Puddles
Ficlet inspire by a rather random mental image I go to Baby!Evan.
Outside, the sky was a uniform slate gray, and rain slid down the windowpanes, racing each other to dash themselves upon the sill. Water dripped off of the eaves and beaded on the grass and shrubs. Puddles formed on the long walk up the estate.
Inside the fires glowed merrily, keeping the house snug against the chill of the outdoors. The flames danced, and the smells of dinner wafted from the kitchen. It was an opulent house; its inhabitants were clearly wealthy, but it was small enough to have the feel of a home.
Mother would be in the parlor, working on her cross-stitch and having tea with her friends. Clattering through the house would be the footsteps and shouts of young boys at play, the children of an age, and friends as their mothers were friends.
Later the mothers would go home, taking their children with them, and Mother and Son would wave from the door until their guests were out of sight. Soon, Father would return home, and Son would run to greet him. He would be swept up into Father's arms, and he would squirm and squeal and beg for stories and games and the sweets that he knew Father had tucked away in his inside pocket.
"You spoil him," Mother would say, smiling fondly all the while.
"No more than you do, my dear," Father would respond, and they would kiss and embrace and Son would look proudly up at his happy parents, knowing that he is part of a loving family, and nothing could ever change that.
They would eat dinner together, and discuss their days. Son would be admonished for interrupting, as he always was, but he would know it was for his own good, and promise them that next time he would remember. Next time.
They would tuck him into bed, and Father would read to him and Mother would kiss his forehead and smooth down his hair and wish him good night. They would disappear down the hall, leaving the door open just a crack so that the monsters in the darkness would not come out and get him. It is a game they play. He knows that there are no monsters in this house.
So dreamed the little boy as he scowled at his own reflection in a puddle on the walk. His robes were bunched up and covered in mud. The gravel dug into his fair skin. He was soaked through, and he didn't care. The rain dripped through his hair and ran down his face, and he flicked tiny rocks into the puddle, rippling his own image, the tiny waves dashing away the remnants of the dream.
Inside the fires glowed, and all was warm and well.
Outside sat a little boy, shivering in the cold...
... and no one inside cared.
Outside, the sky was a uniform slate gray, and rain slid down the windowpanes, racing each other to dash themselves upon the sill. Water dripped off of the eaves and beaded on the grass and shrubs. Puddles formed on the long walk up the estate.
Inside the fires glowed merrily, keeping the house snug against the chill of the outdoors. The flames danced, and the smells of dinner wafted from the kitchen. It was an opulent house; its inhabitants were clearly wealthy, but it was small enough to have the feel of a home.
Mother would be in the parlor, working on her cross-stitch and having tea with her friends. Clattering through the house would be the footsteps and shouts of young boys at play, the children of an age, and friends as their mothers were friends.
Later the mothers would go home, taking their children with them, and Mother and Son would wave from the door until their guests were out of sight. Soon, Father would return home, and Son would run to greet him. He would be swept up into Father's arms, and he would squirm and squeal and beg for stories and games and the sweets that he knew Father had tucked away in his inside pocket.
"You spoil him," Mother would say, smiling fondly all the while.
"No more than you do, my dear," Father would respond, and they would kiss and embrace and Son would look proudly up at his happy parents, knowing that he is part of a loving family, and nothing could ever change that.
They would eat dinner together, and discuss their days. Son would be admonished for interrupting, as he always was, but he would know it was for his own good, and promise them that next time he would remember. Next time.
They would tuck him into bed, and Father would read to him and Mother would kiss his forehead and smooth down his hair and wish him good night. They would disappear down the hall, leaving the door open just a crack so that the monsters in the darkness would not come out and get him. It is a game they play. He knows that there are no monsters in this house.
So dreamed the little boy as he scowled at his own reflection in a puddle on the walk. His robes were bunched up and covered in mud. The gravel dug into his fair skin. He was soaked through, and he didn't care. The rain dripped through his hair and ran down his face, and he flicked tiny rocks into the puddle, rippling his own image, the tiny waves dashing away the remnants of the dream.
Inside the fires glowed, and all was warm and well.
Outside sat a little boy, shivering in the cold...
... and no one inside cared.
