01-26-2020, 10:31 PM
It’s getting harder to drown out all the noise in his head.
Though, were you to ask him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you why.
Because there are so many things that he does not know.
But you can’t kill something that’s already dead and, while he is desperate for reprieve, there is some small part of him that is grateful he will never find relief. There is nothing he deserves less, he thinks. Despite the fact that he had found his sister someplace in the Afterlife and she had forgiven him. It had done so little to alleviate the weight he’d been carrying and has continued to carry.
He returns to the meadow because, like his father, he had not been built to have a home. There is no comfort to be gleaned from the deserts of Pangea except, perhaps, the fact that the woman he loved called it home and so, too, did their two children. The boy, who had emerged from the womb solid darkness and the girl, who had been born undead, too. Were he dependent on breath, the guilt might have suffocated him. Because the girl would never know the warmth of another’s touch, would never know all of the wonders of being alive, and it was his fault alone.
Another burden to carry.
And carry it he would.
The sun has finally emerged, though he cannot feel its heat. He thinks it’s nice, still, to be bathed in its light. Even if it does nothing to lend any warmth to the cold, cold flesh. He moves, aimless. Sometimes, he drops his head and takes the grass into his mouth and lets it linger on his tongue but it means absolutely nothing. It had been sweet once and he had delighted in the taste of it in the spring and now it is nothing. It may as well be dirt, he thinks.
So, he stands. He does not cock a hip in relaxation because the muscles do not tire. He merely stands there and studies the many strange, fantastical beasts that filter through the meadow. All of them on their way to someplace better.
And when he sees her, he does not quite believe his eyes. He has no reason to, really. But the closer she gets, the clearer she becomes. The heart does not race. It just goes on lying dormant in the cavern of his chest. There is no spike of adrenaline or delight as he moves toward her.
But he smiles. He smiles because it has been so long since he last saw her.
“Kennice,” he says and he smiles but this, too, lacks warmth. He smiles but it does not reach his eyes.
Though, were you to ask him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you why.
Because there are so many things that he does not know.
But you can’t kill something that’s already dead and, while he is desperate for reprieve, there is some small part of him that is grateful he will never find relief. There is nothing he deserves less, he thinks. Despite the fact that he had found his sister someplace in the Afterlife and she had forgiven him. It had done so little to alleviate the weight he’d been carrying and has continued to carry.
He returns to the meadow because, like his father, he had not been built to have a home. There is no comfort to be gleaned from the deserts of Pangea except, perhaps, the fact that the woman he loved called it home and so, too, did their two children. The boy, who had emerged from the womb solid darkness and the girl, who had been born undead, too. Were he dependent on breath, the guilt might have suffocated him. Because the girl would never know the warmth of another’s touch, would never know all of the wonders of being alive, and it was his fault alone.
Another burden to carry.
And carry it he would.
The sun has finally emerged, though he cannot feel its heat. He thinks it’s nice, still, to be bathed in its light. Even if it does nothing to lend any warmth to the cold, cold flesh. He moves, aimless. Sometimes, he drops his head and takes the grass into his mouth and lets it linger on his tongue but it means absolutely nothing. It had been sweet once and he had delighted in the taste of it in the spring and now it is nothing. It may as well be dirt, he thinks.
So, he stands. He does not cock a hip in relaxation because the muscles do not tire. He merely stands there and studies the many strange, fantastical beasts that filter through the meadow. All of them on their way to someplace better.
And when he sees her, he does not quite believe his eyes. He has no reason to, really. But the closer she gets, the clearer she becomes. The heart does not race. It just goes on lying dormant in the cavern of his chest. There is no spike of adrenaline or delight as he moves toward her.
But he smiles. He smiles because it has been so long since he last saw her.
“Kennice,” he says and he smiles but this, too, lacks warmth. He smiles but it does not reach his eyes.
kensley
I WORSHIPED AT THE ALTAR OF LOSING EVERYTHING