Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Mar 30, 2012 22:17:55 GMT -5
His family had always been poor, very poor. If he’d been an only child, his parents would have been well off enough. But no, they had to go and have all those kids, all his siblings, as everyone in the neighborhood did. Maybe it was in their blood or something? Did they just have a knack for having too many babies, the lot of the men around? It was a nearly a curse.
Of course, all the people around there were in the exact same situation, in that nearly-slum. Growing up around people effing and blinding was just a way to grow up. There were all the men, who, like Lestrade’s father, were all well and good, had their jobs and their income, but went on the tear and become fluthered to a state of relative oblivion after receiving their pay that was meant to feed the ever-hungry mouths of their growing kids.
But of course, it wasn’t that simple. After all, his sister still hated him, enough that he steered clear away from her as much as possible. He had few friends, having gone a grade up and being labeled as a bit of a freak. He was alright with that title – it made people leave him alone, let him read – but it got lonely, sometimes.
And so he built a barrier around himself. Perhaps the expression is cliché, overused, but it applied well to him. He didn’t let people close so that people couldn’t hurt him. He wanted friends, of course, but he couldn’t find the determination in himself to do so. Perhaps he was scared to try too hard, because everything was fire. He alone, and he was all right with that.
Not that he was a particularly good student in terms of behavior (in terms of academics, though, he was top of the class), not at all. He’d go around acting the maggot all the time, but they were little things, the things that nobody saw. The steeling change and writing off things that should’ve been important, but weren’t to him. Bringing home books from the store without paying for them, nicking other kids lunches and change when they weren’t looking out for their extra food.
Oh, food. He had such a strange relationship with food. He was always hungry, and never full. The few times they had enough money for a full meal for all, it wasn’t large enough. His stomach was the most ungrateful part of him. Being hungry made everything in the world seem worse. It caused him to stop sleeping, the gnawing ache of his middle twisting and turning (and yet, he had never gotten used to being hungry, somehow).
And then, one day, he stopped caring.
He’d bunk off school and walk down the streets like he owned them, pickpocketing pennies the nicest people and tripping the meanest. Soon his brother Elliot was doing the same. Lestrade felt bad for his younger sibling, because like him, he hadn’t any reason to be. They were lost souls, to put it poetically. Their parents cared about them, yes, but it was them as a single entity, not them as individuals.
They were a responsibility. And so they were alone, but they didn’t much mind.
And then they met John O’Sullivan, and they were less so. He let them kip at his station, and eventually his own house, once he got to know the boys better. He could’ve – should’ve – arrested them so, so many times, but instead decided to show them kindness. Out of all the boys in the city who were in the exact same situation, he chose them. Or perhaps, they chose him.
And then fate chose John, and they were all alone again. They minded a bit more this time.
The next time, it was of his own accord that he was alone. As he sailed across the sea, wondering what his parents would think when they saw he wasn’t there anymore – he supposed it would take them a few days really, providing his brother didn’t tell like Lestrade had ordered him not to – and what they would think when they finally got someone to read the note he’d left for them. He wondered if they would care.
And in America, his job was perfect. But there was always the nagging feeling when he came back to his tiny flat, the feeling that there was nothing waiting for him between his job.
He was truly alone, for the first time in his life.
Eventually there was Lena, and she was so beautiful, and for a short-lived, fleeting time, Lestrade allowed himself believe that there was someone there for him, somebody who would always be there, and everything was wonderful. He loved her with all his heart, and there couldn’t be anything better than this. And then he let himself go down the same pathetic path his father and all the men in his life growing up had gone down, and he let drink make its way as a permanent component in his bloodstream.
He thought it was fine, but it wasn’t. And so Lena left him, and he almost as alone as he had been before, except this time he had his daughter, even if he couldn’t ever see her.
He realized that he was doing to his daughter what everyone had done to him; he’d left her alone.
Somehow, he didn’t care. He lay on his bed with his gun in his mouth, for all the world intending the shoot. But something stopped him, before his brother did physically, and so he never did. Pehraps because, if he had the ability to be perfectly honest with himself, he didn’t want to be forgotten. Alone was fine, because you were still there. Dead was gone. Dead was pitiable. Dead was pathetic.
Maybe he wasn’t entirely alone, now, with his daughter and his brother looking out for him and his ex-wife who still cared well enough to force him into some sort of rehab, but he still felt like the world was closing in, too close, and yet with all the noise and closeness, nothing ever touched him.
He felt inexplicably alone.
Perhaps it suited him better, being on his own. Sometimes he wished it didn’t. And then other times, he thought that it was only for the very best that he was, because everything he touched broke – after all those years, the fire still burned strong – and he’d fall into those cracks he caused so easily. And sooner or later, if this went on, he knew he wouldn’t be able to find the strength to climb out of them again.
end.
Of course, all the people around there were in the exact same situation, in that nearly-slum. Growing up around people effing and blinding was just a way to grow up. There were all the men, who, like Lestrade’s father, were all well and good, had their jobs and their income, but went on the tear and become fluthered to a state of relative oblivion after receiving their pay that was meant to feed the ever-hungry mouths of their growing kids.
But of course, it wasn’t that simple. After all, his sister still hated him, enough that he steered clear away from her as much as possible. He had few friends, having gone a grade up and being labeled as a bit of a freak. He was alright with that title – it made people leave him alone, let him read – but it got lonely, sometimes.
And so he built a barrier around himself. Perhaps the expression is cliché, overused, but it applied well to him. He didn’t let people close so that people couldn’t hurt him. He wanted friends, of course, but he couldn’t find the determination in himself to do so. Perhaps he was scared to try too hard, because everything was fire. He alone, and he was all right with that.
Not that he was a particularly good student in terms of behavior (in terms of academics, though, he was top of the class), not at all. He’d go around acting the maggot all the time, but they were little things, the things that nobody saw. The steeling change and writing off things that should’ve been important, but weren’t to him. Bringing home books from the store without paying for them, nicking other kids lunches and change when they weren’t looking out for their extra food.
Oh, food. He had such a strange relationship with food. He was always hungry, and never full. The few times they had enough money for a full meal for all, it wasn’t large enough. His stomach was the most ungrateful part of him. Being hungry made everything in the world seem worse. It caused him to stop sleeping, the gnawing ache of his middle twisting and turning (and yet, he had never gotten used to being hungry, somehow).
And then, one day, he stopped caring.
He’d bunk off school and walk down the streets like he owned them, pickpocketing pennies the nicest people and tripping the meanest. Soon his brother Elliot was doing the same. Lestrade felt bad for his younger sibling, because like him, he hadn’t any reason to be. They were lost souls, to put it poetically. Their parents cared about them, yes, but it was them as a single entity, not them as individuals.
They were a responsibility. And so they were alone, but they didn’t much mind.
And then they met John O’Sullivan, and they were less so. He let them kip at his station, and eventually his own house, once he got to know the boys better. He could’ve – should’ve – arrested them so, so many times, but instead decided to show them kindness. Out of all the boys in the city who were in the exact same situation, he chose them. Or perhaps, they chose him.
And then fate chose John, and they were all alone again. They minded a bit more this time.
The next time, it was of his own accord that he was alone. As he sailed across the sea, wondering what his parents would think when they saw he wasn’t there anymore – he supposed it would take them a few days really, providing his brother didn’t tell like Lestrade had ordered him not to – and what they would think when they finally got someone to read the note he’d left for them. He wondered if they would care.
And in America, his job was perfect. But there was always the nagging feeling when he came back to his tiny flat, the feeling that there was nothing waiting for him between his job.
He was truly alone, for the first time in his life.
Eventually there was Lena, and she was so beautiful, and for a short-lived, fleeting time, Lestrade allowed himself believe that there was someone there for him, somebody who would always be there, and everything was wonderful. He loved her with all his heart, and there couldn’t be anything better than this. And then he let himself go down the same pathetic path his father and all the men in his life growing up had gone down, and he let drink make its way as a permanent component in his bloodstream.
He thought it was fine, but it wasn’t. And so Lena left him, and he almost as alone as he had been before, except this time he had his daughter, even if he couldn’t ever see her.
He realized that he was doing to his daughter what everyone had done to him; he’d left her alone.
Somehow, he didn’t care. He lay on his bed with his gun in his mouth, for all the world intending the shoot. But something stopped him, before his brother did physically, and so he never did. Pehraps because, if he had the ability to be perfectly honest with himself, he didn’t want to be forgotten. Alone was fine, because you were still there. Dead was gone. Dead was pitiable. Dead was pathetic.
Maybe he wasn’t entirely alone, now, with his daughter and his brother looking out for him and his ex-wife who still cared well enough to force him into some sort of rehab, but he still felt like the world was closing in, too close, and yet with all the noise and closeness, nothing ever touched him.
He felt inexplicably alone.
Perhaps it suited him better, being on his own. Sometimes he wished it didn’t. And then other times, he thought that it was only for the very best that he was, because everything he touched broke – after all those years, the fire still burned strong – and he’d fall into those cracks he caused so easily. And sooner or later, if this went on, he knew he wouldn’t be able to find the strength to climb out of them again.
end.
