Flashback

[RICHARD PLANTAGENET]

My muse prompted me to come up with the following piece of writing, concerning the lead up to Richard’s murder of Anne’s husband and his father. This got me thinking; are there significant events in your character’s past that you’d like to flesh out and get reactions for? Or maybe you just want to write as your character in their younger years? Hence this muse prompt thingy. Post what you’ve written here and learn more about everyone’s characters along the way. (:

22nd May 1991

The mayor continued to pace up and down, wringing his hands in agitation. His advisors continued to watch him; some anxious, some stony faced.

“Well?” said one of the latter eventually. “What do you plan to do?”
Edward Plantagenet ceased in his pacing and practically fell into his vacated chair, eyes closed as if to blot out the scene he found himself in.

“I don’t b***** know, alright?”

When he opened his eyes again it was to see many of his companions muttering amongst themselves, others staring at him as if expecting him to pull a solution out of mid-air. He noticed the eyes of his brothers in particular; George’s wide and fearful, Richard’s narrowed with disdain.

The youngest Plantagenet no longer needed the use of his crutch, but this hadn’t made him any less irritable. On the contrary it seemed to have made his temper all the worse, as he came to the realization that the limp was not as temporary as he had hoped. This, coupled with Edward’s foolish lack of a decision, was infuriating.

However, it wasn’t he who spoke next but another of Edward’s advisors; his close friend, William Hastings. He looked almost as anxious as Edward himself but despite his low and worried tones the whole room could hear him.

“For God’s sake, Ed, I don’t see what else needs to be done. They’ve lost and we’ve got the ringleaders locked up! Henry and his son!”

“I would hardly cast Henry in the role of a ringleader,” interjected Edward. “You and I both know he wasn’t capable of staging this-”

“That doesn’t mean he should be exempt from blame. And Hastings, trust me, there’s plenty still to be done.”

Hastings and Edward turned to face Richard, who had spoken at last, both looking somewhat confused at his open hostility towards the mentally impaired leader of the rival faction. Yes, they were enemies, but the attempted Lancastrian coup had been soundly dealt with. It was over. There was no need for Richard to say what he had done – surely Henry had no share in the blame for what had happened?

“What are you on about?” Edward said, somehow managing to sound weary and mocking at the same time. He really didn’t need to deal with Richard at the moment; even he had to admit his brother had a brilliant mind, but as for what that mind of his came up with… Richard’s fervent eyes met Edward’s own, and it was then Edward knew he wouldn’t like what he heard next.

“He’s as much to blame as the others but that isn’t my point. My point is that we can’t just keep them here in prison; that would be the perfect excuse for another attempted usurpation from the Lancastrians.”

George had the look on his face he always wore when he was attempting to riddle something out, and when he was the first to make answer to Richard his tone was of a similarly questioning nature.

“So…we let them go?”

It was at this point that Edward seemed to grasp his younger brother’s subtle hint, and he felt his heart sink. Surely Richard couldn’t mean…but what else could he be suggesting? He wasn’t about to announce this revelation to the room at large, however, and suggested a brief break in the meeting. The majority of the council looked confused or annoyed at this, considering the severity of the situation, but they knew not to argue with Edward in this state.

Once the others had all trooped out of the room (some with a notable degree of reluctance due to their curiosity about the conversation sure to unfold once they had left) Edward rounded on Richard, though keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard.

“You think we should kill them, don’t you?”

At first Richard was surprised, and this emotion showed on his face. It was most unlike Edward to get the hint so quickly, particularly in a situation like this one. His look of surprise was soon replaced with a smile, however, as that was exactly what he meant. They both deserved it, and if it wasn’t for the fact killing them on his own without Edward’s knowledge would cause both personal and political problems, he would have already done so.

“Precisely.”

“That’s insane!” Edward exclaimed, his voice rising a little. “I think that war’s messed with your head…you can’t just go around killing people, for God’s sake!”

“Why not?” Richard said, smirk growing a little in the face of Edward’s incredulity. “It solves your problem. No risk of another uprising.”

“I’m sure when the Lancastrian party find out we killed their leader and his son things between us will be a bundle of laughs,” came the sarcastic retort. Edward simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing; not only that but the fact that Richard was serious. Edward knew his younger brother had a grudge against Henry’s son…was this an ulterior motive to settle the score? If so, that only made things worse.

Richard said nothing for a few moments before getting unsteadily to his feet, wincing slightly as he put weight on his injured leg. Attempting to maintain his superior air he made for the door, turning as he reached it to give Edward a parting glance.

“I’ll give you a few minutes to think it over, Edward. I trust that will be long enough for you to see sense.”

[MONA LISA DRAGOTI]

February 16th 2009

It was dark outside even though it was only six o'clock at night. The rain storms brought in dark clouds that surrounded the city. It felt like a bad omen, a signal for Mona to stop every intention of what she was going to do. Too bad Mona didn't believe in omens.

The dinning room table was dressed up in lace and flowers, an attempted to cover up the disgust of the people who sat at it. Burnt food waited on each plate, an allusion of normality, that anyone who lived in the house understood was fake. Mona stood in the doorway, neither of her parents noticing that she was home. Her Father spoke rapidly into a cell phone , he always was busy, being a music producer will do that for someone. Her Mother sat drinking vodka straight from the bottle, she didn't even have a glass out, just the bottle. They didn't realize that their only daughter stood in the doorway watching them.

Mona walked over to her seat and sat down quickly. She kept her head down and her eyes on her plate. She didn't eat her food, just twirled it around her plate slowly. Her stomach twist and turned as she thought about what she was about to do. Her hands shook with the nerves that rushed through her.

It was a crazy idea for her to try and tell her parents that she was lesbian. She should of just stayed in the dark closet that her parents couldn't see. But she needed to tell them, to prove that they truly loved her, no matter how much they didn't show it.

Mona looked up as she heard her Father end his phone call and start to eat. Mona cleared her throat gently to get her parents attention.

"M...mother ,Father I have something that I need to speak to you about." Mona winced at how formal she sounded. She got that way when she talked to her parents. She felt as if she didn't they wouldn't listen. They probably weren't listening any ways. Her Father looked at her as if she was just a speck in his eyes.

"What is it Mona? I am very busy and don't have time to waste."

Mona's Mother stared at her with blank, red eyes. Mona was used to the vacant stare, it was one that she grew up with.

"I...I'm lesbian" She thought it would be easier if she just said quickly and got it out. She was wrong. Her father's eyes grew dark and stormy before getting up from his chair and walking towards her. He grabbed Mona's arm and dragged her out of the chair. He didn't speak to her, just dragged her up the stairs to her room and shoved her in.

"You have five minutes to get your shit and get out of my house!" Her Father told her in a dark cold tone that held hatred in it. Mona didn't look at him as she hurried to pack her things. She was in shock, she knew their was a chance that her Mother and Father would be upset, but throwing her out of the house, that was unexpected.

Mona grabbed her backpack full of clothes and allowed her father to drag her out of the house. He shoved her out into the night that was now raining. His stare pierced hers as he looked down at his now wet daughter. "You will never be welcome home again. Your not my daughter any longer" He slammed the door into Mona's face.

Mona stood in the rain looking up at the house that had always been her home. She felt her tears mix in with the rain as she turned and walked away. She had no idea where she was going, only that she had to get away from her new nightmare.

[JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS]

May 1st, 1973

Today I was permitted to leave the cellar. It was... an interesting accomplishment, to say the least. My mother was not in the best of moods, but she was tolerating me, for now. It was all I asked, I did not wish to put her out of sorts. She rarely cared what I wished, and I honestly didn't blame her.

I had wandered through the kitchen, and found the woman chopping carrots to prepare for that night's dinner. I hated carrots, the gangly, orange things they were. I really hoped I didn't have to eat them.

"Mother, why is today's date circled on the calender?" I asked her upon inspecting said item of interest. "And why did father write 'Erik's birthday?'"

That was curious indeed. I had come to think birthdays were holidays celebrated by adults, where their spouses would give them gifts, and one would hear strange noises coming from their bedroom. At least that's what it seemed like whenever Mother or Father celebrated birthdays.

I never recieved gifts, and that was fine. I quite wished for some new music to play on the dusty piano. Mother didn't like it when I played, at least not loudly, though loudly was really the only way to be heard, and I do so wish to be heard. At least one day.

Mother seemed to hear me now, as she gave a start, and nearly chopped at her finger. Silly Mother. I giggled, but she turned to glare at me, digging the knife into the cutting board and grimacing. "Look what you almost did! My finger could have been gone, you stupid boy! Make yourself known next time you talk!"

I shuffled toward her, very ashamed with myself. Mother was very right, I was in the wrong. I hung my head, trying with all my might to stop myself from reaching for her skirt and crying. But Mother wouldn't like that.

"I'm sorry Mother. I won't do it again. I promise."

I adjusted the dreaded mask on my face, the thing itching a little after all the wear and tear. I never took it off, except when sleeping and playing the piano. Sleeping was of course a given, but I felt that to truly master the instrument you must completely free yourself of all wordly bonds. The mask being one of them. Mother thought it was ridiculous.

"You say that now, but wait until you forget! You always forget, Erik! You even forgot today was your birthday! You little ignorant--!"

The woman stopped herself from an outburst, and I was entirely grateful, prepared to endure whatever harsh words she had to offer. I tried to think of them normally as constructive criticism. I could always do better, was my motto. I could always push myself.

She went back to cutting the carrots, and I stuck my tongue out at them, wholly displeased at the prospect of eating them. Instead of hanging around, I skipped demurely over to the table, and crawled up into the chair to sit and wait until Mother was ready to address me again.

The woman dumped the sliced vegetable into the boiling pot, and placed the knife in the sink, drying her hands on a nearby towel. "What do you want...?" she asked dryly, moving a strand of disgruntled hair away from her eyes, and moving over to the table. She sat down across from me, but looked not with warmth, but with contempt. It was an expression I was used to.

"What do I want?" She never asked me that. "I... I was just wondering why I was let out. Its strange."

The woman scoffed. "You answered yourself already, Erik. You're so slow, can't you ever catch up?" she huffed. "It's your birthday. You do know what that means, don't you?"

I flinched at the words internally, not willing to let her see me cry. I would take the tears, if only I could find a way to put a smile on her face. It used to be so beautiful and warm, and now it was haggard and cold. "I thought that was something only adults did..." I whispered, fiddling with my thumbs.

My mother suddenly smacked my hands away. "I've told you time and time again how I feel about that! Its a dangerous habit!"

I hid my hands under my chair.

She frowned. "Everyone has a birthday, Erik."

I nodded, not really understanding, but attempting to. I wondered mildly if sounds would becoming from the cellar later on this evening, and if I would get gifts. Whatever the sounds were, I didn't like them, so I did not mention them to Mother. The gifts, however...

"Do I get a present? Like Father gives you pearls and diamonds and flowers on your birthday?"

Her face turned steely. "It..." she grumbled, clearly trying to put up with my childish fantasies. I scolded myself for even saying anything. "It depends..."

She got up and took a scrap piece of paper from the little desk in the corner of the kitchen, as well as a fountain pen. She laid them in front of me, and I dangled my long legs as I gulped.

"Write down what you want, and I will pick something from it in reason."

She walked back to the stove and began to stir the carrots and other disgusting vegetables.

I stared blankly at the pen. No doubt Mother thought I wrote things down all the time. She was very much mistaken. I couldn't tell one word from the next when writing them down. It was the most disgraceful thing I've ever seen, and mother had no idea. I couldn't tell her that I couldn't do such a simple task as write!

I picked up the pen cautiously, but attempted to rectify the situation. "Mother, can't I just tell you what I want?"

She shushed me when the telephone suddenly rang. "Just write it down!" she exclaimed before picking up the reciever. It must have been Father on the line, for she began to have a glossy look over her eyes, as she often did with her husband.

I sighed, not really sure what to do at this point. The pen felt heavy in my hands, and I wrote tentively, unprepared for the complete mess I'd make as I tried to copy down the words "new sheet music."

Mother talked on the phone for about thirty minutes, and I'd barely gotten three things down (unintelligable as they were), before she snatched up the paper from me once she was through.

"My God, what is this?! This... this GARBAGE?"

I winced again. "My... my list..." I gulped.

She wretched me from the chair, slamming me to the ground. "THIS is your list?! I give you a chance to actually get something from me, and you MOCK ME LIKE THIS?! THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!"

I was crying now. Well, I couldn't really help it when she slapped me like that! The sting lasted only a second before the pain set in, and the crying became worse. She dragged me up and started shaking me. "You little demon! THIS WRITING IS THE WORK OF THE DEVIL! Why can't you do anything RIGHT?! WHY CAN'T YOU BE NORMAL LIKE ALL THE OTHER BOYS AND GIRLS?!"

Mother was crying to. That was disappointing. I'd so hoped to make her happy.

I noticed the pot behind her overflowing with the boiling water. "M-m-m-m-m-mother..." I stammered, wiping my mouth where the tears seeped through the mask. "The-the carrots are boiling!" I wanted to help.

She glared at the pot, then gave a smirk of a deranged woman. She shoved me to the ground, walked over, and drained the carrots. She brought the strainer full of the vegetable over to my cowering form on the floor.

I couldn't see anything but orange from that moment on, until I stopped crying the next day. I could feel them in my hair, on my eyes, nudged under my mask, in my clothes, and coating my mouth. How I hated their taste.

"EAT UP, ERIK!" the woman had screamed. "THEY'RE YOUR FAVORITE!"

The door to my cellar couldn't come sooner.

[LADY CATHERINE DE BOURGH]

ooc: Thank you Kay and Jill for the idea for the following madness. XD

18th July 1951

It was early summer, and the heat was unbearable. This led to Catherine Beatrice Fitzwilliam spending far more time than usual (in essence, almost every waking moment) inside, whether that be in shops or beauty salons. Consequently, she spent rather a lot of money.

It wasn't as though money was an issue for her. On the rare occasions she didn't have extraordinary sums to hand in her enormous purse she simply used one of her credit cards. Her parents spoiled her, as they did all their children, and Catherine had started on credit cards at a young age (fourteen, to be exact).

On this particular day, Catherine had spent almost all afternoon flouncing around various dress shops, searching for one she deemed suitable for her private school's Homecoming dance (which wasn't called Homecoming but something much snobbier). Catherine deigned it necessary to dress shop this early in order not only to get the dress she wanted but also to ensure she got the best of the best (start the shopping any later and all the decent thousand or so dollar dresses would be gone).

In an unlucky twist of fate Catherine's beau, Lewis de Bourgh, had been roped into the expedition. This was mostly so Catherine could be continually complimented and assured she didn't look fat (she was on yet another one of her fad diets). In all honesty, Lewis didn't mind. This was just how Catherine was.

"Lewis!"

The young man looked up from the floor, where he'd been intently fixing his gaze, to see a rather irritated looking Catherine glowering at him, wearing an alarmingly pink and frilly concoction of a dress, hands on hips.

"Y-Yes?" he replied, fixing a smile on his face.

"This dress makes me look fat, doesn't it?"

"No...not at all. It looks...lovely-"

"Well, that won't do at all! 'Lovely' indeed. Go get me that blue one over there...no, not that one, the expensive one!"

This went on for about another quarter of an hour, when at last Catherine found a dress she deemed suitable. It was over her parent’s extravagant budget, but she was certain they wouldn't mind.

It was when she went to pay for it that things went wrong.

"Miss, I'm afraid you can't use that credit card."

"And why ever not?"

As Catherine bristled with indignation, Lewis thought now would be the time to intervene, before realizing it probably wouldn't do the situation any good.

"It's maxed out, miss, I'm afraid."

There was a moment's silence. Then-

"WHAT?!"

"...It's maxed out. Unusable. You can't-"

"LEWIS! Rectify this situation, if you please!"

Lewis shuffled forward, looking very embarrassed on his own and Catherine's behalf.

"Um..."

Catherine had her arms folded and was clearly losing her temper (if her previous exclamation hadn't been clue enough).

"Do something about this, Lewis, or I shall be most seriously disp-"

"Alright...um..."

"You know I don't like being interrupted Lewis!"

"Sorry, sorry, it won't happen again!"

The shop assistant was at this point looking warily from one teenager to the other, as if trying to figure out exactly what was going on.

"Is...is there some way to...fix the card? I don't know the technical term..."

It transpired there wasn't unless they went to the bank, and Catherine didn't want to deal with that nonsense at this moment in time...why was it suddenly so hard to buy a dress, for goodness sake?! What was the world coming to?

Eventually, Lewis extracted his wallet.

"I'll pay for it. Don't worry about paying me back, Catherine, alright?"

Catherine's expression was part relieved, part happy and part smug. She truly loved Lewis de Bourgh.

[MAYOR HECTOR "HADES" TORMEI]

April 26th, 1972

This was his big chance. 14 year old Hector Tormei wasn't stupid, he knew there wasn't much he could do to get away from his life. This way, joining this family, was the best way. He would be totally cut off from the rest of his life, including his father, if he did this one job right. This one job, this one hit, would get him a spot in the family and he could start working his way up. The weight of the Colt Stephano had given him was strange in his bony hand, the sharp metallic smell it carried pungent and hard to ignore. Hector hated it. He limped down the street, his left leg battered and bloody from his dad's latest onslaught; the fucker bit a chunk out of his calf. His face looked like a war zone, bruised and swollen beyond recognition; it hurt to move, it hurt to breath, but Hector had to do this.

He moved through the typical New York crowd, his target in his sight. 50 feet in front of him, walking leisurely. It wasn't hard for Hector to catch up to him, even with the limping. His Colt was inside his jacket, the barrell aimed at the man through his pocket. Hector steeled himself, pulling back the trigger a little too sharply. The gun sounded and jerked, the man buckled almost instantly, and people started screaming, running around frantically to get away.

Hector felt sick. He stood there, staring at the body for a long moment before running. He didn't know which way to go, sprinting blindly as tears fell. He was so fucking weak. It was just some guy, some guy that was hurting his family! His mob familly, his only family. Sobbing, mucus dripping down his chin, Hector pushed his way into a pub, ignoring the bartender's shouts to get out, and made a beeline for the the bathroom.

Ignoring the fat bastard who was being sucked off by some glittered freak, Hector dove into a stall and emptied his stomach violently. God, the sound...he could hear the sound of the bullet tearing into the skin, popping it like a waterballoon. At least, he was sure he could. Hector sure as hell could see it. The hole that was suddenly there, that pause, then the free flow of blood. Hector coughed, sobbing into the bowl of the toilet and flushed.

"You okay in there honey?" Some fakely feminine voice asked. Hector wiped his face with his sleeve and looked over his shoulder at the drag queen prostitute who wore too much make up staring at him.

"Fuck off," He snapped, his voice breaking pitifully. She...he...shrugged and walked out, shutting the stall quietly after them. Hector sniffled again and hung his head back over the toilet. "Fuck off," He whispered brokenly, dry heaving once more.