|
|
Post by Anya O'Brien on Jul 17, 2015 9:56:04 GMT -5
With clicking heels announcing her arrival, Anya made her way to her father’s office. News travels fast and, no matter how much her father tried to keep her out of the loop, Anya wasn’t one to miss out. With an unlit cigarette dangled from her bottom lip. She played with a still red tipped match, twirling it between in fingers.
Anya wasn’t necessarily there to be considerate, she wasn’t there to please anyone. She was there for family, she was there for business.
To be honest, she was enjoying being in her childhood house. Anya hadn’t spotted her sisters as she made her way to the study, but they’d be fine for now. Anyway. they’d be interested in playing when that was the last thing on her mind.
“Father,” it wasn’t a question, it wasn’t a suggestion. Her knuckles tapped on the door. She knew there was a possibility of argument, Anya hoped that one wouldn’t arise. Both she and Cormac are far too headstrong, it’d only postpone getting anything about what happened at the school and with Aeran done. She knocked again, somewhat louder, and repeated “Father?”
|
|
Cormac O'Brien
Head of the Family
On well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
Offline
|
Post by Cormac O'Brien on Jul 20, 2015 23:43:50 GMT -5
Cormac looked up, startled out of his reverie. He had just been staring at his cigarette, watching it burn down between his fingers, column of ash growing, dangling, finally falling into the ashtray.
Maureen ... sweet little niece ... revenge ...
And then there was Anya's voice, and his heart leapt. Anya the rebel, Anya who insisted on working for the benefit of the family, Anya - his infuriating, precious little girl. Why couldn't she be more like her mother? Why did she have to make him worry? These modern women ... insistent on their rights and their freedoms when all Cormac wanted to do was keep her safe at home.
Under normal circumstances, he would merely have invited her in, but he hadn't seen her since the attack on Maureen. The forgotten cigarette streamed smoke from the ashtray as Cormac leapt from his chair, flung the door open, and pulled Anya into a tight hug. She was tiny, more than a foot shorter than him, and he held her close to his chest and showered kisses over the top of her head and hated the fact that she was so small and seemed so fragile. At least she knew how to take care of herself. He had taught her well: not the same kind of training Aedan had received, but every possible defense mechanism, both magical and physical. All of his daughters knew how to defend themselves.
"Darling," he breathed, relishing this moment of closeness before the inevitable argument. "I've missed you ... God, I love you. Do you know how much I love you? More than life itself."
He held onto her for a long time before releasing her.
"Well, ah ... come in, dear. Come in."
|
|
|
|
Post by Anya O'Brien on Jul 21, 2015 21:14:06 GMT -5
To be honest, Anya was in a malice mood. Not towards her father, of course, but poisonous anger pumped through her veins. The abuse of children, especially those of kin, was one of the quickest ways to turn her stomach. Then, to add to the disgusting event, forcing them back into the flow as if nothing happened, only to destroy them mentally. Sure, Aedan could take it, he was built tough. Maureen, she merely had a mouth acting as a defense.
After knocking, her fist relaxed and, slowly, her fingertips dragged downward against the wooden obstacle. What happened at the school, the bits and pieces she was able to collect and string together for a conclusion nagged at her ear. The rumors taunted her, making her feel guilty for not being there.
She wouldn’t shed a single tear, not now when she needed to get down to business.
With a flinch, first, she quickly melted into her father’s embrace. He was the only person she didn’t feel the need to shy away from when it came to positive, physical contact. Maybe because such gestures were rare and, in the end, were all that she really wanted from her father. Returning the hug, Anya strategically enveloped her arms around Cormac and rested her cheek against his chest. To prevent damage to her cigarette, she removed it from her mouth and held onto with the match.
“Life might be jealous,” she muttered, soaking in as much of the affection as she could while it lasted. She wasn’t blaming her father, she was just as much at fault as he, if not more due to her stubborn nature.
Once the moment was broken, Anya adjusted herself, poising herself to fit her reason for her presence. She nodded, "thank you," and entered.
She found herself sitting in the chair closest to the ash tray on the opposite side of her father’s chair. She struck the match on the table and, after lighting her cigarette, tossed the extinguished stick in the tray. “Are you going to sit down?” Anya questioned, exhaling smoke.
|
|
Cormac O'Brien
Head of the Family
On well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
Offline
|
Post by Cormac O'Brien on Jul 22, 2015 18:55:21 GMT -5
He chuckled at her comment, dropping one more kiss against her hair before releasing her and closing the door behind her. Cormac cleared his throat, trying to regain his businesslike attitude in order to match Anya's. He felt unwelcome vulnerability after such an effusive display of his affection.
For a moment, he stood by his desk, looking once again at the cigarette that continued to burn away despite his neglect. It seemed a metaphor for ... something ... but he couldn't quite put his finger on what. God, age was making him so damn sentimental!
She commented on his awkward looming, and Cormac reached out quickly to stub the life from the cigarette before resettling in his chair. He offered a smile.
"Excuse my ... absent-mindedness. There have been, well ... worries. As I am sure you've heard. Down to business, then?"
Oh, she was going to be annoyed when she found out that she hadn't been included in the revenge schemes. But how could he ... after what had happened to Maureen? Anya knew perfectly well that he didn't feel comfortable with her entry into the family business. He felt strangely proud, yes, but there were so many dangers involved. How could he send his little girl into the lion's den? It was still so ... abstract, the thought of her being aggressive and rubbing elbows with the risks inherent in the job.
Dread settled in his gut. It was never fun when Anya was angry with him.
"What brings you here today?"
|
|
|
|
Post by Anya O'Brien on Jul 22, 2015 19:36:47 GMT -5
Anya puffed three, almost four, Os in the air before taking a deep, long drag on the shortening wire. Tapping away the ashes, she exhaled grey cloud through her nose. Finishing the cigarette off as her father sat across from her, Anya gently bashed the dying cherry out in the ash tray. She returned his smile with a short lived grin.
Instead of responding to the question, she adjusted herself; crossed one leg over the other, straightened her spine, rested her palms on the tabletop.
Allowing the silence to drag longer, mainly because it filled in the holes Cormac left out, Anya attempted to read her father’s eyes and body language. He, like most others, had a tell for when they were either lying or were withholding vital information. With Cormac, it was the hunch in his shoulders, that was the first hint Anya picked up as soon as he sat down.
Finally, after having wet her lips, she spoke. “You know why I am here, father.”
Anya might be petite, but that was a bonus. It gave her the element of surprise when she strikes. It just made her all the more a force to be reckoned with. She wasn’t afraid to put this front on with her father, when need be. However, she held back at the point in time. “The Antonucchi’s-” she snarled “-have gone just too far. Something needs to be done.”
She rose her hand, letting him know she wasn’t yet done.
Uncrossing and recrossing her legs, she leaned closer to her father, “I know that you already have something. No need to argue, I know you well enough to know how you work. There is no reason, also, to prevent me from being apart of whatever plans you’ve devised in the scheme of revenge. I will only be a beneficial contribute to the game.”
Leaning back against the chair, Anya gave him a single nod.
|
|
Cormac O'Brien
Head of the Family
On well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
Offline
|
Post by Cormac O'Brien on Jul 28, 2015 15:52:04 GMT -5
She was so ... what was the word? He tried to figure it out as he listened to her careful speech, watched her arrange herself in her seat. Meticulous. That was it. Smart as a whip, and she understood the importance of presentation. There had never been a hint of slouching fear in this one. If there was any fear at all in her, it was the kind that remained hidden, the kind that was eventually squelched by its lack of expression.
Cormac heaved a sigh as he leaned forward in his chair, interlacing his fingers and pressing his elbows against the desktop. He stared down at his hands, processing her words that echoed sentiments she had expressed many times before. He knew that she wanted his attitude toward her to change, but didn't know if she actually expected it.
Did she even understand how hard it was for him to allow her to take part in any of this? Did she recognize how much she had already changed him? It wasn't as though he needed her to give him credit for these facts, but it certainly would have been nice.
"Your mother," he finally began, still staring down at his hands, "always tried to dress you in pretty things. She was so pleased to have a little girl. She made you this ... this red dress. You were so young ... three years old? ... and I found you here, in my office, with my scissors. You had cut the dress into ribbons. And so I took it from you, and I hid it away, and I told her I had no idea what had happened to it. It was the ... the 'disappearing red dress.' A kind of joke, really. 'Where is the newspaper?' 'Oh, it's with the red dress.'"
Cormac swallowed hard, reaching out for another cigarette. He lit it with trembling fingers before meeting Anya's gaze again, his own full of terrible sadness.
"I know you are capable, Anya. But I have sullied her memory enough already. She didn't want this for you. She would be horrified if she knew any of it."
|
|
|
|
Post by Anya O'Brien on Jul 28, 2015 22:02:44 GMT -5
Respect. That’s all Anya wanted from her father. There was love between them, like most fathers and daughters. However, love and respect weren’t usually paired together in situations such as this. She knew the only way to truly gain her father’s respect, and hor him to display such a trust, was to include her, to allow her to be an equal in the scheme of it all.
It was an expectation. She expected her father’s respect, she expected for him to adapt. She wasn’t a fool. No, not even close. That was the biggest problem. A fool would’ve just assumed she was already respected and would’ve been happy living the life mimicking her own mother’s. Anya, by no means, was her mother.
All she wanted was the same respect as those equal to her.
Before Cormac even opened his mouth to speak, Anya knew the gist of what he would propose. He’d beat around the bush, smacking each leaf littering the ground. It was almost the same, always something with her mother. It made her uncomfortable that he always used her as a weapon to keep Anya in the idealism of femininity. She didn’t crack, she wouldn’t crack. Her expression was unchanging, her posture stayed stiff, professional.
“Red has never been my color.”
The retort flee from her mouth much harsher than she had intended. In this wasted time, time that could and should be used for the present, Anya grew irritable. Regretting the delivery will be later resolved, now is not the time.
Watching as her father lit another cigarette, Anya almost damned herself for only bringing one in with her. Pesting her father for one wouldn’t get her anywhere, being that ladies didn’t smoke. But, God, she needed it to keep her from growing upset with his diversions and tactics of mentioning her mother.
“Mother has other daughters who could easily follow in her footsteps.” She swallowed, hard. “I dictate my own life, father. The daintiness of assumed female qualities might have vibrated from her, it may from my sisters, but I’m a fighter. I’m an O’Brien. Maybe she should be horrified, but she would’ve respected my choices, as I wish from you.” Heat flushed her face, reddening her cheeks and adding passion to her eyes and her words. “I, Anya O’Brien, eldest child of Cormac O’Brien, will be a part in whatever we plan on doing to avenge our family. This topic won’t join the red dress.”
|
|
Cormac O'Brien
Head of the Family
On well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
Offline
|
Post by Cormac O'Brien on Jul 28, 2015 23:56:17 GMT -5
Modern women. These modern. fucking. women. They were endlessly aggravating!
Anya's harsh little comment about the red dress ... well, the hand that wasn't holding his cigarette balled up into a fist. Perhaps he had been too lenient, always too lenient with his foolish notions of being a loving, gentle father. Perhaps his own father had been correct: spare the rod, spoil the child.
"Mark my words, boyo, those children will be more trouble than they're worth if you can't discipline them."
The fist came down on the desktop with surprising force, and Cormac pointed an accusatory finger at his daughter as he began to lose his temper. "Do you know what my father would have done if your aunts had spoken to him that way? What my mother would still do if any of us disrespected his memory? You will keep a civil tongue in that head.
"And as regards your sisters, do you truly believe they are not taking after you? Janette with her wild notions about running off to be a God-forsaken actress? Oh, and you haven't seen Noelle since she came in here last week and used the same damn scissors to cut off all of her hair. I have been nothing but generous in allowing you to do important work for this family, and in doing so, I may as well have spit on your mother's grave. But if you truly believe I am going to send you to the Antonucchi wolves after what they did to Maureen, you are sorely mistaken."
He angrily stubbed out his cigarette, then stood up and turned his back on Anya to look out the window. She would continue to insist, and he was going to have to let go at some point, but he couldn't help but feel that he was losing his family in doing so. He squeezed his eyes shut hard, swallowed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Just ... go talk to Finley. If this is truly what you want, then get your information from him, because ... because I can't do it."
|
|
|
|
Post by Anya O'Brien on Jul 29, 2015 22:04:28 GMT -5
She hadn’t flinched when the table took the blow, nor when his finger was inches from her face. Stone was the expression she wore, hard was the posture she kept. This was a common action in their exchanges. Anya, even if her father’s anger flared and her face was the next destination of his fist, was unfaded. She could take it, it wasn’t the first and it wouldn’t be the last. It was part of her job.
“Grandfather would’ve removed his belt. Grandmother would let them pick the branch themselves.” She heard her grandmother repeat her grandfather’s infamous line to her father time and time again while she was growing up.
“An actress?” Anya raised a brow, “sounds a lot safer, more womanly.” Her voice was softer, not in favor of him, but her kids sisters. Guilt was a terrible thing and, even though her father was very good at making her feel as if she was at fault for her mother’s demise, she felt guilty that her sisters didn’t have a proper mother figure in their lives. “Father, you know I’ve grown my hair out. Noelle’s decision was derived from other influences.”
Generous? If Anya lacked self-control, she would’ve laughed in his face. “Please, stop making this about mother. I don’t deserve to be made to feel guilty because this may or may not’ve been want she wanted. I was fourteen when she died, not a child. I knew her, you cannot make up your own perfect person when your own opinions to use as a weapon. Father...” Anya trailed off, searching for the write words to string together. She couldn’t think of anything to say while Cormac was still too heated. She was thankful for his decision to walk.
Her eyes tracked him, cautious of his movements.
There was alcohol where Finley was and God knew she needed a shot or five after this conversation. She, however, knew going to her cousin wouldn’t work in her favor. He wouldn’t do anything her father wouldn’t give his approval. “You know her would never do anything such as that without your permission.”
Pushing herself up from the chair, she carefully walked to stand next to her father. Anya looked straightforward, not making eye contact. “Neglect the fact that I’m a woman, neglect the fact that I’m your daughter. See me as a qualified relative, that’s what I am.”
|
|
Cormac O'Brien
Head of the Family
On well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
Offline
|
Post by Cormac O'Brien on Jul 30, 2015 23:17:09 GMT -5
Father always hit with the buckle end of the belt. Leather on its own wasn't good enough for him, no ... disobedient children deserved the bite of the metal against their skin. That metal tongue, though blunt, became something different when it whistled through the air and landed against flesh. It could rip, tear, remove chunks of you and send them flying for the dogs to lick up off the floor. Cormac still had scars on his back, strange little dimples where the belt buckle had disfigured him.
Anya had nothing of the sort or, if she did, it hadn't come from him. He'd always felt so angry at his father after a punishment. The rage would build and build, and then it would fester inside him because he knew he couldn't release it. After all, that would only earn him more punishment. Cormac had thought that if he didn't beat his children, they wouldn't be angry at him. Yes, he had yelled, but he hadn't hit them. He'd done the best he knew how to do, and yet here was Anya, angry with him as she seemed always to be.
He yearned for the days when she had been young, when she would come and sit beside him on the couch and they would trade sections of the newspaper back and forth. They were the same in that way: they both always wanted to read it cover to cover. If it was printed in the newspaper, they reasoned, it was worth knowing. Or it was at least worth reading and judging for themselves whether it was worth remembering.
Darcy would come into the sitting room and see them there, and she would laugh and stand behind the couch with a hand on each of their heads. She would call them "twins," and Cormac would glance over at Anya with a wry smile that she would return. They were too similar, really ... stubborn and headstrong. She would have made a marvelous son.
She didn't understand. She couldn't comprehend how, for him, everything was about her mother. Every moment of every day. Every dream was of Darcy, every hope seen through her eyes, every decision made with her in mind.
Anya came to stand beside him, and despite his anger, he couldn't help putting a hand on her shoulder. Despite the fact that what he was about to say was cold and cruel and better left unsaid.
"He will have my permission. But if you want me to think of you merely as a qualified relative, then you must know that qualified relatives do not come to my office without being invited or, at the very least, sending an owl beforehand."
All right. He just had to let her go. He just had to forget that she was his child.
"Leave," he murmured, closing his eyes, dropping his hand, and turning away. If she did not wish to be his daughter, then that was fine ... as long as she was out of his sight. He wasn't going to weep for Darcy's forgiveness in front of any witnesses.
Someday, Anya might even understand why she had to be one or the other, why she could never be both.
|
|
|
|
Post by Anya O'Brien on Jul 30, 2015 23:38:57 GMT -5
Anya wasn’t a child, she lacked the ignorance. Standing closely to her father now, she was able to easily read his mind. It didn’t come as a surprise that it would be her mother floating around in his head. His body language gave it away.
She knew that it killed him. It killed him that she wasn’t beautiful like her mother, delicate like her mother. The only trait she received from her late mother was that of compassion. Other than that, Anya was 100% her father.
It didn’t seem like all that long ago her mother would sing her and her brother to sleep. Her voice was awful, but it sounded like heaven to the two. After praying at their beds, Darcy would tuck them in tightly, in hopes the blankets would prevent either of her children from rolling off their beds. The humming would start at that time and, once the two were comfortable, she would sing a lullaby. It stopped when Anya and Aedon got older, when Janette and Noelle were old enough.
Rejecting his hand, she shook her shoulder and stepped away from him. In that moment, she saw that he was just a child. Lost and confused with her mother there. He played games, at least that’s how she saw it and how most people saw it.
“You create regret, you must live for now, not worrying on the past. If you don’t, the regret only builds.” Her heart pounded. Cormac had twisted the meaning of her words to suit him. It was another one of his games, one where he’d change all the rules to work in his favor.
Cormac wasn’t going to allow it. He only said he would. Anya, for a fact, knew it would only be a waste of her time to discuss the plan with Finley.
Her feet didn’t want to move. Anger twitched at her hand, unsure if it wanted to ball into a fist or hit him open palm. Finally, her urge to strike broke and she made her way towards the door. She stopped, her fingertips brushing the knob. Two can play the game. “Goodbye, Cormac.”
|
|
Cormac O'Brien
Head of the Family
On well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
Offline
|
Post by Cormac O'Brien on Jul 31, 2015 5:11:41 GMT -5
She shrugged away from his hand, and the motion was a knife in his heart. This was it, wasn't it? This was the loss of a daughter. This was the horrific pain that he'd wanted so desperately to stave off. His beautiful little girl ... these were their last moments together as father and daughter. "No ... " He heard the word in his mind, and it was Darcy's voice.
Darcy, all sweat and tears, squeezing his hand as though she would break all the bones inside it. Darcy, straining and groaning on clean white sheets. He'd been so sure that it would be a boy.
"A girl," said the doctor as he held a squalling infant up for their eyes. Red and wrinkly and female but still, somehow, perfect.
"Anya," Darcy murmured as she smiled up at him. "Anya." He hadn't argued. How could he? That was who she was. She was Anya.
And then ... fourteen years later ... Darcy, sweat and tears and agony and blood and there was a boy but he didn't breathe, not once.
"I'm sorry, Mr. O'Brien."
Holding her hand as it went cold and stiff within his fingers ...
"You must live for now."
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. "You know nothing," he replied, biting his words so that they stabbed the air that seemed so impenetrable between him and his child. "Talk to me again when you've loved someone and you've watched him die. Tell me then how easy it is to live for now."
She walked away and he couldn't keep himself from turning to look at her. God, he wanted so desperately to follow, to grab her and cling tightly and keep her close. He wanted to fall to his knees at her feet and beg for absolution. What had he done that was so terribly wrong?
But this was the way it had to be. If she wanted to fight, if she wanted to go out into the world and face those who would gladly kill her ... then she couldn't be his child anymore.
"Goodbye," he replied, and he tried to put everything into it: all of his love and regard. He knew he had fallen short of the mark. She closed the door behind her, and Cormac sat down in his chair and put his head in his hands and wept for forgiveness.
Darcy would hate him forever.
|
|
