The End is Never Final
folder
S through Z › SeaQuest
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
37
Views:
1,873
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › SeaQuest
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
37
Views:
1,873
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own SeaQuest DSV, and I do not make any money from this writing.
Chapter Twenty-Three
His first real memory is too old for him to place a time frame around; however, he can see it quite clearly despite this. His chubby digits had been entwined in the thick weave of the carpet when his father came home.
The living room carpet is a dull shade of brown. Despite his mother’s insistence that it’s a rich shade of brown, Lucas has always secretly sided with his dad on this one. Brown is brown and, “rich” or not, it looks dull. “Looks” being the operative word because that carpet doesn’t feel dull. No, to the sensitive body of a curious five-year-old this carpet is amazing. Squishing the weave between his toes is almost as fun as mud.
But it’s not his toes in the carpet right now, it’s his fingers. He is running them through the lush weave, thinking of how much it looks like chocolate (oh and wouldn’t it be swell if the world was made of chocolate). He is lost in thoughts that wouldn’t be of any interest to the adult world when the bang of the front door drags him back to reality. The door rubs against the frame before finding its niche.
Heavy footfalls sound through the front hallway preceded by a dense cloud of rum. All of this means nothing because Lucas Wolenczak is a boy who desperately loves his daddy. Even before the man exits the hall, Lucas has his arms wrapped around one custom tailored pant leg.
“Where’s your mother?” Words are accompanied by the weighty (safe) feel of his father’s hand on the top of his head, “Get to bed, Sport. It’s past your bedtime.”
The words are rough with alcohol. Rough enough, in fact, to send him to the stairway without any of his usual fuss. He doesn’t go to bed though; instead, he sits, viewing the unfolding scene between the prison-like bars of the stair rail. His mother and father, now below him, rehashing their usual “discussion.”
“Where were you? Can’t you even call?”
“For fuck’s sake, I went out for a few drinks. It’s not like I cheated on you!”
“It’s all work and friends.” Her voice breaks and the pleading quality that sneaks in makes Lucas wince. Daddy hates that sounds, “Are you forgetting that you have a family?”
Before his open eyes the memory wavers. He can perfectly recall what is supposed to happen (the open hands hits her cheek, leaving an ugly red blotch. Her hand flies to that mark, eyes wide and ready to tear. His father staring with disbelief, “Oh my god, I’m sorry honey. Here, let me get you some ice.” Drunken stumbling to the kitchen, mumbling apologies to the sound of his wife’s sobs), but the new changes seem more real than the memories. That happened before, this is happening now. The dichotomy is mind-boggling and, just long enough to cause a pang of discomfort; his mind is both adult and child-like.
He places a hand, the digits now slender, against the wall. The attempt to calm the internal battle is in vain. There is no time because another problem claims his attention. He pulls his fingers from the cold wallpaper, the movement abrupt, as if the wallpaper felt closer the extreme of a handful of ice. On the flesh of his hand, droplets cling to his spread fingers.
“What the--”
The wall is marked by fingerprints; a thin sheet of wallpaper, partly melted by his own body heat. Droplets fall from printed flower petals. In moments the thirsty flowers are lost behind the cascade.
“Lucas.”
His head snaps at the sound of his name. He expects his father to be standing beyond the columns of wood, perhaps wondering what is happening to his wall. But, the voice doesn’t belong to the world-renown scientist. Instead, Captain Bridger looks up at him.
“Lucas.”
Inside, his heart pounds, “Captain?”
Bridger smiles, “Whoa, kid. Don’t get too excited. You have a lot of work ahead of you. The seaQuest is in trouble.”
“What can I do?”
His palms suddenly sweaty, he places a palm against the flower print. The cool water calms him, reminding him of countless summer beaches. It isn’t until he begins to feel tiny cracks opening under the weight that he realizes that the wall isn’t merely leaking; there’s an ocean behind this wall.
“Captain, I think I should-”
Water pressure finally sends the wall flying. Without the barrier, he finds himself on the verge of drowning. The water rushes past him (through him) and there is pain; pain deep enough to send his lungs into great, whooping screams. Any air that is stored in those burning lungs are driven out by the pain.
As he falls a shadow falls upon him; surrounds him, driving the thoughts of a watery death to thoughts of being actually crushed. He panics, heart pounding so hard that he can hear the vibrations pulsing through his eardrums. Pushing against the shadow (rubbery material) to work his way to the surface.
(Where’s the Captain?)
He wakes (finally pushing himself to the surface), bolt upright in sleep-filled panic. The taste of sea water sits at the back of his throat. The layer of sweat coating his skin leaves him wet and gasping.
The living room carpet is a dull shade of brown. Despite his mother’s insistence that it’s a rich shade of brown, Lucas has always secretly sided with his dad on this one. Brown is brown and, “rich” or not, it looks dull. “Looks” being the operative word because that carpet doesn’t feel dull. No, to the sensitive body of a curious five-year-old this carpet is amazing. Squishing the weave between his toes is almost as fun as mud.
But it’s not his toes in the carpet right now, it’s his fingers. He is running them through the lush weave, thinking of how much it looks like chocolate (oh and wouldn’t it be swell if the world was made of chocolate). He is lost in thoughts that wouldn’t be of any interest to the adult world when the bang of the front door drags him back to reality. The door rubs against the frame before finding its niche.
Heavy footfalls sound through the front hallway preceded by a dense cloud of rum. All of this means nothing because Lucas Wolenczak is a boy who desperately loves his daddy. Even before the man exits the hall, Lucas has his arms wrapped around one custom tailored pant leg.
“Where’s your mother?” Words are accompanied by the weighty (safe) feel of his father’s hand on the top of his head, “Get to bed, Sport. It’s past your bedtime.”
The words are rough with alcohol. Rough enough, in fact, to send him to the stairway without any of his usual fuss. He doesn’t go to bed though; instead, he sits, viewing the unfolding scene between the prison-like bars of the stair rail. His mother and father, now below him, rehashing their usual “discussion.”
“Where were you? Can’t you even call?”
“For fuck’s sake, I went out for a few drinks. It’s not like I cheated on you!”
“It’s all work and friends.” Her voice breaks and the pleading quality that sneaks in makes Lucas wince. Daddy hates that sounds, “Are you forgetting that you have a family?”
Before his open eyes the memory wavers. He can perfectly recall what is supposed to happen (the open hands hits her cheek, leaving an ugly red blotch. Her hand flies to that mark, eyes wide and ready to tear. His father staring with disbelief, “Oh my god, I’m sorry honey. Here, let me get you some ice.” Drunken stumbling to the kitchen, mumbling apologies to the sound of his wife’s sobs), but the new changes seem more real than the memories. That happened before, this is happening now. The dichotomy is mind-boggling and, just long enough to cause a pang of discomfort; his mind is both adult and child-like.
He places a hand, the digits now slender, against the wall. The attempt to calm the internal battle is in vain. There is no time because another problem claims his attention. He pulls his fingers from the cold wallpaper, the movement abrupt, as if the wallpaper felt closer the extreme of a handful of ice. On the flesh of his hand, droplets cling to his spread fingers.
“What the--”
The wall is marked by fingerprints; a thin sheet of wallpaper, partly melted by his own body heat. Droplets fall from printed flower petals. In moments the thirsty flowers are lost behind the cascade.
“Lucas.”
His head snaps at the sound of his name. He expects his father to be standing beyond the columns of wood, perhaps wondering what is happening to his wall. But, the voice doesn’t belong to the world-renown scientist. Instead, Captain Bridger looks up at him.
“Lucas.”
Inside, his heart pounds, “Captain?”
Bridger smiles, “Whoa, kid. Don’t get too excited. You have a lot of work ahead of you. The seaQuest is in trouble.”
“What can I do?”
His palms suddenly sweaty, he places a palm against the flower print. The cool water calms him, reminding him of countless summer beaches. It isn’t until he begins to feel tiny cracks opening under the weight that he realizes that the wall isn’t merely leaking; there’s an ocean behind this wall.
“Captain, I think I should-”
Water pressure finally sends the wall flying. Without the barrier, he finds himself on the verge of drowning. The water rushes past him (through him) and there is pain; pain deep enough to send his lungs into great, whooping screams. Any air that is stored in those burning lungs are driven out by the pain.
As he falls a shadow falls upon him; surrounds him, driving the thoughts of a watery death to thoughts of being actually crushed. He panics, heart pounding so hard that he can hear the vibrations pulsing through his eardrums. Pushing against the shadow (rubbery material) to work his way to the surface.
(Where’s the Captain?)
He wakes (finally pushing himself to the surface), bolt upright in sleep-filled panic. The taste of sea water sits at the back of his throat. The layer of sweat coating his skin leaves him wet and gasping.