Fiction Friday - 23 November 2007
This Week's Theme: Reveal something about your character by telling about one of their Thanksgivings – it can be present, past, or even backstory (if your setting doesn’t include Thanksgiving, make it a similar family-oriented holiday.
I'm going to use this somewhere in the novel, I'm just not sure where yet! Gideon's past tends to get revealed through his nightmares, so perhaps it will form part of a dream sequence.
He shuffled forward in the queue, watching the men ahead of him. All of them quiet, respectful, grateful even. A glimmer of hope in their eyes, perhaps even gratitude. Gratitude? What for. The stench of alcohol, grime and despair clung to them, and it didn’t matter how well they scrubbed themselves in the showers of the shelter.
The man in front held out a tray, and a lady in an apron carefully placed a few plates on it. One small plate with a bread roll and some butter. The main plate had turkey, stuffing, yams and potatoes on it. A third plate had small slice of pie and a scoop of ice cream. She smiled warmly as she did so, and the man mumbled appreciative words. He was dressed in slightly baggy clothes, the best fit they could find for him from the donations they had gathered. They were clean, they were warm, but Gideon knew they would probably be the only change of clothes this guy would have for a year. The man shuffled away, and the girl shouted "Happy Thanksgiving" after him.
Gideon just shook his head and placed the tray down on the counter for the girl. She smiled at him, but he just glared at her through bloodshot eyes. Her smile faded as she looked at the gaunt unshaven face. She quickly scanned his arm and looked back at his face. Trackmarks. She knew better than to try to be anything other than efficient with this sort. Best left to the counsellors to try to reach him. She passed him the food, and Gideon wandered off.
Fuckin' Yank holiday he thought. I've got nothing to give thanks for.
He found an empty table, no easy task tonight. St Martin's Shelter was always well frequented, especially on Thanksgiving. The homeless knew they could get a good meal, a warm bath, a bed for the night, and a change of clothes. They could feel like they belonged. But Gideon had a reputation amongst the homeless. He was dangerous. He was mad. Whatever the rumours, most people knew he was ex-army and usually strung out on something, so they steered clear. Almost by tacit agreement, people had kept one table clear at the back, just so Gideon wouldn’t be forced to sit with them.
Priests and volunteers were milling round the room, talking to the homeless, praying together. "What are you thankful for?" "I'm thankful for good people like you who look out for people like us." People like us. Gideon hated the thought. I'm not like you. You people were just unlucky, that’s all. Had a breakdown, couldn't cope with the stress, wife left you, lost everything. That's circumstance, that can be helped, that can be changed. Gideon couldn't change. He had gone face to face with the Devil and survived. He had seen the future and you know what, it can't be changed - we're all going to Hell. Every night he saw it, every night he could smell the flames, hear the screams. Unless he killed the thoughts. Just a little needle, and the dreams went away, just like that. Along with the rest of you life. He accepted it though. Trade a life for some peace of mind. Not that it was a life beforehand.
Some of these men were too ashamed to go home to families, families that probably missed them. Gideon didn't have that guilt hanging over him - there, that was something to give thanks for. No family, nobody looking for him, nobody to give a damn about, or give a damn about him. He glanced around the room, to see who was watching. Nobody. He reached down to his socks, and pulled out a small bottle he had hidden in there. A wee dram, that was something to be thankful for too. He knocked it back quickly - it was cheap, burning his throat, but it hit the mark. His father would be ashamed of him for drinking something so poor, but that was no difference to all the other disappointments, so who gave a shit?
He tucked into the food, his first hot meal in weeks, and continued to scan the room. There. That fucking priest. Big guy, short beard, it was the same one he had seen at the last shelter he stopped at. And the one before. And he had seen him on 4th Street a few days before, he could swear. And he was staring at Gideon. Again. Gideon had thought at first that this guy just had the monopoly on helping the homeless, but no, the guy was always looking at Gideon. Not just looking, it was watching. Gideon was being observed by this fucker. And Gideon didn’t like it.
He stood up, the chair shooting away behind him, and the room turned and stared at him. He glared at the priest, waving a fork at him, shouting. "I'm on to you, you fat fuck! I'd better no see you again or you're claimed!" He spat on the ground and stormed out. The priest watched him leave, slamming the door behind him, before walking over to the counters where the food was being served. He passed by one of the girls handing out the food, and paused.
"He knows he's being watched. Even in the state he's in. I think it's time we brought him in. Tell the men I'm going to make contact. Tonight. Make sure I have back up."
"Yes, your Eminence."
The man in front held out a tray, and a lady in an apron carefully placed a few plates on it. One small plate with a bread roll and some butter. The main plate had turkey, stuffing, yams and potatoes on it. A third plate had small slice of pie and a scoop of ice cream. She smiled warmly as she did so, and the man mumbled appreciative words. He was dressed in slightly baggy clothes, the best fit they could find for him from the donations they had gathered. They were clean, they were warm, but Gideon knew they would probably be the only change of clothes this guy would have for a year. The man shuffled away, and the girl shouted "Happy Thanksgiving" after him.
Gideon just shook his head and placed the tray down on the counter for the girl. She smiled at him, but he just glared at her through bloodshot eyes. Her smile faded as she looked at the gaunt unshaven face. She quickly scanned his arm and looked back at his face. Trackmarks. She knew better than to try to be anything other than efficient with this sort. Best left to the counsellors to try to reach him. She passed him the food, and Gideon wandered off.
Fuckin' Yank holiday he thought. I've got nothing to give thanks for.
He found an empty table, no easy task tonight. St Martin's Shelter was always well frequented, especially on Thanksgiving. The homeless knew they could get a good meal, a warm bath, a bed for the night, and a change of clothes. They could feel like they belonged. But Gideon had a reputation amongst the homeless. He was dangerous. He was mad. Whatever the rumours, most people knew he was ex-army and usually strung out on something, so they steered clear. Almost by tacit agreement, people had kept one table clear at the back, just so Gideon wouldn’t be forced to sit with them.
Priests and volunteers were milling round the room, talking to the homeless, praying together. "What are you thankful for?" "I'm thankful for good people like you who look out for people like us." People like us. Gideon hated the thought. I'm not like you. You people were just unlucky, that’s all. Had a breakdown, couldn't cope with the stress, wife left you, lost everything. That's circumstance, that can be helped, that can be changed. Gideon couldn't change. He had gone face to face with the Devil and survived. He had seen the future and you know what, it can't be changed - we're all going to Hell. Every night he saw it, every night he could smell the flames, hear the screams. Unless he killed the thoughts. Just a little needle, and the dreams went away, just like that. Along with the rest of you life. He accepted it though. Trade a life for some peace of mind. Not that it was a life beforehand.
Some of these men were too ashamed to go home to families, families that probably missed them. Gideon didn't have that guilt hanging over him - there, that was something to give thanks for. No family, nobody looking for him, nobody to give a damn about, or give a damn about him. He glanced around the room, to see who was watching. Nobody. He reached down to his socks, and pulled out a small bottle he had hidden in there. A wee dram, that was something to be thankful for too. He knocked it back quickly - it was cheap, burning his throat, but it hit the mark. His father would be ashamed of him for drinking something so poor, but that was no difference to all the other disappointments, so who gave a shit?
He tucked into the food, his first hot meal in weeks, and continued to scan the room. There. That fucking priest. Big guy, short beard, it was the same one he had seen at the last shelter he stopped at. And the one before. And he had seen him on 4th Street a few days before, he could swear. And he was staring at Gideon. Again. Gideon had thought at first that this guy just had the monopoly on helping the homeless, but no, the guy was always looking at Gideon. Not just looking, it was watching. Gideon was being observed by this fucker. And Gideon didn’t like it.
He stood up, the chair shooting away behind him, and the room turned and stared at him. He glared at the priest, waving a fork at him, shouting. "I'm on to you, you fat fuck! I'd better no see you again or you're claimed!" He spat on the ground and stormed out. The priest watched him leave, slamming the door behind him, before walking over to the counters where the food was being served. He passed by one of the girls handing out the food, and paused.
"He knows he's being watched. Even in the state he's in. I think it's time we brought him in. Tell the men I'm going to make contact. Tonight. Make sure I have back up."
"Yes, your Eminence."
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