| Tuesday's Ten Minute Tale - the result! |
[Apr. 8th, 2008|11:05 am] |
Here we go. Thanks to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) splanky for "shortbread", benpeek for "pathetic fallacy", and capnoblivious for "total confusion"...
'Momma's Little Darlin' Loves...'
(c) Martin Livings 8-4-08
"Here ya go, Gramps! Merry Christmas!"
"Why thank you, Susie," Edward smiled. Inside, though, inside he was fuming. Every bloody year, he thought to himself, every blood year it's the same. Christmas comes around, and everybody else gets books, games, toys, videos, even those new DVD things. But me?
He unwrapped the round present, already knowing exactly what was inside. The same thing he always got.
"Oh, how lovely," he gushed, "Walkers Shortbread. My favourite." The red tartan tin hovered in his vision, as welcome as a cataract. He knew he'd have to eat some of it, just to show how much he liked it. The dry, crumbly texture would stick in his throat, and crumbs would get caught in his dentures for days afterwards. He had to fight to keep from shuddering. He put it aside, next to the box of shortbread, the packet of shortbread, and the other tin of shortbread he'd already gotten.
Was this really what growing old was all about? Shortbread? It was a pathetic fallacy, as if his family had ceased to see him as a human being, with opinions and interests, and had instead reduced him to a shortbread-obsessed golem, wheeled out at birthdays and Christmas, then slid back into the nursing home for the rest of the year. He wished they'd leave him there, to be perfectly honest. At least there he had someone to talk to.
He glanced across the room at the other elderly person present. That was Fred, the other grandfather. Grandpa Fred. He just sat there in his wheelchair, eyes vacant, drooling a little, lost in total confusion. That was the stroke, and the dementia. Over five years now. For a split second, just one, Edward envied the old man.
Stop that, he chided himself. It's in no way better to be a mindless vegetable. Still having my senses is worth a thousand tins of that damned shortbread.
Still, he noticed that they didn't give Fred shortbread, or any presents at all. They just left him be. Again, that flash of envy.
The kids - so many kids! - gathered up their toys and took them outside to play. The adults retreated to the kitchen, supposedly to get the lunch prepared, but Edward knew the truth. They wanted to get away from him and Fred, living reminders of their own dismal futures. Futures buried in old age and shortbread. Edward shook his head sadly, then grabbed his cane from beside the couch and, with some effort and pain, got to his feet. He walked over to the seat next to Grandpa Fred and sat down heavily in it.
"You've got the right idea, Fred," he whispered to the old man. "No-one bothers you. No-one gives you countless packets of shortbread and expects you to eat it. You're free."
Fred's eyes moved for a second, as if checking the room. Then he turned his head towards Edward. He smiled. He winked.
Edward just looked at the old man, shocked. He looked around the room too. "How long?" he whispered to Fred.
"Four... years." Fred replied, his voice slurred by the stroke but entirely comprehensible.
"You cheeky bugger," Edward laughed, then quieted himself. He looked to the kitchen, but nobody had noticed. They were too busy with their own lives to worry about him and Fred. He leant close again. "Why?" he asked softly. "Why pretend all this time?"
Fred smiled again, looked over at Edward's vacated seat on the other side of the room, at the pile of identical present there, then back to the old man. When he spoke, haltingly, his voice was filled with a passion long-hidden.
"I..."
"...hate..."
"...shortbread!"
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