Paul Tarwater
August 04, 2009 10:12 PM
You can't wake the dead by Paul Tarwater
How long had it taken to convince Thomas and Elizabeth Tarwater that Paul was fine enough to stay at Sonora over Midterm? Almost as long as it took to convince them to not go to that parent’s thing that the heads had set up. Basically, the whole half-term, or as long as he knew about it, depending on what you were talking about. He won both arguments though, without really arguing, just promising, promising, promising everything was okay (when it really, really, really wasn’t). “What’s wrong, Paulie? Why don’t you ever want to come home? Why don‘t you ever want to see us?” Elizabeth Tarwater had been hurt, he could tell by the tone of her letters, and he felt bad.But he wasn’t about to mention how much he hated his sister without a reason. And he wasn’t going to get into the reasoning. As much as Paul didn’t want them to think it was their faults, he did, because he was a selfish coward. Well, really, that was the only reason he could think of to be avoiding the real reasons. And, well, darnit, he had every right to be a coward. When had Paul Tarwater ever been brave anyway? He was a smart kid, he felt like he understood things, and he understood that being brave was nothing to shout about.
Being brave did nothing but make things worse for you. In major situations it got you killed, in situations where you were trying to protect your son from things that go bump in the night, and you end up a social outcast unable to get a job.
Ahem, but he was just being bitter now.
What was new? Paul Tarwater was the definition of bitter. Or vice versa, look in a dictionary and you would see his face plastered next to it. Bitter, selfish, coward, he could count on one hand his personality traits. Poor.
Right now, sick. He stood on the pitch, coughing into his hand and sniffling, rubbing his nose raw. He sneezed and shivered right now, his coat thin (he really only cared that these outfits covered his arms, and sickness was what he got for getting the wrong outfits for the wrong weather). Ah, but Paul had to do something during the Midterms, and he decided that practicing Quidditch was all he could do when he wasn’t reading?
He charmed a few larger rocks to come at him, much better at this charm than he had been years ago when he’d first found it. Also better at avoiding being hit by rocks. However, Paul didn’t take into account how incredibly exhausted he would become after hitting rocks around while he was sick. Quite ungracefully, Paul puttered to the stands, sitting on the lowest seat. Laying on it and coughing. Eh, he was thirsty, but he was also tired. Paul started to debate the pros and cons between the two, but figured it wasn’t worth the effort.
The question was simply, close his eyes for a while or get a drink and go to his dorm. And, he’d felt it had already been answered. At least, it must have been, because he found his eyes closed, and that felt good, that felt right. So he stayed like that, ah but he didn’t sleep. Paul was only dozing, while the charmed rocks continued to fly over his head.
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Paul Tarwater
You can't wake the dead
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Paul Tarwater
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