Conscience

[Kimo]

This is a short story that I wrote for my Short Fiction class. And yes, it's about them

[/b]. I really, really need to come up with something new.
But! In the meantime I'll keep torturing you with 'em! Until I can come up with something new (ihatejunioryearSTRESSSSS)
I was gonna wait and keep all this info a surprise, but I already pretty much gave it away in the Valentine's Dance.
I still haven't given up one little fact about Kallan. >3> nevah
(Another note: This is happening in the 1830's, but I'm too lazy to make the story historically correct. -brick'd- ANYWAY ENJOY)

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Conscience

"I don't think that's how you define that."
Kallan sighed, shifting around in his upholstered chair to take a peek at what Vincent was doing. He was, of course, staring at his hands.
"Vincent," called Kallan sternly, trying to get his attention again. The ten year old had wanted help on his vocabulary, and yet he was avoiding it like usual. He was starting to feel like an old, impatient father rather than a sixteen year old boy.
Speaking of which, why was he doing this? Didn't he have his own family to study with?

Vincent looked up with a distant and dizzy expression as if he suffered from a stomach bug. "I dunno, are you sure? I was sure it had to do something with bees.."
"No, Vincent. Beheaded does not have to do with bees! Seriously, pay attention more."

Kallan watched as he placed his head on his little fist and stared out the window with frustration. "I know you don't like it, but if you want help you have to cooperate."
When Vincent replied with silence, Kallan flung the homework down the table and faced back properly in his chair, picking up his pen to do his own work. If Vincent wouldn't take help, then Kallan was just going to help himself. Babysitting dysfunctional kids was not his job.
Sighing and rubbing his temple, Kallan tried to remember how he got here- how he got stuck servicing a ten year old.

Kallan John Ramseyer was a solo act in terms of family. Born an only child with not the most attentive parents, Kallan was treated to the fortune passed down in the Ramseyer family, the one everyone else was envious of. Like most with large sums of money, they lived to impress, and thus young Kallan was stuck doing things he didn't have much interest in; practicing the violin, learning how to fence, hunting with family friends. He didn't enjoy doing these activities at first, but as they began to take up most of his effort and time, he grew used to them. In fact, he'd gotten rather accustomed to the art of fencing and was known as a fine contribution to the league he did meets in.

"Abstain?" Kallan could barely hear Vincent's voice as his arm covered his mouth in a nonchalant slump. "A.. stain? Someone must've stuck a b in there by mistake.."
"No," the older boy hissed. "It means to hold back, to not put yourself into something. For example.." Kallan was interrupted by Vincent's smothered giggling. "You know what, figure it out yourself. For god's sake, leave me alone." Muttering to himself, he dipped his feather pen in his ink and continued his writing.

There came a point where his sports and arts almost was like an addiction; to some, it was seen as an attempt to escape social interaction, for Kallan didn't make much attempt to communicate. He was bottled up like his ink, never reaching the paper. He liked to think his sword was his pen.. But perhaps he had mixed up that famous saying. If he did, it didn't occur to him. He marked himself on his achievements, and he felt he had enough of them to keep him happy. That was before he turned he turned sixteen, and his parents announced their plans to him.

"I really wish Grace was here," Vincent began to whine. "It's not fair she had to be sick today. She's great at helping me.. You, not so much. You're just a crab apple."
Kallan glared over to him, sucking in his breath bitterly. He flicked his pen irritably on a washcloth to remove the dried up, excess ink. "Don't think I'm going to let you visit her. Now get back to work."
"Fine then. I'll continue to pretend like I'm doing my work." Vincent began to scratch his pen on the paper in long, dramatic strokes, swaying his arm side to side like a conductor constructing a masterpiece of music. He did to spite Kallan, but he wasn't paying attention anymore as he furiously scribbled away on an essay.

Grace Charlotte Boyd. That had been her name before her parents agreed to the arranged marriage the Ramseyer household prepositioned. Mr. Boyd had given up his favorite daughter willingly, knowing how profiting the decision was to marry into so much wealth. He had to watch as his own relationship crumble, so he placed the blame on financial struggles. Mr. Boyd had taken the marriage as a positive change, but Grace had seemed traumatized when she had first been told. She knew Kallan only by gossip, and while there was an envious wirlwhind of information stirred up by people, she doubted it was true. No one could really tell how he was, since he was home schooled and always bottled up inside his mansion.. And the only times Grace had seen him walking through the streets, he had given her the cold shoulder, her status not reaching his made-up requirements.
But now they were forced together, and where Kallan wished she would just disappear, he knew he had to try to like her. God forbid if the Ramseyer heir was too cold-hearted to love a woman! Kallan would often try to act like he wanted to be together, that it was a blessing to him to have a partner for the rest of his life. He would often give up, though, as he assumed she saw easily through it. Grace had a good heart; she knew what was truthful and what was sin. She went to church every Sunday and kept the Bible close to her. Kallan was Christian too and went to church with her, but the guilt was almost too much to bear. Not even the triumpant bellow of the organs could penetrate it. The ten commandments instructed that he not lie to his neighbor, but what else could he do? Thus he kept a blank mind when it came time to get on his knees and pray, convinced his begging would be responded to with anger.

"Bo-log-nuh. What? This can't be English.."
"It's pronounced Bo-lone-ey."
"Oh! I love bologna!" Vincent pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet. "Hey, I'm really hungry, could I have a sandwich?"
"I'm not your cook!" Kallan spat, making the boy lower quietly back into his seat. Kallan grew remorseful, though, and let out a sigh. "Look- just finish the worksheet and I'll see to it you're fed."


Vincent Julien Boyd. He was Grace's little brother, and also the kid with the black, scraggly hair and the attention span of a goldfish- if anything, people knew that much. He was a sweet little boy, but didn't make up for the fact that he was a little strange. He had an unusual obsession with animals, especially birds of the sort, when most boys grew up to be hunters. He made it very clear he hated the sport and got into a huff if anyone spoke of it in a nonchalant manner. He was indignant of the cold-blooded killing: what made humans think they were above animals, enough to kill them for fun? What if there was a mommy deer with her newborn that she loved very much, and all of a sudden a hunter came and ended her life? She wouldn't even have time to run, it just wasn't fair.
Birds were lucky. They could go where no humans could, up into the endless abyss of sky, free from trouble. All animals could flee, but birds could flee better than anyone. Oh, how he wished..

Kallan looked over from his work to catch Vincent staring blankly out the window. "Focus," he said, and Vincent was freed from his zombie-like state.
"Uh-huh, yeah, okay," he muttered and leaned back over his paper, checking through all the words he wrote definitions for already. So far he had every word that was given to him answered, but there was a blank spot at the bottom where he had to fill a word of his own choice in. Vincent looked up at the wall as his mind sorted through memories he didn't quite understand, struggling to remember the words that were spoken. Finally, he found a good one, and wrote it down on his paper. Now all he had to do was find out what it meant.. But Kallan seemed so wrapped up in his own work, so Vincent stared at him until he stopped or paused to look up from his work.

At one point, the older boy's hand became weary from writing and he stopped to rest it, and he finally noticed Grace's brother staring at him. "What?"

"What does adopted mean?" Vincent's face was curious, straightforward and serious as he spoke.
Out of all the words on the blasted paper, Kallan thought as his blood chilled, he cared about this one. Kallan shifted in his chair, unsure of whether to answer. Unsure if he should spill it out, let the truth pour out and sink into the little boy, a stain that might never come out. He had shifted his sight to his hands, but he glanced at Vincent's pale, foreign face. He remarked on how different his black, curled hair was to Grace's dirty blonde strands and just the way his face was shaped, how it barely matched Grace's or her parents.
Kallan gaped for a second as his words choked up in his throat. He stifled a cough with his hand and redeemed himself from his moment of uncomfortableness.
"Let's just take a break, Vincent. I'll make you that bologna sandwich, how does that sound?"[/size][/center]