Two Steps Behind

Tales and stories of little known happenings. (Please use the OOC sub-board called 'Roleplay Springboard' to discuss the stories posted here)

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Old Blue Eyes
Noob
Posts: 6
UO Shard: Great Lakes
Character Age: 0

Two Steps Behind

Post by Old Blue Eyes » Thu Feb 25, 2010 6:47 pm

“You know how he gets.”

Petro kicked the wooden chair across the kitchen room, his mother fumbling to pick up all the spicevials that spilled across the floor. She’d been used to this sort of thing since Petro hit age fourteen. Impetuous, yet obedient. Respectfull, yet sarcastic. As far as his mother was concerned, his childlike vices were tolerable at that time for no other reason than the booming voice of his father sent him scurrying.

That father was there, no longer.

“He promised me, mother…” shouted Petro, righting one of the chairs he’d sent into the wall. A first, to be sure. Petro rarely repaired the damage he’d done throughout the house. His mother Girma hoped this was a budding sign of conscience within her late-blooming child. Luckily, Girma had history on her side, and knew how to disarm her son. “When I say you are just like your father, why is it so hard for you to place yourself in his shoes?” Petro took a glance about the room he had brought to ruin in his fit…his tantrum. He looked shamefully as his mothers knees cracked, mopping up the spilled food Petro had wasted in his rage.

Spinning towards the window, the lad did all he could to choke back the tears of shame that had been steadily welling up in his throat. It was at this point that Girma would so often deliver the death knell of guilt. The line never came. Petro, after several long moments of waiting for an emotional flogging, dashed to the floor beside his mother, snagging the washcloth from her hand.

“Mother, what is it?”

Girma continued to word her hand in a circular motion, her eyes fixing on some random object as most all creatures do when they strive for the solitude of indifference.

“MOTHER!”

Shuddering once, Girma dropped her cloth. She looked to her son. He was a strapping lad. Eighteen years of age, and a good weight of stone to hold his own in a knock-down-drag-out. But that wasn’t Petro’s nature. He was his fathers son…and brawls for his lessers. Tantrums? That lesson had yet to be absorbed.

“Dragonhome, Petro. He’s gone to Dragonhome.”
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