08-23-2018, 01:10 PM
There is a flicker of recognition in her eyes, a gleam of certainty, which provokes Castile to haphazardly look away. The brisk autumn breeze fingers through his unruly forelock and messily twists it down along his face. He acts as though it passed notice; had he blinked, he would have been oblivious. Ilma, she announces, doesn’t admit to her realization. Instead, she steadies on his broad question and takes into consideration his request. Distract me, he had simply requested. At least, it seemed simple enough when the words slipped past his lips. Now, however, Castile realizes how difficult of a task it actually is.
How can she distract him when his every thought is saturated by both Solace and Sabra? Their scents, their faces, their voices – it all comes racing back to him as he continues to watch the horizon. Silhouettes dot the meadow, their identities masked by the sunlight behind them. Like ants, Castile thinks. Even they, the mystery figures, don’t hold his attention for very long. Ilma, he repeats quietly to himself, is much more entrancing with her lithe figure and bright wings.
Yet he doesn’t look at her again just yet as her sing-song voice admits a painful truth. Blinking slowly, Castile tries to imagine her face creased into a frown and furrowed under the weight of her poor actions. Is it possible? An image cannot be created. Her face is far too sweet to handle the fine lines of life’s burdens. With a heavy sigh, he looks at her and memorizes her delicate features. ”I don’t think I can,” he finally admits with a leaden voice. It never crossed his mind to forgive himself; he was too consumed by the idea of groveling for their forgiveness. That’s all he wanted.
But Ilma doesn’t yet know the details or the prerogative of his questions. Would it be too much for her? Not interesting enough? Everything coils into a ball and nearly tumbles out of his mouth unrestrained, unfiltered, but somehow he catches himself. The distraction of a falling leaf saves him from humiliation. So, instead he condenses everything into one short statement that burns with emotion, scalding his thoughts. ”I fucked up again.” And again, and again, he doesn’t add. She doesn’t need to know the extent of his failures just yet.
I wasn’t a prince.
I wasn’t a king.
I wasn’t a father.
I am nothing.
How can she distract him when his every thought is saturated by both Solace and Sabra? Their scents, their faces, their voices – it all comes racing back to him as he continues to watch the horizon. Silhouettes dot the meadow, their identities masked by the sunlight behind them. Like ants, Castile thinks. Even they, the mystery figures, don’t hold his attention for very long. Ilma, he repeats quietly to himself, is much more entrancing with her lithe figure and bright wings.
Yet he doesn’t look at her again just yet as her sing-song voice admits a painful truth. Blinking slowly, Castile tries to imagine her face creased into a frown and furrowed under the weight of her poor actions. Is it possible? An image cannot be created. Her face is far too sweet to handle the fine lines of life’s burdens. With a heavy sigh, he looks at her and memorizes her delicate features. ”I don’t think I can,” he finally admits with a leaden voice. It never crossed his mind to forgive himself; he was too consumed by the idea of groveling for their forgiveness. That’s all he wanted.
But Ilma doesn’t yet know the details or the prerogative of his questions. Would it be too much for her? Not interesting enough? Everything coils into a ball and nearly tumbles out of his mouth unrestrained, unfiltered, but somehow he catches himself. The distraction of a falling leaf saves him from humiliation. So, instead he condenses everything into one short statement that burns with emotion, scalding his thoughts. ”I fucked up again.” And again, and again, he doesn’t add. She doesn’t need to know the extent of his failures just yet.
I wasn’t a prince.
I wasn’t a king.
I wasn’t a father.
I am nothing.