Post by Erin Gordon on Sept 10, 2016 23:33:29 GMT -6
Like most of the parents in the Penncrest School District, Erin couldn't help but be relieved when January 4th rolled around and Benson went back to school.
It wasn't that she didn't love her son-- he was all the more that remained of her husband, may he rest, and the resemblance developing would only continue to remind her of the man she lost all too soon the older that he got. He had Silas Gordon's seemingly endless calm, the same easy way of bringing a smile to her lips and forcing her to go outside of her comfort zones without so much as giving her the chance to second-guess any of it. Benson was the wind that blew the milkweed-fluff of Erin's time around, destroying any sense of consistency in the name of spending his free time the way he wanted to... and she loved him for it, she truly did. He made the chores seem like less of a plod and more of a joyous run through weeds that still swallowed him to the waist in summer, his energy enough to inspire her to get that precious lead on the winter's work that would allow her to stay mostly inside for the worst of it-- but even with all of that in mind? She was glad to see her free-spirited son go back to class with all of his fifth-grade kin because even if he didn't understand it, routine was all the more that kept her afloat, most days... and the only daughter of Ed and Christine Humes wasn't fool enough to deny it.
The moment that the bus picked Benson up from the foot of the driveway, that routine began in earnest.
She finished the cup of coffee that she always started her day with, cleaned up from the breakfast she always had ready for when he woke up--he deserved better than boxed cereal, so she usually made eggs and sausage for them both--and from there? It was a quick trip out to the barn to feed the handful of cows she called her own before she headed back inside, to the spare room she usually slept in to change into her workout attire. From there, she went down into the basement, bare feet padding along the well-worn wood that hadn't thrown a splinter since she was younger than her son is now. The cement walls were sealed and well-maintained, but otherwise it was left unfinished save some shelves and a raised platform for the washer and dryer... or, rather, that was how it was until a few weeks ago. Beneath where the kitchen was, a couple of used mats from Craigslist were positioned under a heavy bag that she'd bought herself as a Christmas present. The shiny red vinyl looked out of place, but Erin knew it'd be well-worn before too long-- and that wasn't existential ennui speaking, though it's likely she suffered from it without knowing the technical term. Instead, it was something far more practical that would do the damage... and it all started with a backfist that made the chains jingle in protest and the bag swing lazily away from her before it returned for another as if asking for more punishment.
In that regard, the blond was more than willing to oblige.
Time flew out of her grasp despite her best efforts to keep hold of it, to keep the act of releasing all of those pent-up frustrations and grievances confined to the set part of the day she devoted to it. She lost track of how many times her fists and elbows lashed out and how many times that heavy bag swung. It wasn't until the lactic acid in her muscles roared through her arms and shoulders that she slowed to a stop, reluctant to heed the call of exhaustion but ultimately unable to resist it. Erin teetered on the edge of hyperventilation as she found herself leaning against the bag, sweaty skin sticking to the vinyl just the same as the hair that came loose from its braid stuck to her forehead. The cold sliver of light slicing across the concrete in front of her tells her that it's before eleven-- it'd be gone by noon, when the sun was directly overhead. A low groan of irritation left her as she forced herself up to stand on her own two feet, turning around... or, rather, she tried to turn around, but her feet tangled themselves around each other after supporting her for a few hours of overworking her upper body. Landing in an undignified heap, a low grunt left the lips of the woman that will be making her debut as the Oncoming Storm as she shook her head. Maybe she really ought to take her trainer's advice, get one of those alarm clocks long-haul truckers use to keep herself on the schedule she's supposed to keep per his say-so--
"Si?" Her voice trembled about the edges as she looked around herself, trying to find the familiar sight of Silas Gordon's mess of blond and more of the comforting thick gravel twang of his voice... but there wasn't even so much as a single oil-stained pair of jeans laying in front of the washer. There hasn't been for years-- No, Erin. Don't do this to yourself. Don't. But the sobs came before she could hold them back, her shoulders quivering the last hurrah of her self-control before it gave way and she broke down, utterly and completely, upon those used mats that probably saw a good share of tears right along with the blood and sweat that has been wiped away by numerous coaches over the years. There was no one there to wipe hers away, though. There was only that reminder, that harsh reality reasserting itself that she was a single mother in a small town with one last shot to stand on her own two feet and keep the family estate that didn't involve hitching herself to someone else's tractor... and as it turned out?
That harsh reminder, too, came through right on schedule.
Damnable thing.
It wasn't that she didn't love her son-- he was all the more that remained of her husband, may he rest, and the resemblance developing would only continue to remind her of the man she lost all too soon the older that he got. He had Silas Gordon's seemingly endless calm, the same easy way of bringing a smile to her lips and forcing her to go outside of her comfort zones without so much as giving her the chance to second-guess any of it. Benson was the wind that blew the milkweed-fluff of Erin's time around, destroying any sense of consistency in the name of spending his free time the way he wanted to... and she loved him for it, she truly did. He made the chores seem like less of a plod and more of a joyous run through weeds that still swallowed him to the waist in summer, his energy enough to inspire her to get that precious lead on the winter's work that would allow her to stay mostly inside for the worst of it-- but even with all of that in mind? She was glad to see her free-spirited son go back to class with all of his fifth-grade kin because even if he didn't understand it, routine was all the more that kept her afloat, most days... and the only daughter of Ed and Christine Humes wasn't fool enough to deny it.
The moment that the bus picked Benson up from the foot of the driveway, that routine began in earnest.
She finished the cup of coffee that she always started her day with, cleaned up from the breakfast she always had ready for when he woke up--he deserved better than boxed cereal, so she usually made eggs and sausage for them both--and from there? It was a quick trip out to the barn to feed the handful of cows she called her own before she headed back inside, to the spare room she usually slept in to change into her workout attire. From there, she went down into the basement, bare feet padding along the well-worn wood that hadn't thrown a splinter since she was younger than her son is now. The cement walls were sealed and well-maintained, but otherwise it was left unfinished save some shelves and a raised platform for the washer and dryer... or, rather, that was how it was until a few weeks ago. Beneath where the kitchen was, a couple of used mats from Craigslist were positioned under a heavy bag that she'd bought herself as a Christmas present. The shiny red vinyl looked out of place, but Erin knew it'd be well-worn before too long-- and that wasn't existential ennui speaking, though it's likely she suffered from it without knowing the technical term. Instead, it was something far more practical that would do the damage... and it all started with a backfist that made the chains jingle in protest and the bag swing lazily away from her before it returned for another as if asking for more punishment.
In that regard, the blond was more than willing to oblige.
Time flew out of her grasp despite her best efforts to keep hold of it, to keep the act of releasing all of those pent-up frustrations and grievances confined to the set part of the day she devoted to it. She lost track of how many times her fists and elbows lashed out and how many times that heavy bag swung. It wasn't until the lactic acid in her muscles roared through her arms and shoulders that she slowed to a stop, reluctant to heed the call of exhaustion but ultimately unable to resist it. Erin teetered on the edge of hyperventilation as she found herself leaning against the bag, sweaty skin sticking to the vinyl just the same as the hair that came loose from its braid stuck to her forehead. The cold sliver of light slicing across the concrete in front of her tells her that it's before eleven-- it'd be gone by noon, when the sun was directly overhead. A low groan of irritation left her as she forced herself up to stand on her own two feet, turning around... or, rather, she tried to turn around, but her feet tangled themselves around each other after supporting her for a few hours of overworking her upper body. Landing in an undignified heap, a low grunt left the lips of the woman that will be making her debut as the Oncoming Storm as she shook her head. Maybe she really ought to take her trainer's advice, get one of those alarm clocks long-haul truckers use to keep herself on the schedule she's supposed to keep per his say-so--
"Careful, Blondie... you gotta save some of that fire for me."
"Si?" Her voice trembled about the edges as she looked around herself, trying to find the familiar sight of Silas Gordon's mess of blond and more of the comforting thick gravel twang of his voice... but there wasn't even so much as a single oil-stained pair of jeans laying in front of the washer. There hasn't been for years-- No, Erin. Don't do this to yourself. Don't. But the sobs came before she could hold them back, her shoulders quivering the last hurrah of her self-control before it gave way and she broke down, utterly and completely, upon those used mats that probably saw a good share of tears right along with the blood and sweat that has been wiped away by numerous coaches over the years. There was no one there to wipe hers away, though. There was only that reminder, that harsh reality reasserting itself that she was a single mother in a small town with one last shot to stand on her own two feet and keep the family estate that didn't involve hitching herself to someone else's tractor... and as it turned out?
That harsh reminder, too, came through right on schedule.
Damnable thing.
