Status: Comments would be really appreciated, as I'm beginning to write this again for the first time in weeks. I hope I've improved even just slightly, because that's what I've been aiming for. Thank you for reading!
Imprinted Years
Run
“All of your life you have been running and I’m sick of it Abre!”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask him, my eyes speaking louder than my heart. I guess it must be my Asgardian traits that have my heartbeat slow whenever I’m afraid.
And right now, I’m afraid.
I’m also lost.
And confused.
And tired.
Benedict sighs at the realisation that I know nothing about what he knows, which frightens me, because I want to know.
I want to know who I really I am.
I want to know what I really am.
I need to know why this is what I am.
And something tells me that he knows all of this and a whole lot more.
“Sit back down Abre.” I realise that I am pacing up and down, not knowing whether to stand or sit, but his almost command makes me choose.
I feel like I must sleep, but I have the strongest desire to listen.
So I do.
And I realise, that this is no happy story.
“You know that your father is a frost giant, right?” He asks me with a tender tone in his voice, as if none of the arguing a moment ago took place.
I look to Jessica and her eyes alone disagree. She still watches me carefully, as if I’m about to blow up again any moment now.
I try to show her that I am fine.
That I am relaxed.
But there is no way of deceiving her.
She is too alike myself, which worries me.
“Abre, for this to work you have to answer me.” His voice is still tender, yet I sense that he’s anxious, as if he’s scared of me.
Or scared of losing me.
Whichever, he’s still on edge and this too startles me.
“Yes. Naturally, he is a frost giant, but…”
“So, your mother?” he asks, ignoring my attempt to continue talking, “do you know what she is?”
“My mother?” I chuckle saying it, as it stuns me that he brought her up.
The mother I never knew.
The mother I never thought I had.
And I was fine with that, but he had to bring her up and with that, bringing an unwanted tear to my previously dry eyes.
These eyes have been dryer than paper for 16 years.
16 years too long, in his opinion.
“Abre, it’s okay to show emotion, you know.” He says after a moment or two of pure silence. I realise that I am shying away from him, due to this tear falling from my eye to my cheek.
I glare at him with hatred.
How can he hurt me like this?
“Frost giants don’t have to. My father never did.” I answer dryly and he frowns, knowing that I am broken he attempts to hold me.
I break away from him. Afraid of love. Afraid of commitment.
Afraid of honesty.
Afraid of everything my father was afraid of.
Afraid of myself.
Following my father’s footsteps, I stand and turn to walk away.
“You’re not going anywhere!” Suddenly, a man filled with angst grabs onto my left arm and throws me back onto the seat where I was previously sitting.
Only his eyes are still sweet.
That he can never change.
“Tell me, about your mother.”
After another few moments of silence, he asks again…
“Tell me!”
“I can’t, okay?” I sigh, almost as if I’m clinically depressed, because some form of depression is all that my heart can process.
It’s all that my heart can feel.
“I know.” I’m confused by his sudden mass of empathy, as he crouches near me, careful not to startle me.
Realising that I am woken, he smiles once again.
I then look into eyes that I never thought I’d remember again.
I hear the sound of rusty swings, swaying in the summer breeze.
I feel satin-like roses pressed against pure, untainted skin.
I remember a sister and a mister.
Mister Benedict.
Sister Jessica.
My mind adds it up, connecting names to images I see before my eyes. Connecting nicknames to those exact faces. Jessi. Benjo.
All those silly nicknames you bare as young children.
They flash before my eyes and I remember being a child. Being carefree and light-headed. I remember believing in fate and love and desire.
I remember being a non-cynical being. Being loved by my parents and for just a slight second, I doubt these memories.
I believe them to be stories.
But these tears streaming down my cheeks.
And this fire warming up my heart…
Prove to me that all of this is real.
And that is why, now, I’m free.
Yet I wonder why it is Jessica and Benedict frown, whilst the light-headed and carefree Abre smiles endlessly inside and out.
I then realise once again, that this is no happy story.
And this story is far from over…
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask him, my eyes speaking louder than my heart. I guess it must be my Asgardian traits that have my heartbeat slow whenever I’m afraid.
And right now, I’m afraid.
I’m also lost.
And confused.
And tired.
Benedict sighs at the realisation that I know nothing about what he knows, which frightens me, because I want to know.
I want to know who I really I am.
I want to know what I really am.
I need to know why this is what I am.
And something tells me that he knows all of this and a whole lot more.
“Sit back down Abre.” I realise that I am pacing up and down, not knowing whether to stand or sit, but his almost command makes me choose.
I feel like I must sleep, but I have the strongest desire to listen.
So I do.
And I realise, that this is no happy story.
“You know that your father is a frost giant, right?” He asks me with a tender tone in his voice, as if none of the arguing a moment ago took place.
I look to Jessica and her eyes alone disagree. She still watches me carefully, as if I’m about to blow up again any moment now.
I try to show her that I am fine.
That I am relaxed.
But there is no way of deceiving her.
She is too alike myself, which worries me.
“Abre, for this to work you have to answer me.” His voice is still tender, yet I sense that he’s anxious, as if he’s scared of me.
Or scared of losing me.
Whichever, he’s still on edge and this too startles me.
“Yes. Naturally, he is a frost giant, but…”
“So, your mother?” he asks, ignoring my attempt to continue talking, “do you know what she is?”
“My mother?” I chuckle saying it, as it stuns me that he brought her up.
The mother I never knew.
The mother I never thought I had.
And I was fine with that, but he had to bring her up and with that, bringing an unwanted tear to my previously dry eyes.
These eyes have been dryer than paper for 16 years.
16 years too long, in his opinion.
“Abre, it’s okay to show emotion, you know.” He says after a moment or two of pure silence. I realise that I am shying away from him, due to this tear falling from my eye to my cheek.
I glare at him with hatred.
How can he hurt me like this?
“Frost giants don’t have to. My father never did.” I answer dryly and he frowns, knowing that I am broken he attempts to hold me.
I break away from him. Afraid of love. Afraid of commitment.
Afraid of honesty.
Afraid of everything my father was afraid of.
Afraid of myself.
Following my father’s footsteps, I stand and turn to walk away.
“You’re not going anywhere!” Suddenly, a man filled with angst grabs onto my left arm and throws me back onto the seat where I was previously sitting.
Only his eyes are still sweet.
That he can never change.
“Tell me, about your mother.”
After another few moments of silence, he asks again…
“Tell me!”
“I can’t, okay?” I sigh, almost as if I’m clinically depressed, because some form of depression is all that my heart can process.
It’s all that my heart can feel.
“I know.” I’m confused by his sudden mass of empathy, as he crouches near me, careful not to startle me.
Realising that I am woken, he smiles once again.
I then look into eyes that I never thought I’d remember again.
I hear the sound of rusty swings, swaying in the summer breeze.
I feel satin-like roses pressed against pure, untainted skin.
I remember a sister and a mister.
Mister Benedict.
Sister Jessica.
My mind adds it up, connecting names to images I see before my eyes. Connecting nicknames to those exact faces. Jessi. Benjo.
All those silly nicknames you bare as young children.
They flash before my eyes and I remember being a child. Being carefree and light-headed. I remember believing in fate and love and desire.
I remember being a non-cynical being. Being loved by my parents and for just a slight second, I doubt these memories.
I believe them to be stories.
But these tears streaming down my cheeks.
And this fire warming up my heart…
Prove to me that all of this is real.
And that is why, now, I’m free.
Yet I wonder why it is Jessica and Benedict frown, whilst the light-headed and carefree Abre smiles endlessly inside and out.
I then realise once again, that this is no happy story.
And this story is far from over…