Sanctum
Jan 23, 2016 21:21:15 GMT -5
Post by Mass-produced Junk on Jan 23, 2016 21:21:15 GMT -5
David
The kids were having lunch in the other room. Ah, what was he saying, kids? They were all grown men and women now, disciplined enough that he suspected they could have been something special in the army at just 13 or 14 years. The youngest, Missy, was 12. David had thought at first she wouldn't be able to handle the training, but she was pulling her own weight pretty well. If he'd allowed them to help each other, she might even have tutored some of the older, less capable kids. But that would've messed with the regimen entirely. David's students were brilliant; every one of them.
When had he started thinking of them in that regard? His students? They did see more of David than they did their own parents, but David was still surprised that he'd actually connected with some of them. To feel that protective, that possessive, of someone, a person, a fellow breathing human being.... it felt like something he would regret soon. Before, he would feel protective about a lot of things.... his career, even his men.... but that hadn't been a personal connection. His men had simply been a material object, a thing that he was responsible for taking care of. He didn't really have any experience with this type of thing. He didn't feel grounded, anymore; he was more powerful than he'd ever been, capable of going toe-to-toe with most if not all, but he felt... rudderless. He needed the kids, more than he'd thought. They were his rudder now, just like the army had been.
David leaned back in his chair, eyeing his army uniform that was hung up on the wall. People put up paintings, he put up that. He used to think it was the greatest work of art. Now it was a reminder, shrouded with bad memories and future warnings. His eyes drifted down to the wall beneath the uniform, where two words had been scratched in years ago.
I'M SORRY
Beneath that, his favorite quote, which he'd only discovered a few weeks ago, was framed in heavy, dark wood. They'd never let them read it in the army.
All wars are civil wars, because all men are brothers. -Francois Fenelon
The doorbell rang loudly. David leapt into a combat position, before relaxing himself slowly. Old habits, he thought.
He strode to the door, opening it a crack, then all the way. Nobody. Only a small box. He brought it inside, placed it on the coffee table, and opened it, the thick duct tape tearing in his large hands. His gaze landed on the contents, then flickered back to the uniform, then the quote.
"I'm sorry" he whispered to himself.
The kids were having lunch in the other room. Ah, what was he saying, kids? They were all grown men and women now, disciplined enough that he suspected they could have been something special in the army at just 13 or 14 years. The youngest, Missy, was 12. David had thought at first she wouldn't be able to handle the training, but she was pulling her own weight pretty well. If he'd allowed them to help each other, she might even have tutored some of the older, less capable kids. But that would've messed with the regimen entirely. David's students were brilliant; every one of them.
When had he started thinking of them in that regard? His students? They did see more of David than they did their own parents, but David was still surprised that he'd actually connected with some of them. To feel that protective, that possessive, of someone, a person, a fellow breathing human being.... it felt like something he would regret soon. Before, he would feel protective about a lot of things.... his career, even his men.... but that hadn't been a personal connection. His men had simply been a material object, a thing that he was responsible for taking care of. He didn't really have any experience with this type of thing. He didn't feel grounded, anymore; he was more powerful than he'd ever been, capable of going toe-to-toe with most if not all, but he felt... rudderless. He needed the kids, more than he'd thought. They were his rudder now, just like the army had been.
David leaned back in his chair, eyeing his army uniform that was hung up on the wall. People put up paintings, he put up that. He used to think it was the greatest work of art. Now it was a reminder, shrouded with bad memories and future warnings. His eyes drifted down to the wall beneath the uniform, where two words had been scratched in years ago.
I'M SORRY
Beneath that, his favorite quote, which he'd only discovered a few weeks ago, was framed in heavy, dark wood. They'd never let them read it in the army.
All wars are civil wars, because all men are brothers. -Francois Fenelon
The doorbell rang loudly. David leapt into a combat position, before relaxing himself slowly. Old habits, he thought.
He strode to the door, opening it a crack, then all the way. Nobody. Only a small box. He brought it inside, placed it on the coffee table, and opened it, the thick duct tape tearing in his large hands. His gaze landed on the contents, then flickered back to the uniform, then the quote.
"I'm sorry" he whispered to himself.