fox_confessor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fox_confessor) wrote2007-07-21 11:22 am
fox_confessor) wrote2007-07-21 11:22 am
Entry tags:
ficlet: Variations
Variations
Dominic
626 words
(Aria from the Goldberg Variations--Bach)
The smell of fire scared the hell out of Dominic. It clung to his clothes and skin and hair--filled his nostrils even after his shower. It smelled raw and painful. Blistering. He moved quietly through the darkened house, not wanting to disturb Evangeline asleep on the couch but needing to escape, and waited until he was outside to put on his track shoes. The sun was just rising above the horizon.
When he was twelve, they'd had a small fire in the kitchen. A pan had been forgotten, scorched and burned, the acrid smell creeping down the hall. By the time his parents realized what had happened, the fire was licking at the curtains his mother had sewn and Dominic had helped, pinning the yellow ribbon straight using a line of small yellow flowers as his guide. She'd washed and starched those curtains every week but after the fire they had hung black and charred where the fire had climbed to the ceiling. Dominic had froze with fear when he'd rounded the corner. Everything in the world seemed to stop while his heart beat faster and faster but then in the next breath everything and everyone became motion.
The sun is up now and Dominic turns his face towards it, lifting his chin and breathing in great, gulping breathes. He forces his mind to think of other things besides the ruins of Evangeline's house, the ruins of his parents house. Forces his feet to move down the path that leads to the beach. He says his multiplication table first, then the titles to all the Beatles' songs, the names of everyone he's slept with. His mind stays there, settling like a pond after a rainstorm, and turns each name over, remembers how they felt, what they smelled like, how they tasted.
He runs for five miles, a great bowing tree at the edge between beach and jungle serves as his marker and he turns, meaning to go back. The swells are shallow on this beach, breaking against the shore gently than with the power of those on the north shore. That he couldn't surf here is his first thought but already the sense memory of saltwater on his skin compels him to toe off his shoes, to strip, leaving his clothes in a pile just above the waterline.
Beneath the water everything is blue and light and silent. He breaks above the surface only when his lungs ache with the need for air and then he doesn't look back but swims fast and hard towards the rocks that mark the bay, that spill into the open water.
The fire was a sign, he decides, his mind welcoming an explanation for tragedy. After the fire when he was a boy, they'd left Berlin within the year, settling back in Manchester--settled back into family Christmases with his grandparents and camping trips with his cousins. Leaving. Leaving and never staying. He was ready, then, and then again when he went to France. And again with New Zealand. California. Hawaii.
The swim back to shore is easier than he thought it would be but when climbs back onto the sand and drops to his back, his muscles feel like jelly. He's tired--body sore--but his mind is settled. The sun high above him reflects off the water and he squints into the distance, his eyes on the point where the water changes from bright blue to deep gray. There are still places he'd like to visit and things he'd like to try. Leaving here, leaving Lost, wouldn't be like Rings. He's stronger now. Older. Saying goodbye would be easier, too.
Dominic
626 words
(Aria from the Goldberg Variations--Bach)
The smell of fire scared the hell out of Dominic. It clung to his clothes and skin and hair--filled his nostrils even after his shower. It smelled raw and painful. Blistering. He moved quietly through the darkened house, not wanting to disturb Evangeline asleep on the couch but needing to escape, and waited until he was outside to put on his track shoes. The sun was just rising above the horizon.
When he was twelve, they'd had a small fire in the kitchen. A pan had been forgotten, scorched and burned, the acrid smell creeping down the hall. By the time his parents realized what had happened, the fire was licking at the curtains his mother had sewn and Dominic had helped, pinning the yellow ribbon straight using a line of small yellow flowers as his guide. She'd washed and starched those curtains every week but after the fire they had hung black and charred where the fire had climbed to the ceiling. Dominic had froze with fear when he'd rounded the corner. Everything in the world seemed to stop while his heart beat faster and faster but then in the next breath everything and everyone became motion.
The sun is up now and Dominic turns his face towards it, lifting his chin and breathing in great, gulping breathes. He forces his mind to think of other things besides the ruins of Evangeline's house, the ruins of his parents house. Forces his feet to move down the path that leads to the beach. He says his multiplication table first, then the titles to all the Beatles' songs, the names of everyone he's slept with. His mind stays there, settling like a pond after a rainstorm, and turns each name over, remembers how they felt, what they smelled like, how they tasted.
He runs for five miles, a great bowing tree at the edge between beach and jungle serves as his marker and he turns, meaning to go back. The swells are shallow on this beach, breaking against the shore gently than with the power of those on the north shore. That he couldn't surf here is his first thought but already the sense memory of saltwater on his skin compels him to toe off his shoes, to strip, leaving his clothes in a pile just above the waterline.
Beneath the water everything is blue and light and silent. He breaks above the surface only when his lungs ache with the need for air and then he doesn't look back but swims fast and hard towards the rocks that mark the bay, that spill into the open water.
The fire was a sign, he decides, his mind welcoming an explanation for tragedy. After the fire when he was a boy, they'd left Berlin within the year, settling back in Manchester--settled back into family Christmases with his grandparents and camping trips with his cousins. Leaving. Leaving and never staying. He was ready, then, and then again when he went to France. And again with New Zealand. California. Hawaii.
The swim back to shore is easier than he thought it would be but when climbs back onto the sand and drops to his back, his muscles feel like jelly. He's tired--body sore--but his mind is settled. The sun high above him reflects off the water and he squints into the distance, his eyes on the point where the water changes from bright blue to deep gray. There are still places he'd like to visit and things he'd like to try. Leaving here, leaving Lost, wouldn't be like Rings. He's stronger now. Older. Saying goodbye would be easier, too.
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his mind welcoming an explanation for tragedy.
That's perfect, and makes perfect sense. And so does the running and swimming away and back, the leaving and never staying. And I love that he has the sense memory of saltwater and that in the end his mind is settled.
This is actually unlike anything you've written, I think; it's really taut and terse but also kind and soft, like I said—still totally you, but also totally different, and wow. <3
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This is the line that gets to me most. And his feeling of being at peace with his decision.
I like this very much--thank you for sharing it.
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Thank you for letting me know you liked it :D
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Forces his feet to move down the path that leads to the beach. He says his multiplication table first, then the titles to all the Beatles' songs, the names of everyone he's slept with.
Running through the lists that change as you grow older. Splendid.
I've felt an overload of 'fandomness' recently (what with Dr Who & Harry Potter & SGA etc.) I had to step back from the computer for a little bit. This ficlet has really contributed to my renewed appreciation of my first and truest fandom love. Thank you.
And I listened to the 'Aria from the Goldberg Variations' on my third re-read which added to the soothing balmness feeling of this ficlet. For Dom, and for me. Thanks again. (I'd add a hug or a smooch usually, but I'm feeling a little reverent towards you.)
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