Do you get what this means for my own path? How much it's going to slow me down?
February
He lives in an apartment, for now. It's on the top floor and it overlooks water and fills his windows with sight of the sky, and there's another apartment beneath his own where the books and artifacts and Collins all live,
but it's no Hogwarts.
On days when he is not meeting with lawyers or nurses or the like, he still fences. He still swims. He still dances. He still studies. But he drinks less, parties less, goes out less. He doesn't lose himself like he used to, coming up for air only once every few days at times. He cannot forget himself and strain, ever, for perfection.
He is always distracted.
And sometimes she calls from the facility where she lives, knowing he is in town and hoping he will come see her, so he says yes, and they make arrangements. She is always frightened of him, though, once they get there. She fusses over her brunch, growing more and more agitated. A few times, he tried to address it: to touch her hand or give her comfort, to ask her what she remembers, to try and assure her that she doesn't need to fear him, or what his existence means, or what happened to the world she always knew before he took it away from her.
Only a few times. Then he gave up.
It is not something he can make better. It is not something he can even make amends for.
Now when she calls, and they have their little meals, he pretends not to notice her distress. He finds a reason to excuse himself, usually flippantly, often abrupt, always unrepentant. He makes it clear to her and to the staff how selfish he is, how lacking in empathy. Anyone could look at her and see that she is upset, but her son either does not pay attention or doesn't want to deal with it. They watch him leave, feigning apology, and gather around her, reasserting a tragic but far more tolerable reality:
there is nothing different about him. He is just a spoiled, self-involved, callous young man. He doesn't know how to handle his mother's disintegration. And that is not her fault. It is no one's fault. It is just who he is. It isn't even that unusual, or strange. There are thousands of parents and children just like her, just like him. She consents to this reality. They all consent to this reality.
He takes his dissent elsewhere. Tries to study, tries to hone, tries to perfect, and thinks, constantly, instead, of their mundane but tolerable realities.
Then there are days when he puts on a suit. Collins drives him downtown. He sits with his and his mother's lawyers across the table from his father's lawyers, debating details. He usually does not say anything, having discussing it with them previously. It's been suggested that he doesn't have to be there, but he thinks it helps. His father's lawyers are wary of him. It doesn't matter that his father is almost never there. Even he admits it's for the best.
There were a few meetings where he sat across from his father. One of the last, when they fought loudly in the hallway, was when both sets of lawyers advised them not to speak to one another without legal representation present. Then the very last, when he did not speak to his father, but watched him walk towards the elevator with such a look in his eye that Collins murmured,
Sir,
and reminded him to breathe. To blink. To look away. To leave.
Over the past year he's seen her -- the other Her -- a few times. A small handful. It's been awkward. It's been painful. It's been frustrating. That distracts him, too. A year later and he has accomplished almost nothing, not where it matters. A year later and he's read more but understood less. He feels as though his body is just running out the clock and his mind is accumulating dust. This is far from the truth, but it is the reality he believes in, even though he hates it.
A year later, and the lawyers have told him that they essentially won. Very few concessions had to be made, in the end. The prenuptial agreement was a little too optimistic in some ways, a little too vague, but his grandparents and their lawyers had done a rather serviceable job in the end of protecting his mother from exactly this eventuality: that the fucker would try to leave her with nothing. Abandon her, and forget her, vows be damned. But the lawyers tell him, after a year of these stupid meetings, that it won't happen. The sum is agreeable. Papers are signed. The financial advisers tell him the plan, and this, too, is agreeable. She will be solvent. She will be taken care of.
The facility tells him that if they can reverse the regression she's made over the past year or so, they can even foresee her being able to live more or less by herself, or with a companion. They do not imply, except with their eyes, what has caused the regression over the past year. And they don't need to, because he knows. He has witnessed it at every brunch, every luncheon, every truncated visit. He likes the idea of her living at home. Living with more dignity. He likes the idea of hiring someone to drive her around and help her with groceries and make sure she takes her medications. He'll ask Collins for recommendations; the man still has plenty of connections in the area.
All in all, it ends well enough. He traces a vein up his left forearm and thinks that it was far simpler to break a vow to a witch. Less expensive, in a way, and less time-consuming, and the punishment certainly fit the crime better.
"Sir?"
Hawksley lifts his eyes, finding Collins standing outside the car, holding the door, waiting for him. Hawksley breathes in, deeply, and slides out of the back seat, rising to stand. He adjusts his watch, as Collins folds his hands in front of himself.
"What now, sir?"
Hawksley glances up, squinting against the sunlight, looking up the side of the building he's lived in for the past year.
"Montani semper liberi," he says, half to himself.
There is a pause. A silence. Collins frowns, trying to place where he knows the phrase from.
Finally: "West Virginia, sir?"
Hawksley whips his head around at his manservant, disgruntled and disappointed. Exasperated: "Dude! No! Just -- fuck it. Come on."
And heads inside.
February
He lives in an apartment, for now. It's on the top floor and it overlooks water and fills his windows with sight of the sky, and there's another apartment beneath his own where the books and artifacts and Collins all live,
but it's no Hogwarts.
On days when he is not meeting with lawyers or nurses or the like, he still fences. He still swims. He still dances. He still studies. But he drinks less, parties less, goes out less. He doesn't lose himself like he used to, coming up for air only once every few days at times. He cannot forget himself and strain, ever, for perfection.
He is always distracted.
And sometimes she calls from the facility where she lives, knowing he is in town and hoping he will come see her, so he says yes, and they make arrangements. She is always frightened of him, though, once they get there. She fusses over her brunch, growing more and more agitated. A few times, he tried to address it: to touch her hand or give her comfort, to ask her what she remembers, to try and assure her that she doesn't need to fear him, or what his existence means, or what happened to the world she always knew before he took it away from her.
Only a few times. Then he gave up.
It is not something he can make better. It is not something he can even make amends for.
Now when she calls, and they have their little meals, he pretends not to notice her distress. He finds a reason to excuse himself, usually flippantly, often abrupt, always unrepentant. He makes it clear to her and to the staff how selfish he is, how lacking in empathy. Anyone could look at her and see that she is upset, but her son either does not pay attention or doesn't want to deal with it. They watch him leave, feigning apology, and gather around her, reasserting a tragic but far more tolerable reality:
there is nothing different about him. He is just a spoiled, self-involved, callous young man. He doesn't know how to handle his mother's disintegration. And that is not her fault. It is no one's fault. It is just who he is. It isn't even that unusual, or strange. There are thousands of parents and children just like her, just like him. She consents to this reality. They all consent to this reality.
He takes his dissent elsewhere. Tries to study, tries to hone, tries to perfect, and thinks, constantly, instead, of their mundane but tolerable realities.
Then there are days when he puts on a suit. Collins drives him downtown. He sits with his and his mother's lawyers across the table from his father's lawyers, debating details. He usually does not say anything, having discussing it with them previously. It's been suggested that he doesn't have to be there, but he thinks it helps. His father's lawyers are wary of him. It doesn't matter that his father is almost never there. Even he admits it's for the best.
There were a few meetings where he sat across from his father. One of the last, when they fought loudly in the hallway, was when both sets of lawyers advised them not to speak to one another without legal representation present. Then the very last, when he did not speak to his father, but watched him walk towards the elevator with such a look in his eye that Collins murmured,
Sir,
and reminded him to breathe. To blink. To look away. To leave.
Over the past year he's seen her -- the other Her -- a few times. A small handful. It's been awkward. It's been painful. It's been frustrating. That distracts him, too. A year later and he has accomplished almost nothing, not where it matters. A year later and he's read more but understood less. He feels as though his body is just running out the clock and his mind is accumulating dust. This is far from the truth, but it is the reality he believes in, even though he hates it.
A year later, and the lawyers have told him that they essentially won. Very few concessions had to be made, in the end. The prenuptial agreement was a little too optimistic in some ways, a little too vague, but his grandparents and their lawyers had done a rather serviceable job in the end of protecting his mother from exactly this eventuality: that the fucker would try to leave her with nothing. Abandon her, and forget her, vows be damned. But the lawyers tell him, after a year of these stupid meetings, that it won't happen. The sum is agreeable. Papers are signed. The financial advisers tell him the plan, and this, too, is agreeable. She will be solvent. She will be taken care of.
The facility tells him that if they can reverse the regression she's made over the past year or so, they can even foresee her being able to live more or less by herself, or with a companion. They do not imply, except with their eyes, what has caused the regression over the past year. And they don't need to, because he knows. He has witnessed it at every brunch, every luncheon, every truncated visit. He likes the idea of her living at home. Living with more dignity. He likes the idea of hiring someone to drive her around and help her with groceries and make sure she takes her medications. He'll ask Collins for recommendations; the man still has plenty of connections in the area.
All in all, it ends well enough. He traces a vein up his left forearm and thinks that it was far simpler to break a vow to a witch. Less expensive, in a way, and less time-consuming, and the punishment certainly fit the crime better.
"Sir?"
Hawksley lifts his eyes, finding Collins standing outside the car, holding the door, waiting for him. Hawksley breathes in, deeply, and slides out of the back seat, rising to stand. He adjusts his watch, as Collins folds his hands in front of himself.
"What now, sir?"
Hawksley glances up, squinting against the sunlight, looking up the side of the building he's lived in for the past year.
"Montani semper liberi," he says, half to himself.
There is a pause. A silence. Collins frowns, trying to place where he knows the phrase from.
Finally: "West Virginia, sir?"
Hawksley whips his head around at his manservant, disgruntled and disappointed. Exasperated: "Dude! No! Just -- fuck it. Come on."
And heads inside.
my whole life is thunder.