So, after a good deal of reading over my vacation, I've been inspired to write. Here's the introduction for an idea I have for a story. I may write more, especially if the feedback is good. May be slightly NSFW, please tell me if it is.
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It was early morning on a pleasant April day when Patricia Morgan was born. Her parents couldn't have been happier. Her father was Sir Rupert Morgan, heir to the Morgan family fortune, and a man of great social acclaim. His wife, Lady Olivia Morgan - nee Eaton - had married Sir Rupert only partially for his wealth: she was an avid believer in the power of love, and as such wanted her daughter to grow up with the same notions.
"I'll not have my precious child tarnished by the ugly concept of a false marriage," she told her husband mere days after the wedding, making it very clear that she wanted a child. Always one to oblige, Sir Rupert let his baser instincts take brief control of himself and...well, you know. A little over nine months later, Lady Olivia gave birth to a healthy baby girl, whom she and her eager husband named Patricia, after the Lady's late mother. The first time Lady Olivia, now a mother, held her infant child in her hands, she felt a rush of warmth overwhelm her, a cascade of emotions she hadn't felt since her marriage. With a tender smile, she cradled baby Patricia in her arms.
"You're going to make somebody very happy some day," she whispered in her daughter's ear. Sir Rupert could not have been more proud.
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Evan Butler, on the other hand, had a rather different introduction to his life. He was born to Jack and Louise Butler, both members of equally desolate working-class families, and their initial reactions to the wondrous discovery that they were to be the proud parents of a child were not quite as enthusiastic as that of the Morgans.
"What, are you sure it's mine?"
"'Fraid so, luv."
"Ah, bollocks."
To be fair, Evan's parents, given the chance, would have showered their son with love and affection. The simple fact was, they were impeded by a love that they had already possessed for several years before they were even married: Jack was a fiend for gambling, while Louise had more of a penchant for tobacco. It was partially due to these unhealthy obsessions that they had met in the first place, both in a state of inhibiting inebriation at a bar some years beforehand. Had it not been for Louise Taylor's drunken intervention with Jack Butler's equally drunk efforts to score the jackpot on the tavern's fruit machine, the two may never have met and have borne their son.
To Evan, this notion of never having been born occasionally surfaced to taunt him. It wasn't that he was clinically depressed, per se, but he was of the opinion that his existence was taking up room that could have been put to much better use on someone else, someone who may have the chance to amount to something. Despite their glaring drawbacks, Evan was still fond of his parents. Had he been a more religious young man, he would most likely have chastised them for their indulgence in petty vice; alas, he had no interest in spiritual matters, and he viewed his parents' individual vices as little more than stark realities of urban life as opposed to defining flaws in character. Young Evan was the kind of person with little to no imagination whatsoever, whose most exciting thoughts rivalled that of a wooden plank's. Though by no means an unintelligent fellow, Evan had resigned his manner of thinking to a simple level - he only allowed his brain think of things relevant to the situation at hand, and exerted just enough effort to get by with his daily business. No more, no less. It was a sad, lonely existence, but one Evan intended to eke out until he finally passed away, alone and unloved, with only his faithful canine companion Reilly by his side. He already had his life planned out. His plans seemed to be going well. His life showed no signs of excitement or adventure in the near future, at any rate, and that suited him just fine.
He entered the kitchen one morning to find his parents going about their morning routine: mother with a cigarette in her hand, fathe trying to sort out his numerous gambling losses.
"I wish you wouldn't smoke in the house," Evan muttered to his mother, more out of obligation to say something than any personal opinion.
"I'll have you know I'm making a concious effort to cut back," his mother replied, taking a drag of her cigarette, "I reckon I can go by twenty a day now. No more smoking willy-nilly for me."
Evan nodded automatically, more concerned about excavating a carton of orange juice from the back of the fridge than whatever his mother had to say. She had said the same thing a month ago, and he was the one who had to put the fire out after she fell asleep with a lighter in her hand. He eventually retrieved the carton and sat down to breakfast. Cold muesli and orange juice. No surprises or funny stuff there.
"I was just telling your mother you ought to get a job," his father said, peering over his reading glasses. Evan gave him a look that was somewhere between frustrated and bemused.
"I have a job."
"I mean a real job. Can't spend the rest of your life d'liverin' them boxes, so you can't. Gotta make a name for yourself, son."
Evan simply frowned and examined the cold, grey sludge on the concave of his spoon. He had more or less intended to remain as a courier - it may have earned him minimum wage, but it was more than his deadbeat parents ever earned. Not that he ever actually thought such things; that would imply forming an opinion, and Evan's mind was too terrified to get off the fence. It had essentially become an extention of the fence it so nervously sat on. He finished his breakfast, got up and headed for the door.
"Where're you going?" asked his father.
"Out."