So, I've ventured into fanfiction again. This was a fun one.
I wrote this fic because I completely adore the overly frustrating final level that Psychonauts has. Not because I like being brought to near tears, but because it's completely fascinating. And after finding out Oleander's back-story, I couldn't help but wonder who his father really was, after seeing how Raz's version of his "evil," "horrible" father was a bit romanticized. So, I came up with my own interpretation of Daddy Oleander.
As for the time of the story: it takes place sometime before the events of Psychonauts.
Disclaimer: Psychonauts are belong to Tim Schafer and Double Fine Productions.
I'm Sorry
A Psychonauts Oneshot
So there I laid, on my deathbed, heaving a heavy breathe, my lungs weezing, failing me. I knew I wouldn't live much longer, maybe a couple of days at best. At least that's what the doctors had told me.
I stared at the door, waiting. "Hoping" was more accurate, actually, since deep down I had realized that he wouldn't come to see me off, say good-bye. Couldn't blame him.
I wasn't going to let myself cry or pity the fate that had befallen me and my son; I accepted it. However, I couldn't help but wish that things could have been different. If only life had been easier, if we had the money, I wouldn't have had to…and if only I hadn't been so stubborn and apologized to him, instead of glossing the whole thing over…
Switching my mind to happier thoughts, I remembered the joyous laughter of my little Oly when he was still young. Things were hard when his mother passed, but we managed. A few months after her death, I bought Oly his first pet, a rabbit, his Mr. Bun.
It was so cute, no matter how hard I tried to explain to the boy that the rabbit was a girl, he insisted that Mr. Bun was a boy. Even after Mr. Bun had run away, been found, and ended up with his own babies four weeks later.
I made him give away most of the babies, but let him three or four. Business as a butcher was going well enough, there was no harm in letting my little Oly, the youngest Oleander, have some fun with his pets.
But then…almost all of a sudden, business went bad. Terrible. I couldn't sell any meat, no one was buying it. Then it would get rotten, and I couldn't buy as much meat as I normally would, because I didn't make much money from the last batch. Slowly it went downhill, the situation not improving. Eventually I couldn't buy anything else, I was afraid that Oly and I would starve.
What had happened? There was a meat scare going throughout the area; everyone was terrified of dying from bacteria. All because thirteen people fell ill from bad meat purchased from the same shop—not mine—and three died.
Because of some idiot who couldn't run his shop properly, my business suffered. My son was about to starve. And I…I had to do the unthinkable…I'll never forget that evening.
"Dad, have you seen Mr. Bun? I think he got out again," Oly asked me, sounding very worried and depressed. At seeing my bloody apron—I hadn't gotten a chance to change out of it—he wrinkled his nose. I knew he didn't like my work, but he seemed to accept it.
"Uh, no, I haven't, I'll keep an eye out for him," I sweated nervously, sautéing the meat that was in front of me. Guilt had a stabbing hold of my gut, but I ignored it.. "Oly, set the table, dinner's almost ready."
"Okay, Dad," he replied, looking curiously at what I was doing. "Whatcha cooking?"
"It's chicken, Morceau," I lied. My son pondered for a second, but then set the table.
"It looks funny," he said. I started to get angry, and at the time I didn't know why.
"It's still chicken!" I replied through gritted teeth. Hearing a small "meep," a tiny squeal of fear from my boy, I tried to calm myself down, but I found myself getting increasingly agitated.
I put the meat on the table, and my son and I sat across from each other. There was silence between us. I put some pieces on his plate, and some on mine. I took the first bite, and had the hardest time swallowing. But the little Oleander just poked the meat on his plate with a fork.
"Eat your dinner. Now," I commanded roughly, getting angry again. Fearfully Oly complied, cutting off a small piece and eating it.
"It tastes funny, too, it's not like chicken," Oly looked up at me with a confused expression, and at seeing my stone-cold, stubborn face, it dawned on him. He instantly broke out into sobs. "Y-y-you c-cooked Mr. B-bun-n!" he wailed, running away from the table.
I slammed my hand on the table in frustration, and Oly heard it. My guilt became consumed by anger, and I didn't feel that guilt again for years to come.
Following Oly I grabbed him by the arm and looked at him intensely; he looked positively horrified.
"You see, Oly, little bunnies are good for nothing. Nothing but food!" I chastised him, his devastated, tear-streaked face staring at me with haunted eyes.
From that day on, he eternally looked at me with that same look. He never forgave me.
Only years later, long after my Oly grew up, had been rejected by the military, and discovered his mental powers did I finally realize why I was so furious that night. I was mad at myself that everything had come to such drastic circumstances, that I had to do that to my Morceau Oleander, my boy.
I lied to him, lied to myself, justified my actions, and never said I was sorry, because I was far too stubborn to do it. And now it was too late. Even if I got the chance, I knew that Oly wouldn't hear it.
Then I couldn't breathe. My lungs were finally giving up on me, like my son had years ago. I tried to take it like a man, but then realized that was my flaw all those years ago. I was too big and manly to say I was sorry to a child; if I had, maybe he would have understood and forgiven me…
I stopped these thoughts as I struggled for air, though my body wouldn't let me have it. I tried to relax and accept this fate.
Enough conjecture, I knew two things for sure:
I love you, my son, Morceau Oleander. And…
I'm sorry.
Well, I hope this wasn't a little too emo, 'cause I never write emo stuff. Seriously.
By the way, the whole "eating Mr. Bun" thing was actually inspired by a part of my own mother's childhood. Her family raised rabbits to eat them. Being the oldest of eight, my mom remembers her younger siblings being upset about their pets being killed. Apparently, they were also told that they were eating chicken, since rabbit tastes similar to chicken.
Sorry if that was a little gross. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed this piece of fiction.