secret santa (tapsanta) wrote in unraveled, @ 2016-12-11 00:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | secret santa |
FOR: Amber
WHO: Neal Bulstrode
WHAT: A drabble about fatherhood.
There is a shrill cry that fills the room. Loud and high pitched, it fills the room and drowns out everything. Muffled voices, voices grave but he already knows what they're saying, even if he can't actually make out the words. All he can focus on, is the fact that his newly born daughter is protesting louder than anything that he's ever met. He doesn't know whether she protests life in itself, or the fact that her mother is already gone, before she can even open her eyes. It's life, kid. Life is always worse. Suddenly his arms are full and there is that loud, blaring noise right in his face. Little face scrunched up, mouth open and letting everyone know that it isn't happy. She isn't happy. Millicent. That's what they were going to call her. He looks down at her, ignoring the first instinct to use a silencing charm on her. In later days, it would be the only thing that got him through not going on a total murderous rampage, from lack of sleep. She rarely sleeps, and it almost seems as if she blames him personally. It's his fault that her mother is dead. His fault that she can't sleep, that she seems to be constantly hungry for something. The world owes her everything and nothing at all. Yet, when she cries, he can't be mad. Every time he looks at her, and she actually has her eyes open, staring up at him, he sees himself. All of him. Every flaw and every perfection. It's not just his expressions, or the fact that she has his nose. It isn't even that she reminds him constantly of his wife. There's something there that he can't explain. He feels this primal instinct when she screams her head off. He doesn't quite understand the concept of being totally helpless, but knows that he was just as helpless as she is. It's a reminder for him, never to be that helpless again. She makes him remember things about his past, that he would soon rather forget. This child is much different than his first. They both did things the same. Scream. Eat. Sleep. His son had his mother beside him though. Sympathy and coddling wasn't exactly a strong trait in the Bulstrode house, but Franklin had it. He never screamed as much as Millicent did. The only real bother is that when Franklin asks questions, about his mother, about the world in general, he doesn't see himself. It makes it easier to brush the answers aside. Nothing about him as venomous and self-righteous as the way that Millicent looks at him when she's older. There's absolutely no comparing the two. It hurts him to think that, but only for a second. As she grows up, those things that he recognizes in her, becomes clearer. It's not always pretty, and they both drive each other crazy. She no longer screams but a look comes over her face. That same look. His look. He doesn't see her mother in there much any more. She's too much like him, for better or worse. Sometimes he misses the way she used to scream, when she was a child. Temper tantrums aren't exactly the same. Her words have more of an edge. They cut deeper than they should. He can't help but be proud. His girl is going to set fire to the world one day. His Lord will be pleased. It's all he can ask for, and yet he knows that she's going to be a better version of himself. It's the one thing that he can't live with. Life is always worse. |