Brigit's Flame week 3, JFF, teen or older, 630 words, Snapshot prompt short story

[riotheclown]

 I have had a difficult week, as G.D. hurt her back and has been very upset.  I am sorry if this is really bad!  I wrote some about Mouse.  I am imagining this is far along in her story, out of highschool and in a grown-up sexual relationship with a musician.  Anyhoooo for what it is worth, I give you "This is not a Pipe".

Snapshot

 

“What? They hit you in the face with a two-by-four before taking this?” Allen laughed, hovering behind her like a giant C.

Mouse frowned looking at the photo of her four year old self. “I remember I didn’t like the dress. I fought like a banshee to keep my arms from going through the sleeves but my mother won. Then I was marched out to the back yard and told to ‘smile’.”

 Allen slid backwards over the brass railing of the bed and bounced onto the mattress. “Your parents were freaks!”

 Mouse shrugged not turning around. Anyone else might have considered that Allen should not talk about her parents that way considering his own.  Allen’s father was a drunk. Growing up Allen was bandied between emotional blackmail from his mother, abuse from his father and the jockeying for position with his three brothers and one sister. 

 Position was everything. His father, William Sr. had on occasion, for the sake of economy, lined his five children up, had them face the wall and then after they pulled their pants down, proceeded to make his way up and down the line swinging his belt, catching their pink buttocks at random. The ends of the line got the least, William Jr., and the baby, Bernard. William Jr. grew up to be “schizophrenic” and at sixteen Bernard was a glue sniffer.

 Allen and the other parts of the abuse sandwich, Jackie and “OZ” now were musicians in a band together. Each had a rather driven manner; it seemed the belt had made them wily.

 “You said you wanted a photo of me as a kid, this was all I could find.” Mouse said still studying it.

  She had not been very photogenic at a young age. She screamed a lot. She had allergies and her nose ran. She was a “horrible baby” and an “impossible child”. When she got older and craved the attention and acceptance of her parents and had learned what was expected of her there were a few posed photos.

 Her father had gotten an expensive camera and lighting equipment. His doctor told him he needed to find a hobby to unwind. He had liked the way her blonde hair shone under the lights.

 There was a snap shot of her in her Brownie uniform. It was the only time she was allowed to sit in her father’s chair. She had been excited, unusual as it was for her to get attention from him, but all her attempts to engage him in conversation were met with “Shhhhh! Stop moving!” and he would once again turn a curl of hair and place it on her shoulder and sigh in frustration. She had quickly disappeared behind a wall of dumb acceptance while he had arranged her like a prop, moving her arms in the smallest increments, returning to check the view finder and moving her again.

The final snap shot was of a pretty blonde girl, blushing slightly (it was hot under the lights). She was dressed in a brown uniform. It was the uniform designed by Lady Baden Powell for the little girls who wanted to be like the Boy Scouts, but who instead had to earn badges for baking, sewing and being quiet.

She preferred this one of a defiant if ugly crying child. In it she saw someone who despite her small size had felt herself worthy of defending. She thought because Allen loved her he would love this little girl too. 

 “Yeah well I have decided, based on that photo that we should never have kids!”, Allen said laughing. He was propped up in bed, naked, with a big smile on his face. He slapped his rock hard stomach loudly.

"'Ceci n'est pas une pipe.' It means that it is a picture and not the thing itself... My father took pictures but they were not of me."

 Allen was bored with her art student monologues. “Come back to bed!”

 Mouse did as she was told, smiling.