Empty Spaces: Owen Who?

[valyssia]

Summary: A minor character fades into obscurity.
Prompt #287: Surely the bitterness of death is at hand @ tamingthemuse.
Rating: FRT: Contains Some Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.
Word Count: 840.
Beta: Howard Russell & The Lady Merlin.
Character: Owen.
Episode #5: Never Kill a Boy on the First Date.
Disclaimer: Another day, another…they don’t pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That’s what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

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Owen Who?

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As I jiggle my key in the sticky lock, the doorknob rattles.

Heavy footfalls sound from behind the door. I want to breeze through the house on the way to my room, but it sounds like the Colonel has other plans.

The tumbler turns, and then the knob. My key slides out. The door swings in. As I pocket my keys, he meets my eyes. His graven face is bent in a scowl.

“Son, we need to talk.”

In all of the English language, those five syllables are my least favorite. They’re five syllables of pure hell and he delivers them in the least promising way. Any hope I had of spending a quiet evening alone just vanished.

The Colonel holds a folded piece of notebook paper in one hand. Red ink bled through enough when the ‘A’ was written to give me a clue to what it is. He has one of my homework assignments.

Okay, I’m confused. How can this possibly be about school? I’m in the top three percent of my class.

Duty, honor, discipline, and sacrifice are the platform on which he’s built his life…and shaped the lives of everyone else around him. It’s my duty to perform well academically. Doing so honors my family. I learned that lesson a very early age.

He turns away. I follow him into the front room where my mother waits. Before he takes his seat, he hands the paper off.

I unfold it and read:

Martyred by good intentions,
She cannot understand.
Her eyes are filled with sympathy.
Inspiration fades.

She turns her back and walks away.
Shadow washes over me.
I wither to obscurity,
A single word, my sentence.

Death in all its bitterness,
Must surely be at hand.
Forsaken, I shall ever be,
By the title friend.

The fact that he read that makes me feel violated. It was none of his damned business.

Chances are he didn’t even understand it. Explaining it to him wouldn’t help at all, not that I would. He wouldn’t care that I was dumped by a girl, and then drew on the experience to write a poem for a homework assignment. The Colonel has no use for poetry or art. He finds them frivolous.

It stands to reason that they’d be everything I love. I’ve kept that facet of myself locked away. My prisoner comes out to play when he isn’t around. 

Funny, I had a feeling that Buffy would appreciate the duality of that. It seemed like she—

“Your mother and I are worried about you,” the Colonel says. “We had a meeting with Dr. Shaw this afternoon. She agrees that you have an unhealthy fascination with the macabre.”

They went to see my therapist?

Great.

Here I thought my mom was trying to help. She knows how difficult living with the Colonel can be.

Yeah, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t. She may very well have had good intentions. That wouldn’t stop him from taking the opportunity to twist them.

I used to think my father was a hero, but time hasn’t been kind to my image of the Colonel…probably because there’s a fine line between just ruler and ruthless dictator. He tiptoes around that line a lot.

My mother and I are his troops. His word is law. So, I translate when he goes on to say, “We’ve agreed that Hargrave would be a better environment for you.” By ‘we’ he means him.

The soldier in me knows that I should stand at attention when the Colonel is addressing me. I can’t. He’s talking about shipping me off to his alma mater in Virginia. Under the weight of all that implies, my legs won’t support me. As I slump onto the bench of my mother’s piano, my attention comes to rest on a small leather bound book on the table between my parent’s armchairs. He has my journal.

He has no right! I meet his eyes and communicate that opinion with a glare.

He pays me no mind. “I’ve spoken with Brigadier General Bloome and he’s willing to take you on as a late admission.”

Inside me, my prisoner rattles the bars of his cage. He wants to rage at the injustice of it all. He wants to march up to the Colonel and punch his lights out.

“You should be proud, son,” the Colonel says. “Your academic record had as much to do with that as my influence.”

Somehow I manage to keep my temper, though it threatens to burn through my skull. I just know how my father’s mind works. Nothing I could possibly do or say now would change a thing. Conflict would only cement this course of action in his mind. He would view my outburst as irrefutable proof that he’s doing the right thing…and I want to deny him that pleasure.

“We’ve thought long and hard about this and I truly believe that it’s for the best.”

I’m sure you have. The prisoner inside me wants to salute.

I don’t.

Comments

[theladymerlin]

I enjoyed this just as much the second time around. It wasn't the easiest of prompts but you managed a nice little story out of it. Bravo!

[valyssia]

Thank you.

[ladycallie]

My prisoner comes out to play when he isn’t around. Love this line. It adds maturity and innocence to him, which is nice. His poetry is contextually adult, but since this is early high school, this belief, this intentional restraint of his passion, is suitably young.

As a woman who had her parents riffle through her things, read them, and then demand she see a therapist, AND who has a father not unlike The Colonel, the last half resonates with me.

[valyssia]

The poem is the actual keeper here. Were there not a word count for Taming the Muse, I would've simply published that. I think it works better all by its little lonesome. But we had that talk via PMs.

They honestly didn't provide piles of material to work with in characterizing Owen. He's kind of a blank slate. His entire purpose in the series appears to have been to make Xander jealous.

What I did see led me to believe that he was repressed. He actually reminded me a little of Willow. So I invented a crappy homelife for him from the available standards to explain that away and give a reason besides the obvious 'we're done with you now' for his disappearance.

Considering the prompt I was handed, I think I acquitted myself well enough.

Thank you for reading. :)

*hugs*

[sparrow2000]

It's always so interesting to see the potential in an OC that got so little development. Owen really didn't register with me apart from as a plot device, so congratulations for making me think about him and care about him.

For some reason this line stood out for me "The tumbler turns, and then the knob. My key slides out. The door swings in." I love the staccato rhythm of it, almost like his every day actions have that military feel.

The very fact that Owen calls his dad, The Colonel, says everything about the character and the relationship. It's amazing how a title like that does away with the need for other words - and the lack of understanding about the poem and the invasion of privacy are inevitable once that character is drawn.

Really nicely done. I enjoyed that a lot. I'm in catch up mode, so will be popping up from time to time to ramble at you, but I'm thrilled to see you at tamingthemuse - I really hope you enjoy it as much as I did when I was there.

[valyssia]

I may have to rethink this piece. I wasn't sure whether it was good.

There's sense in disputing a point with one or two people, particularly if they are biased. Continuing to blindly argue as more and more people jump in, isn't all that sensey.

Certainly not in this case. Telling folks not to like my work would be--uh, hum.

So...

Thank you for tipping the scales. *hugs*

Taming the Muse has been fun so far. Your not-advice advice was well received.

Though I did comment last night to a friend that I keep thinking of it as 'Twisting the Muse' because that seems to be more the effect the community has.

[sparrow2000]

Glad I could be of service! *g*

I sympathise re 'Twisting the Muse'. There were times when I felt like a contortionist when using the prompt. It didn't help that for the first god knows how many weeks I thought you had to use the actual prompt word in your piece. When I realised you could use the concept, suddenly a sky got a whole lot sunnier. Yes, I'm a little slow on the uptake sometimes. :)

[valyssia]

Glad you were of service. I'm always antsy about new things. And all of this is new. Short stories really haven't been my thing. Prompts either.

Thanks again.

I wouldn't call you slow by any means. Not even.

Frankly, I looked at this prompt and paled. After the color returned to my cheeks, I started reading the rules--all of them--every last thing I could find on tamingthemuse about how the silly thing worked. I was pretty sure that I'd be fine twisting the prompt to fit when I was done, but honestly, mostly, I said 'screw it' and bent the accursed thing to my whim. I figured that if they didn't like it, I'd only lose a couple of weeks.

We'll see how long I last. It should be amusing.

Side bets anyone?