Malcolm Reed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tactical_alert) wrote2007-09-06 09:23 pm
tactical_alert) wrote2007-09-06 09:23 pm
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theatrical_muse #194: Vanish
"The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place."--The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, by Michael Chabon
He was, in the eyes of his family, nothing more than a passing thought in the back of the mind. A ghost, almost. A name, he imagined, that was taboo and never uttered.
Except when it came to his sister, of course. Madeline had never faulted him for his life choices, and she was the only one who he ever communicated with outside the ship while on missions.
Though he hadn't spoken to his parents in years--it seemed like forever--he had attempted to visit, once. After the Xindi attack and the devastating effects thereof, he'd rethought the tense (at best) relationship with his immediate family. Trip had been so attached to his sister, which had been apparent even before he'd joined his comrade down to the surface, to Trip's hometown, merely a deep swath, and no sign of Lizzie. And he couldn't help but wonder. What if it had been England? What if it had been Malaysia? It could've been anywhere.
He'd arrived unannounced (a rarity for him, certainly, as most things he did were thoroughly planned through) at the residence in Kota Bharu. It had never been explained to him why exactly his parents had decided to move to Malaysia, but he supposed it suited as a place of retirement. It served as a nice vacation spot, anyway.
His mother answered the door. Much to his thanks. She at least allowed him inside the house after a rather awkward hello, something he was certain his father would never have done. It didn't mean the meeting was going to go any more smoothly, though.
A voice barked from down the hall, one he knew all too well. "Who was it?"
"We have a visitor..."
He could hear the man move out of a chair and through the room, into the hall. Upon seeing his father, he instinctively straightened his posture, as if preparing himself for inspection, but there wouldn’t be one this time.
There was a long time of staring. His mother merely glanced between them, waiting for either the first word or the first blow. Either was very possible.
Might as well clear his throat and go first, since it didn't seem that the other man was going to. "Hello, fa--"
"What the hell gives you the right to come barging into my home?"
He suppressed a wince. "I thought I'd come by. See how you were doing. What with the attack--"
His father cut in again. "Being on the other side of the world, of course we're fine." Following a disgusted snort, "I see you're not in uniform."
"I hadn't planned on dressing up to show my achievements off to you just for a civilian visit."
"I thought maybe you'd want to come prancing in, showing off your polished shoes and ironed uniform and those two pips on your shoulders as if it means anything to me just to make a fool of this family even more."
"You're the one turning this family into an embarrassment if you're going to drag up that old--"
His father was beet red in the face. "This!" he roared. Here it came. The same old story, the same old dividing line, since the last time they ever truly talked. "This is not your family! Not anymore! Not since you joined that bloody Starfleet! I thought I made that clear to you when you decided to turn your back on tradition!"
"Perfectly," muttered the son, almost adding a sardonic 'sir' at the end, but that wouldn't have helped matters much. There was no use arguing. Especially now. He had his own duties he could attend to, now that there seemed to be some unknown enemy out there that could strike again at any time. There were always better things to be doing instead of arguing with his father.
"I have no son!" the elder reiterated.
"No, you don't."
"Malcolm..." His mother, at least, seemed willing to allow bygones be bygones, if only the men would as well.
"Thank you for letting me in, Mary." The use of the formal first name seemed to shock her. He nodded at his father, who seemed just as flabbergasted, though mixed with the look of contorted anger, it was hard to tell. "Stuart."
If they didn't want a son, they didn't have to have one. And so he left. He figured that, later, he might regret the stunt, and he couldn't honestly think of them as anything but his parents, much as they had their rather extreme differences. And just because they were--he was--going to ignore him didn't mean his sister was, and she was next on the (very short) list of people to catch up with while he was still on Earth for the time being.
He was back to being the ghost and taboo again. Perhaps it was better if his existence was ignored, negated, and erased in the eyes of the proud Reed family.
He was, in the eyes of his family, nothing more than a passing thought in the back of the mind. A ghost, almost. A name, he imagined, that was taboo and never uttered.
Except when it came to his sister, of course. Madeline had never faulted him for his life choices, and she was the only one who he ever communicated with outside the ship while on missions.
Though he hadn't spoken to his parents in years--it seemed like forever--he had attempted to visit, once. After the Xindi attack and the devastating effects thereof, he'd rethought the tense (at best) relationship with his immediate family. Trip had been so attached to his sister, which had been apparent even before he'd joined his comrade down to the surface, to Trip's hometown, merely a deep swath, and no sign of Lizzie. And he couldn't help but wonder. What if it had been England? What if it had been Malaysia? It could've been anywhere.
He'd arrived unannounced (a rarity for him, certainly, as most things he did were thoroughly planned through) at the residence in Kota Bharu. It had never been explained to him why exactly his parents had decided to move to Malaysia, but he supposed it suited as a place of retirement. It served as a nice vacation spot, anyway.
His mother answered the door. Much to his thanks. She at least allowed him inside the house after a rather awkward hello, something he was certain his father would never have done. It didn't mean the meeting was going to go any more smoothly, though.
A voice barked from down the hall, one he knew all too well. "Who was it?"
"We have a visitor..."
He could hear the man move out of a chair and through the room, into the hall. Upon seeing his father, he instinctively straightened his posture, as if preparing himself for inspection, but there wouldn’t be one this time.
There was a long time of staring. His mother merely glanced between them, waiting for either the first word or the first blow. Either was very possible.
Might as well clear his throat and go first, since it didn't seem that the other man was going to. "Hello, fa--"
"What the hell gives you the right to come barging into my home?"
He suppressed a wince. "I thought I'd come by. See how you were doing. What with the attack--"
His father cut in again. "Being on the other side of the world, of course we're fine." Following a disgusted snort, "I see you're not in uniform."
"I hadn't planned on dressing up to show my achievements off to you just for a civilian visit."
"I thought maybe you'd want to come prancing in, showing off your polished shoes and ironed uniform and those two pips on your shoulders as if it means anything to me just to make a fool of this family even more."
"You're the one turning this family into an embarrassment if you're going to drag up that old--"
His father was beet red in the face. "This!" he roared. Here it came. The same old story, the same old dividing line, since the last time they ever truly talked. "This is not your family! Not anymore! Not since you joined that bloody Starfleet! I thought I made that clear to you when you decided to turn your back on tradition!"
"Perfectly," muttered the son, almost adding a sardonic 'sir' at the end, but that wouldn't have helped matters much. There was no use arguing. Especially now. He had his own duties he could attend to, now that there seemed to be some unknown enemy out there that could strike again at any time. There were always better things to be doing instead of arguing with his father.
"I have no son!" the elder reiterated.
"No, you don't."
"Malcolm..." His mother, at least, seemed willing to allow bygones be bygones, if only the men would as well.
"Thank you for letting me in, Mary." The use of the formal first name seemed to shock her. He nodded at his father, who seemed just as flabbergasted, though mixed with the look of contorted anger, it was hard to tell. "Stuart."
If they didn't want a son, they didn't have to have one. And so he left. He figured that, later, he might regret the stunt, and he couldn't honestly think of them as anything but his parents, much as they had their rather extreme differences. And just because they were--he was--going to ignore him didn't mean his sister was, and she was next on the (very short) list of people to catch up with while he was still on Earth for the time being.
He was back to being the ghost and taboo again. Perhaps it was better if his existence was ignored, negated, and erased in the eyes of the proud Reed family.