Thorin sonata: or, facing the dragon-sickness

Friday night, I went to see The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey for the fourth time, and I was heavily preoccupied with thinking about issues of leadership and heritage in the dwarf world. I had been thinking and writing all day, and my response was mostly too confused to record. I jotted down some notes and went to bed, thinking I’d write about it Saturday.

***

Friday night, my parents went to the Christmas party of one of the chief enablers of my father’s alcoholism through my teens. It’s no understatement so say that I hate this man so severely that if I saw his face again I’d have to physically restrain myself. It’s an ongoing, three-decade stressor in my relationship with my father that since I’ve owned my own cars, I haven’t let this jerk touch them.

In the morning, I asked my mother not to go. She pointed out that she was feeling a little better and that she might not have many more parties to go to.

When I got home at midnight, the car was in the garage and all the lights were off, so I assumed they were home, safe in bed. (Months of living away desensitized me and I didn’t think to look for the truck. I assumed it was in the backyard.) I came in the house, made sure all the doors were locked, turned off all of the lights, and went to bed.

At 3:41 a.m., I heard a crash upstairs. Time noted as I fumbled for my glasses. I waited a second, then grabbed my robe. I ran upstairs barefoot. I heard another crash, and then the heavy back porch door opening.

It is my father.

“Honey, why the hell did you lock the front door?”

I should be happy my mother decided to leave without him. I should be happy he stays alive.

My mother didn’t emerge from her bedroom to witness any of this. My father took off his outside clothes and collapsed on the living room sofa.

I fell back into bed.

***

For months, my waking fantasies have involved either John Porter or Richard Armitage himself.

Through the haze this morning, the first image I saw in my brain: Thorin Oakenshield.

***

Sunday morning waking fantasy: Thorin Oakenshield.

[comment closed]

~ by Servetus on December 23, 2012.

6 Responses to “Thorin sonata: or, facing the dragon-sickness”

  1. […] it and it was okay, but what’s going on now? Admittedly, part of it has something to do with the awfulness of the Christmas holiday with my parents and my incapacity to talk about that. I haven’t even been able to talk about it with my […]

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  2. […] Servetus: After Christmas. […]

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  3. […] a bad day mostly because of my father. If you’ve followed this blog over time, you know that he’s not the easiest person. Probably some people remember that I blogged some of the stuff that was going on in my family this […]

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  4. […] I even put together a Legenda, which always eats a few hours. Eventually, my father leaves for the annual Christmas party of his friend. I tell him to call if he’s too drunk to drive home, but he scoffs. And then I know I have no […]

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  5. […] listener was that she made me into her good listener. She needed a good listener because of (a) the way my father was; (b) her inability to speak about it to her peers, either out of embarrassment or because she […]

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  6. […] called me late last night, half in the bag. He said he’d just been to this party. I knew he was going to go, and he invited me, but I have no desire to go that party, ever. I […]

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