Olivier Wrist

It happens, time to time, that you’re no use to those who are near. The case is, expectations. You don't really meet their expectations. Then, depending on their state, and yours, you might just put an act that much unknown or pre-thought even to you, for they decided to make you special on the New Year’s Eve. Now, if you were the one, they'd treat you well and offer many things you wouldn’t be able to afford yourself (or wouldn’t care). Of course, who could refuse the special treat, for free. Unless, something wicked is going to happen.

It’s just an ordinary story of an ordinary man, not cosy though to his close related humans.

The New Year’s Eve, no snow, no joy, no attitude. He walked sullen and bleak through the glaze of restless lamps twinkling to his nerves. They said, New Year was a family holiday. It was, indeed. Anyway, he was useless: no money, no place, no desire to celebrate any of after-decemberish stuff. He just walked there, in related place, to get some food, some drinks, some illusory comfort and... many crap people always have from those wires they put on their lives, yet pretending to live in unwired. He passed abandoned streets and rare drunkards, thinking, what is to become next year. They always said he was a kind of disgrace, disaster to the family. And, with no proper job or wish to marry and reproduce, there he was, artistic bastard of pseudo happiness and wealth. However, he believed this New Year’s Eve was special. So, he hid grimace, again, and smilingfully knocked at door, with stupid 'happy new year stuff' hanging about.

Making sure that the knock was heard and someone was coming over, he finally turned off the phone, so that no bugger would distress him more through that whole disastrous evening.

"Hi... erhm... what’s your name again?" A girl, about 12, she was confused. Of course, she saw that man, but well, he was a weirdo, why would she remember.
They took her as a child, a daughter, when realized what a pain in the arse useless child he was. She never thought him as a brother. Just some brat. And for the whole family, brat he was.

Let’s see.

He never remembered their birthdays.
He never considered their plans.
He never satisfied their needs. Properly, at least.

And more.

He never wanted to get on with someone. To have life (whatever this word means).
He never wished to have a child. He felt sick around them, literally.
He never really cared if they live or dead.  He wasn’t heartless. Just, felt no regret.

Some psychic guy might say, he was bipolar. Some devil guy might say, he was a maniac. Some may just say, he has a mania. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t feel a thing: nor love, nor sorrow, nor repentance. Only passion. Momentary lapse of passion state. This is when he was alive. But, this was not they were expecting.

“It’s Wrist. Olivier Wrist.” He spoke, answering the 12-year old adopted sister.
“This is the family of Hearts, not Wrists.”
“I changed my surname. Still, you know who I am.”

Indeed, he changed. Why wouldn’t he? He didn’t like to be called Hearts. Imagine this…

“Hello, Mr. Hearts, how do you do?”
“Just fine.”
“The day is hearty, isn’t it? Can you tell by your heart?”
“I can’t agree.”
“Why, you are not that hearty that you sound, then?”
“It’s just my surname.”
“What’s your name?”
“Twist.”
“A twist of heart it is, then! You should be overwhelmed with joy! It is a good name, your parents gave you.”
“Is it…”

Yet again, it was true. He changed not just his surname, but the name, as well. It started in the childhood…

“Twist. Heart Twist, to the chalkboard, please.”
“Heart! Heart! Are you twisted? Just get on with that ball, would you please? In the basket, throw!”
“Twist is a hearty fellow…” – “Do you like him?” – “A bit, maybe. But he has a twisted soul…”

And more…

“Next marks. Heart Twist. Failed. Wish you luck in heart.”
“You’re a good runner, Heart. Just a little twisted. You ran the wrong fucking road, fag!”
“Could be, he’s gay?” – “No, I saw him watching you!” – “He might just love to watch, like, twister.”

“So, why’d you come?” The girl spoke, spitting out the gum.
“I’ve been invited…”
“No, why did you come?” Her eyes were full of anger and despise.
“It’s been a while. I just thought, why not…”
“Twist, Olivier, Heart, Wrist, whatever, don’t you know you’re not welcome in this home?”
“I was invited, yet.”
“That’s a tradition. No one thought you’d come. So, what should everyone do now?”

That’s when some kind of sense and rage got into Wrist’ed mind.

“How could you tell me this, while not even being a child of their breed? You were adopted, clearly, you know it. I am the only one related there. Stop fucking with me and let me in! And take this! A present. For the table. Or two.”

He brought some wine and toys. Some snowy toys, to make this night at least more snowy than it was. The slush, the whole city streets were just like that. Those present were, in case of miracle.

“Ok. I don’t want you in, but I have no choice. Like you said, they are your breed. However, you’re the most stranger there. Anyway, so be it.”
The girl let him in. It was an ordinary house, two-storey’s, not that comfy to run or play tennis though, however cosy in a sense of being secure from the world behind the entrance door, and warm, the fireplace brought heat.

In the kitchen they sat: farther, mother, grandmother and one of granddads. He (Olivier) didn’t remember how much of them were alive, anyway, and who was a lover to whom, however there would be no loving in their age, when you’re just a veggie, craving for some water from a different leak – a tap, or juice, or liquor to go faster. There were some salads, tongues, the salty stuff, some meat, the glasses, different spirits, no main course. They knew that him might come, why should they spend more on some brat. However, no that salad, with some wicked peas, potatoes, sausages and ugly mayonnaise. They had the tradition of serving that salad on the ‘happy new year’. Have they lost their traditions?

“Sit down, Twist. How do you do?” Spoke the head of the family.
“Wrist, it is Olivier Wrist from now on. Hello, dad.”
“Then it’s Head, not the dad anymore for you…” That one held the pause.
“Olivier Wrist. I stand my ground.”
“All right, sit down anyway. Remember mom?” Head showed at female person, one of them.
“A bit. She hasn’t changed, has she?”
“Not quite. Just some haircut.”
“All right. Don’t tell me that you shaved.”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe, those…” Pointing at the grands. “Also made some changes to the coming year?”
“They had, but could you guess?”
“Another cuts and shaving, apart from getting more wretched.”
“That’s a point.”

The Head was smiling, grinning mostly. The Mother, or the Maid, silent she was, just looking at Olivier with a glance of suspicion or misunderstanding ‘what is that brat after all’.

“So, have you brought your girlfriend?” In a lost tone, Mother spoke.
“My girlfriend? You know I have none.” Olivier was already regretting his coming.
“What about that girl you met, she seemed nice. You told us, you were living with her.”
“She is not the girl. I mean, it’s not like I need any girls. She’s a very good friend, the best, could be.”
“So, you’re still living with her…” the Head spoke.
“Aye, but hell. Don’t you listen? I don’t give a shit about what you suggest about me.”

“Ahem. Honey, would you please put some salad to our… guest.” Interrupted the Head.
“Of course, dear. Here, Twist, try some good old fashioned ‘herring coat’…”
“Oh, really! You never would have listened! Feck your herring. Feck your coat!”

Yet, they wouldn’t listen. More they asked. He never ate.

“How is your job? Any good money?” Mother seemed to regret that she asked.
“Yes. No job. No money. No brainwashing. No slavery. Nothing that you live!” Olivier cried.
“We had supported you for many years, but now, as you see, we have another child…”
“So what?”
“You might have tried too hard, but haven’t yet accomplished anything at all. As I could see. But this child, your sister…”
“So called.”
“Your sister… she has already won an award on the class of drawing. She’s going to be a very good painter, you know. Maybe, she will draw animated films.”
“Ok, dad…”
“The Head.”
“Dad, head, whatever…” Olivier sighed. “ If you do love her so, why would you send me invitations to this house? What do you want from me?”
“A dynasty.”
“What dynasty? I don’t have any urge to get more babies born and spread around the world! I have my things, I have my future, which is not connected with that one, related to yours. At all.”
“What’s the point in you for us, then?” The Head ate another slice of tongue, got a shot of vodka, shared the jingle of glasses with others (apart from the brat son) and grinned, like he always would do, when accepting the phase of annoyance. “What are you in this family?!”

Olivier heard his brain thinking.

What am I in this family? But a body, a dummy. A hope? For some babies, at least.
What am I in this world for this family? No watching over. No extra funds. An outsider.
What am I to their expectations? A deaf ear. A maniac. Deviation.

“What am I? To you…” He couldn’t say. It was so twisted that he couldn’t find the best appropriate words to say aloud and strict those ‘I don’t give a shit about you. I won’t give birth to any shit, but if I give, I am not there, sorry. I don’t believe in life on job and right in front of TV. I don’t prefer the extra consummation. Hate ads, though can create them. Hate the relationship, as told by anyone. Married to work, which, according to you, haven’t got. Still, I’ll be damned, and you’ll be dead, but I’ll just stay and play, and write, and strive. Whatever happens. What am I to your family? Nothing. A burden. Disgrace. Why should I – to your family? Really, why.’

“Yes, what are you to us?” The Head’s face started to redden, his nose bloated like the bull’s abscess.
“A son?” Olivier was confused.
“Sometimes, someday, could be. But now… you are the course.”
“The course of what, exactly?” Tense he was.
“The course of this New Year.” They licked their lips, them all: the Head, the Mother, granny 1 and grandpa 2 (or 3, who cares). “Say, would you like some olivier, my… son?”
“I wouldn’t, thank you. Do not fancy.”
“But we do. But this is why you’re here. Kiss your sister goodbye, the main course.” A carnivorous grimace the Head had. “Now, this kiss she would not decline.”

Olivier Wrist, he turned. She had some shears in her hands, ready to use them straight onto him. Seemed like a joke, but then again, her face was into this.

“So, brat, which part would you prefer me to start with?” A little 12 old teen with an eyebrow of back-alley killer. “Which part would do best for that salad, dad?”
“Any! It’s quarter to midnight! Just hurry, we have to prepare it, yet!”
 “Whatever!” She cut off his wrist.
“No! Not the wrist! Get some juicy and fatty!”
“Which is?”
“Oh… his… chest!” Mother nodded to this, so the granny.

And the sister (so called) cut through.

The melody was ringing in the dumpster nearby. The ring was crippled. The phone was stuck. Some hobo tried to reach the phone, but then, he got the wrist. In awe, he cried, ran away.

“Mmm… that delicious course! It’s funny, it’s a salad…” Granny spoke.
“Funny it is. Good meat there, please, do welcome.”

_________

They said, 'tleast his meat wasn’t wasted...
On the 29th day of the moon.
_________

(c) Villard Cord, 29\31/12/13