Shawn Crust, It's Morning [Introductory Non-Erotic Branch]

An old car was parked outside, and as a glib eye peered past a slit of the blinds, the spy let out a spontaneous giggle. "They're here."

Mr. Crust ducked out of his car and tried to pull open his umbrella to no avail, rain pouring over him and his leathery coat. "Damn it all," he surrendered to the downpour. Going towards the front porch, he dried himself off fruitlessly and rang the bell.

After a brief wait, the door hid from sight the owner of the limber, thudding footsteps that were muffled from behind, and quickly came to a halt as the door handle was fiddled and eventually turned down to a welcome, stuffy warmth. The warmth of home.

"Uncle Crust," smiled a slender girl in purple, long PJ's, standing partially behind the door. "You're back!"

"Hey Tulip," Mr. Crust replied, which was in fact her name, as he hung his hat on the rack, hurrying in.

The bright-faced girl closed the door behind him, then took his umbrella.

"You had breakfast yet?" the older man replied, starting to feel some of the after-chill sink in, albeit not for long.

"Aunt Crust's making some now."

"And Shawn?"

Tulip pointed up the stairs. "Still sleepin'."

Comfortably draped in his blanket, Shawn lay upon his mattress, fully awake, staring at the ceiling. From the noise downstairs, he concluded that Dad was home. After a callous blink, he turned to his side and stared out the window. Rain was tapping against the pane like it was trying to get his attention. He closed his eyes, not giving it. Wondering if he could return to his sleep; to his nest of dreams, where everything and anything was possible, where rain would dry with a thought and breezes would still with a whisper. He had been in a pleasant slumber before he awoke to sky rumbles.

It was loud. Well-projected. Ms. Kesop would've called that a proper presentation voice, probably. The bed potato sullenly exhaled and palmed his eye.

Shawn Crust was a 19-year-old drifter without an aim. Growing under the roof of a strictly religious household, his parents were straight arrows that would've made yardsticks look cursive. 'Religious' was too strong; they were of the faith. Went to church, said prayers when they weren't late, all that. The point was that the principles and values this faith espoused were disseminated in the household rigorously, and growing up Shawn suffered all the strengths and weaknesses that had to offer. He sighed, pushing against the springs of his old bed and landing on the hairy carpet. Then again, it wasn't like they were all to blame -- like them, he took in the precepts of his parents' beliefs with utter childlike gullibility. Along with other things for which he had only himself to blame, it eventually made him into a quietly repressed and **** soul. He had never laid even a finger on a girl, seen the flesh behind a brassiere, felt the intimacy of the other's eyes.

Of course, touching a girl interested him. Skin-to-skin was a dream come true. Anything more and it would be three home runs in a row with time to spare before dinner.

But long ago, his own bottled desires had twisted steadily out of shape; the purity, romance, and virtuousness of it all soon became swallowed in a swirling tide of self-doubt, self-pity, and dysfunction. No longer was the reality of his "true", instinctual self acceptable; he wanted more, but knew he would never be suitable for it. Inside, such sentiments were only further confirmed, and outside, the cycle of moral deterioration continued. He thought himself unfit. He acted accordingly until it was no more untrue than when he first believed it. Because he couldn't express his misgivings, the carnal desires within him only became more carnal, and more distorting, and more perverted, until finally, the masquerade began to crack and he felt his facade thinning.

Indeed, without release, he would descend further into his emotional matrix and give in. And then, the world would see. Then, the world would know. Shawn Crust would become a stigma on not only his existence, but his family's. All because he never bothered to let it loose.

Shawn balled a fist.

Only, it was too late now, anyway; even if he acted on his impulses, he no longer cared for what the "world" could give him; what "sex" had to offer. The home runs were great -- but they were no longer enough. They were no longer sufficient.

No, now he craved liberation. Ultimate freedom. The power, the pass, to be as pathetic and twisted and dumb as he wanted to be.

Yes...

What he wanted was to be wrong, right, powerful, powerless, free, captive, happy, sad, man, woman, empty, full, bad, good, delirious, wise -- he wanted the control necessary to not just turn fantasy into reality, but to make them indistinguishable from the other; to waltz the perverted with the proper! To meld the familiar with the unfamiliar! The perfect with the flawed! The little with the big! Everything... with nothing! All of them...

"With all of me!" He half-whispered, half-shouted, slightly pontificated, a mad gleam rising into the spire of his pupils.

"Shawn Crust!" pounded a fist against his door, breaking him from his homologous stupor. "It's morning!"

Shawn stared at the white oak door.

"Come down," the matronly voice continued, "we got eggs and hotcakes on the table."

As the footsteps receded down the staircase, Shawn looked at his hands for what seemed an inscrutably long time. Then he threw them into his field of hair, took a deep, vacuous breath, and with a slap of the face staggered into the bathroom to wash up.

Fsss, squeaked the running water.

A calm neighborhood was a boring one, but the Crusts didn't mind boring. Two-story houses in a gingerbread line, covering several blocks of urban sprawl. The lawns were carefully mowed, most sprinklers perfectly operational. Neighbors said hello, sometimes held welcoming parties. There was a difference from the era then and the era now, in that you didn't get out to pick up the newspaper roll and wave amiably to Rose next door before going back indoors with a soothing mug of coffee in hand. Now, you liked their morning Facebook post. Maybe leave a smiley. Sneak a glance at their profile picture cleavage. Oh damn it, you did it again.

Andy Crust sipped his coffee with a circumstantial languidness, the chirps of the 8 o'clock birds substituted by pitter patter. Someone stepped down from the bottom stair-step.

"He's coming down," assured a woman in a white bathrobe, flipping some of her still damp hair.

"Good, good." Andy watched as his better half gave him a tired smile and went back to the stove to finish off the last pancake batch. He looked on appreciatively before folding his laptop closed and walking up to her, hopping out of his chair. Noticing him, she inquired about his vet visit.

"So, dear, how was it?"

"Oh, they said it's fine. They just have to keep her back there for a little longer, you know. Apparently she might still be contagious."

"That's a downer. Hope they work it out. Tulie barely slept, she was waiting all morning."

"Yeah, she looked pretty torn when I told her. There's good news, though."

"Oh?"

"They said she should likely be ready by this afternoon."

"Well, that is good news." The woman turned back to the sizzle of the pan, in slightly lifted spirits.

Upstairs, Shawn strolled down the hallway. As he passed the guest room, he caught a glimpse of somebody sitting knees up by the window, and blinked. Tulip? he mulled. She was in an overcast mood, if he must say so himself.

Thinking, he decided to back off and continue downstairs. Despite himself, however, he couldn't avoid sizing her up before he did. He got it -- she was his cousin. She was also a healthy high school dame, with a frame that fit snugly into medium-sized apparel and fit tight in the right places. And also with a pair of feet to practically melt into. Shawn felt himself start to flush, and rushed down the steps. Tulip, oblivious, stared out the window, wiggling her toes.

When Shawn made it down, his father was gone, looking for firelighters to start the furnace. His mother was tussling her hair and perusing a dress catalog, courtesy of the old department store at Eastfield's again. It was one of her favorite shopping spots. Classy attire, as she'd goad, for a class-conscious woman. She was taking advantage of her aging self well, not just physically. And physically she was no slouch.

Shawn shuffled in and took a seat at the kitchen table.

"Heavy rain today, huh?" he started.

"Sure is," his mother nodded. "Your father's already getting sniffles."

"That sucks. He got wet, huh?"

Shawn's silverware clinked with the surface of his plate a bit as he gorged into his food. The rain was rapping the glass again.

"Oh," his mother remembered, breaking the silence, "do you think you could run down to the store really quick?"

Shawn swallowed a pancake. "Me?" he asked, sticking a fork into another piece.

"Yes, you," she eyed him, half-playfully, all seriously.

"Fine, what did you need?"

"Just some shampoo. I think we ran out..."

"Mom," Shawn groaned, "why you gotta make me do this?"

"Shawn Crust, is there anything wrong with doing a favor every now and then?"

It was funny how easily he lost these battles, but he did. After clearing out the table and washing the dishes, he began up the stairs to change into some thicker armor.

"Where you going?"

Ten minutes later he was closing the door to his room, and looked up to see, of all people, Tulip leaning capriciously against the rail. The thickly clothed drifter closed the door shut and coughed. "I'm, er. Mom wanted me to get some shampoo. At the store."

"Oh." After a nod and awkward smile, Shawn had stuffed a hand in his jacket pocket and started down the stairs when Tulip abruptly asked, "Is it alright if I came with you?"

"Uh, you don't have anything to do?" Shawn turned to face her, then winced. "What I mean is, I wouldn't want to interrupt you if you're in the middle of anything, or got plans. You know."

Tulip looked at Shawn for a brief, seemingly extra second, then smiled and shook her head, hair bristling. It looked soft. "Nah, I got nothing. That's why I wanna get out of the house for a bit," she held up a finger and headed into her provisional room. "Hold on, I'm going to go change!"

Shawn watched as she closed the door and supposedly pulled open her package of clothes inside to look through. Well, company wouldn't be too bad, he thought. Across the hall he caught a glimpse of his reflection on a mirror. After a minute or so, he was down in a chair in the living room below, resisting the urge to pull out his phone and order the shampoo off of Amazon. Biding. Dozing. Waiting for the Little Pinch herself... he felt a part of him tighten. His own bright-eyed, raven-haired, fetching young cousin, Tulip Payden.

And him.