. Am I going to have to spell it out for you?” The child shot his guardian an icy glare.
“Are you saying...that...I should act like those sheep?” August concluded in disgust. “Like a stupid lamb following the leader?”
Szilard sighed. “If you are not willing to change, then adapt. Control your actions. Rein in your anger and guide it instead of letting it guide you as it did today. I won't change you. You are free to be who you are. I don't give a damn. But if you have to be who you are, control how much of you others see. Too little and they'll get suspicious. Too much and they'll become scared. I didn't take you in just so you could get attacked in an alleyway.”
“Yes. I see. Like that idiotic fable I heard a lady tell some children the other day. A wolf in sheep's clothing.”
August decided then, that if he had to live with other people, he would do it with strings attached to his hands. He would manipulate those sheep like a shepherd into a pen and seal it.
- - - -
After August had gone to sleep, Szilard almost had to knock him out to get him to go to bed, the blacksmith headed out towards his favorite bar. The trip took at least ten minutes and he planned to use that time to think about the role he had donned in order to curb August's violent temper. It wasn't raging and passionate like fire; it was more like ice.
The boy was incredible. Despite being unable to think of long term consequences, Szilard could already see the seeds of a purely analytical mind. The incident with the boy earlier in the day was a prime example. Right after his talk with August, his victim's mother had come banging on his door with her son wailing and demanding compensation for the expensive toy. Szilard had no choice but to pay. What kind of mother would buy a boy a toy worth a week's wages?
August had come out of the whole ordeal unscathed. He had exacted his vengeance in such a way that neither cut nor scratch was on him yet left the other boy wary of incurring his wrath. August had somewhat thought the situation, through. Szilard only wished that the boy would think of others, specifically him, more often. He did not expect this wish to come true.
So, the next best thing had been to teach August restraint and judgment. If the boy would not conform, the blacksmith was forced to have the boy pretend to conform. Szilard was absolutely sure the boy would deal with his irritations in the shadows. The neighborhood would be able to live happily in ignorance and August would bring troubles to no one but he and his victim. Szilard regretted it somewhat, but considering the boy's brief history, there was nothing else he could do.
The bar came into view. I'm gonna drink myself stupid tonight.
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Posted: Wed Mar 03, 2010 10:06 pm
ӽ ӽ ӽDocument[A1.1]We Reminisce in Threes [b][color=#CC9966]The Late Mrs. Vlastimil[/b][/color] Mrs. Vlastimil loved attention. She wanted to be at the center of it all, be it good or bad. Any conversation in which she was the main topic made her chest puff out in importance. Common and lowly as she was, her ego alone could put her on a queen's throne. She and her son, August, lived in a small one story house on the poorer side of town. Despite her economical status, Mrs. Vlastimil spent lavish amounts of money on dolling up her toddler in all sorts of costumes in order to parade him out in public and show just what a wonderful mother she was! Even in widowhood, Mrs. Vlastimil bore her burdens well. Everyone on the block loved and admired her strength.
August saw things differently. The young child only knew that he hated the itchy poorly made clothes, he hated the cheek pinching, the cooing, the sloppy kisses from other mothers and wives. He hated the other children too. They annoyed him from one end of the neighborhood to the other. He ranked his mother on the same level as these children. She was the most annoying child of all. As soon as the door on their ramshackle home closed, she thrust August into his small bed with a milk bottle and went off to the kitchen to eat and perhaps go out to the bar and flirt shamelessly with other men. She usually came home in the arms of another man late into the night. They never went farther than the doorway, though, Mrs. Vlastimil had to keep appearances up after all. It wouldn't do to have the women gossiping about her bringing men to her bed at all hours of the night.
August did not love Mrs. Vlastimil as a child loved a mother. He hated her like fire hated water. Her loud, boisterous and simpering voice grated on his ears. If it were not for the blasted crib and it's railing, he would enjoy being left alone at home. The quiet was bliss. August often sat, or laid, on his bed staring at the wall or ceiling with unblinking eyes. Being as young as he was, he never remembered what he pondered in his mind during those late hours, or if he thought about anything at all.
One morning, when Mrs. Vlastimil had forgotten to change him, he soiled his sheets. She woke up to find a terrible smell emanating from August's room and immediately went into an uproar. She yanked August out of his bed, held him by the back of his nightie and rushed to dump him on the kitchen counter.
While Mrs. Vlastimil angrily cleaned up August's bed, the year and a half old toddler was left next to a set of knives. Like any child, August was curious. He touched the sharp end of one knife and accidentally pricked himself. He snatched his hand back in surprise. August stared down at his bleeding finger. It hurt. Not much, but it still hurt. Sucking on his index finger, August listened to Mrs. Vlastimil rant.
A few minutes later, she thundered in with a cloth in hand and glared murderously at August. “Can't you control your bladder, you brat? After all I've done for you, given you attention, love, wonderful clothes! This is how you choose to act? I ought to throttle your neck!”
She began stomping towards him. August, in an almost unconscious decision, threw the smaller of the knives at her. In his little mind, he reasoned that if such a stick could harm him, it would harm his 'mother,' as well. Mrs. Vlastimil was so surprised, she forgot to dodge, and the knife lodge itself in her chest. Blood began to slowly seep through her dress. She stared at her son, then she stared at her chest. The next moment, she fell on to her back, eyes wide open. Her chest moved up and down gently for a moment before halting altogether.
The thud made August smile viciously in triumph. The only expression of happiness he had shown since Mr. Vlastimil left to go fight on the front lines.
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Posted: Sun Mar 07, 2010 1:32 pm
[b][color=#CC9966]Impressions of the Father[/b][/color] Young August awoke to a cooing noise. He wrinkled his nose in annoyance. He tried to turn his head away from it and bury his face into the soft cushion. The cooing increased. He tried to bury his head in further. The toddler then felt a slight and warm pressure on his head. It rubbed his head. The rubbing was very soothing so he turned his head away from the soft thing he laid on. August peaked through his eyelids for a glimpse of the source of this soothing pressure. His vision was still to early so he threw caution to the wind and opened his eyes wide.
“Oh! Look, honey! Our boy's woken up! Come look! It's his morning face!” exclaimed a tall and slender man. “There! See? Isn't he just the darnedest thing?” The man's hand ruffled August's small head of hair in affection. August gurgled in content.
Light clicking noises made themselves known. Then they stopped. August cocked his head in confusion. A high pitched voice replied, “Really, Dmitri, why do you have to disturb him when he's sleeping soundly? And weren't you going to take me out to dinner? It's your last day, after all. Don't you want to spend it with me?”
The warmth left August's head and he whimpered. He turned to stare at two figures, searching for that lost warmth. “Ah, yes, of course I want to spend it with you, Liza. But I'd like to spend it with little Gus, as well. Can't I spend my last day with my whole family? I was going to take all three of us.”
August squinted his eyes at the second person. He felt irritation, for he knew instinctively, that this person had taken away his warmth and if he had been able, he would demand it back. Limbs met hips and Mrs. Vlastimil's voice took on an accusing tone, “But you promised, Dmitri! I have so been looking forward to showing off my new dress to the neighbors. I finally got my figure back! Don't you want to see me in that dress?”
August keened softly. Then the warmth came back, but this time it hugged him like a blanket would and lifted him up. His head rested upon something flat. Underneath the surface, he could hear a strong and steady thump...thump...thump. It was soothing. He burrowed into it and closed his eyes for a nap. “Really, Liza, I love you just the way you are. No matter how you look. I'm already proud to have you as my wife. I don't need to parade you around in public as if you were some shiny bauble,” admonished Mr. Vlastimil gently.
Mrs. Vlastimil giggled. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the neck of her husband. She then gave him a peck on both cheeks and final lingering on his lips. “And I..., of course, wouldn't have any other man as my husband.” A sigh. “You're right. I'm sorry. I've been feeling self-conscious lately. We can spend your last night here at home. Now, put August back in his crib so you can come help me with dinner.”
August felt himself be lowered back onto the soft cushion. A pair of footsteps faded away. Light clicking noises came closer. A shadow fell over his face. Something sharp poked his cheek. August wrinkled his face and moved away. “I really don't know why I gave birth to you. You keep taking Dmitri's attention away from me. I don't feel much motherly affection, either. Isn't that maternal instinct supposed to kick in by now?” A scoff. “It doesn't matter.” The shadow disappeared. The door clicked shut. The room darkened. August stared into the blackness. Then he closed his eyes to sleep.
Mr. Vlastimil left for the front the next day. His service was expected to last two years and he would get leave every six months. He did not return home. A letter was sent and August never saw his father again.
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