Post by bananers on Sept 1, 2015 17:37:08 GMT
the three greatest things to come from tennessee are memphis-style bbq, jack daniels, and iggie (né ignatius lysander) van allan. born on the coldest day of the hottest month, his mother is young and delighted - oculocutaneous albinism, type 2; a mark of something special, she has birthed a white star to outshine the sun itself. miracles only happen once - her second son has hazel eyes, brown hair. he is mediocre and kind - lovable, forgettable.
(what happened?)-iggie is holding a glass of lemonade and eying the sour punch. the lawn is suspiciously green in the withering heat wave, but so is his mothers smile. a lanky girl, his age, with tanned arms and dirty knees, set her sights on him. the adults are boring and the children are cruel, so it's the two of them playing in the cool of her bedroom, until the sun begins to set and the slits between blinds set her floor aflame. their palms are set flat against the floor - his fingertips are bleached bone white, anya's seem to glow. by the time his mother comes looking for him, calling his name, he's nearly forgotten it.
(ignatius?)-his father pulls a cigar from a varnished box, as he does when he needs to think. iggie seems to only know him in these small, distant ways. his habits and favourite turns of phrase, his father is the trust fund and vacation homes. he's watching with a grim expression - perhaps it's approval, he's never seen him smile - as iggie holds the flame. it's a flickering film on his outspread palms. it's another blessing, another gift to iggie's lavish existence. (or, perhaps its a curse for a reckless boy, who can spark a fire but never curb the flames).
he won't tell his mother. if only because he won't let her fancy herself a prophetess. won't let her understand why he's leaving. ("there are plenty of good schools here, you think sending him away is the solution? you don't understand him.", through the office door, iggie doesn't hear an answer from his father). at the airport, she smooths the lapels of his jacket and blinks back tears catching in her doe lashes. his father stands silently with the baggage, listening while her words rush like a torrent - i love you, be good, call when you get there.
(where's your brother?) "hey.""fuck off, augustus." iggie shakes his head, takes a drag and taps ash into the rushing river below. iggie's still fuming (later, he won't remember what he had said to her, only that he meant it, only that she was a stupid bitch who didn't care about anyone, not her children, only that he wished it had been her instead). "you shouldn't have--""what part of fuck off don't you get?" he's sitting on the bridge's rail and he can only make out the shadow of his brother standing beside him. augustus says he should come back, asks if he knows what time it is - iggie doesn't, and the next time he sees a clock (4:34), time seems like something arbitrary and chaotic.
he jumps at the hand on his shoulder, twists and takes augustus down by a handful of his sweater.-he hates wearing black, the way it offsets his pale skin. it doesn't rain - the funeral is on a parched hot day. his face is raw from the sunburn and the tears.
his mother, she always seems to be crying. iggie wants to hit her. she doesn't care, she doesn't care. if she really cared, she wouldn't have forgiven him.
but his brother was never the favourite. the fable is named after the prodigal son.
-it's not long after - the first time they kiss, and iggie is sure his lips taste salty of tears (that's a pure bitterness, not like the later aftertaste of cigarettes and liquor). they sit in silence, for hours, and anya resting her head on his shoulder reminds him of his body, living breathing taking up space. (he didn't deserve that)
he twists on the couch, and takes her, a mouthful.for all the year anya's been there for him, now she's here for him, not as a playmate. she's here the way adults are. she feels sorry for him, so she lets iggie work a hand under her shirt and bite her tongue. this is her bad habit, an infrequent indulgence, where iggie grows into his bad habits like a second writhing skin. -in the shimmering sepia of a night in december, iggie breaks into his father's vacation home, the repossessed one. the new owners never fixed the creaking step, but it's in off season and the shades are drawn over the dark windows.
he remembers a great peace here. he remembers so much. he half expects his father pacing on the porch, he half expects his mother with a paperback at the kitchen table, he half expects - there's a tap on his shoulder and iggie flinches, bites his knuckle to muffle a shout.his heart is tearing from his chest - not footsteps, his heart is making an audible noise beating against his ribcage. the house breathes, inhales, shrinking around him; the darkest corners shudder, the shadows rippling like waves, the cigarette smoke seems to write words in the air that iggie's eyes are darting to read, that weird thing they do. (what happened? do you know what time it is? ignatius? you should come back. are you alright? where's your brother? say something.)-he remembers a great peace here, but he can't remember the feeling right. peace is blackout drunk, peace is a line off the sink, peace is orgasm - close enough. there is so much shit in his bloodstream that his pulse is vibrating, his heart might stop, he might throw his stomach up onto the street. this could be the last night, long overdue, but he looks up and heaven's not opened up; but she's standing there and iggie doesn't remember when he called.
(what happened?)-iggie is holding a glass of lemonade and eying the sour punch. the lawn is suspiciously green in the withering heat wave, but so is his mothers smile. a lanky girl, his age, with tanned arms and dirty knees, set her sights on him. the adults are boring and the children are cruel, so it's the two of them playing in the cool of her bedroom, until the sun begins to set and the slits between blinds set her floor aflame. their palms are set flat against the floor - his fingertips are bleached bone white, anya's seem to glow. by the time his mother comes looking for him, calling his name, he's nearly forgotten it.
(ignatius?)-his father pulls a cigar from a varnished box, as he does when he needs to think. iggie seems to only know him in these small, distant ways. his habits and favourite turns of phrase, his father is the trust fund and vacation homes. he's watching with a grim expression - perhaps it's approval, he's never seen him smile - as iggie holds the flame. it's a flickering film on his outspread palms. it's another blessing, another gift to iggie's lavish existence. (or, perhaps its a curse for a reckless boy, who can spark a fire but never curb the flames).
he won't tell his mother. if only because he won't let her fancy herself a prophetess. won't let her understand why he's leaving. ("there are plenty of good schools here, you think sending him away is the solution? you don't understand him.", through the office door, iggie doesn't hear an answer from his father). at the airport, she smooths the lapels of his jacket and blinks back tears catching in her doe lashes. his father stands silently with the baggage, listening while her words rush like a torrent - i love you, be good, call when you get there.
(where's your brother?) "hey.""fuck off, augustus." iggie shakes his head, takes a drag and taps ash into the rushing river below. iggie's still fuming (later, he won't remember what he had said to her, only that he meant it, only that she was a stupid bitch who didn't care about anyone, not her children, only that he wished it had been her instead). "you shouldn't have--""what part of fuck off don't you get?" he's sitting on the bridge's rail and he can only make out the shadow of his brother standing beside him. augustus says he should come back, asks if he knows what time it is - iggie doesn't, and the next time he sees a clock (4:34), time seems like something arbitrary and chaotic.
he jumps at the hand on his shoulder, twists and takes augustus down by a handful of his sweater.-he hates wearing black, the way it offsets his pale skin. it doesn't rain - the funeral is on a parched hot day. his face is raw from the sunburn and the tears.
his mother, she always seems to be crying. iggie wants to hit her. she doesn't care, she doesn't care. if she really cared, she wouldn't have forgiven him.
but his brother was never the favourite. the fable is named after the prodigal son.
-it's not long after - the first time they kiss, and iggie is sure his lips taste salty of tears (that's a pure bitterness, not like the later aftertaste of cigarettes and liquor). they sit in silence, for hours, and anya resting her head on his shoulder reminds him of his body, living breathing taking up space. (he didn't deserve that)
he twists on the couch, and takes her, a mouthful.for all the year anya's been there for him, now she's here for him, not as a playmate. she's here the way adults are. she feels sorry for him, so she lets iggie work a hand under her shirt and bite her tongue. this is her bad habit, an infrequent indulgence, where iggie grows into his bad habits like a second writhing skin. -in the shimmering sepia of a night in december, iggie breaks into his father's vacation home, the repossessed one. the new owners never fixed the creaking step, but it's in off season and the shades are drawn over the dark windows.
he remembers a great peace here. he remembers so much. he half expects his father pacing on the porch, he half expects his mother with a paperback at the kitchen table, he half expects - there's a tap on his shoulder and iggie flinches, bites his knuckle to muffle a shout.his heart is tearing from his chest - not footsteps, his heart is making an audible noise beating against his ribcage. the house breathes, inhales, shrinking around him; the darkest corners shudder, the shadows rippling like waves, the cigarette smoke seems to write words in the air that iggie's eyes are darting to read, that weird thing they do. (what happened? do you know what time it is? ignatius? you should come back. are you alright? where's your brother? say something.)-he remembers a great peace here, but he can't remember the feeling right. peace is blackout drunk, peace is a line off the sink, peace is orgasm - close enough. there is so much shit in his bloodstream that his pulse is vibrating, his heart might stop, he might throw his stomach up onto the street. this could be the last night, long overdue, but he looks up and heaven's not opened up; but she's standing there and iggie doesn't remember when he called.