i used to pray like god was listening
i used to make my parents proud
i used to make my parents proud
You sleep. It is dreamless and deep. The sort of black senselessness that would pitch an oracle to madness–which is just as well, because you’ve had your fill of auguries, and destiny, and purpose. What has it been, except a knife at your throat, since the day you were born?
It might have been different, before–well, before. You might have stepped up to bat with eyes like perse fire, tipping your hat to the pitcher. It might have been easier to look Uncle Rickand in the eye and say yes like it wasn’t a question. It might not have fallen so flat.
You can’t change the past, Hugo. There is only the here and now. There is only your bottomless sleep and a voice that rolls in from the doorway, calling you back from it–and, louder still, the percussive clang of something falling close to you; this is the thing that wakes you like an animal, scrabbling for purchase on reality, your heart like a panicked bird in your chest.
For a moment the room looks different. These days you don’t recognize it without the film of sleep or the blur that comes with very carefully not paying attention, like seeing a thing in periphery. You realize too late that someone is talking – not too late in general, but far too late to save face, so you put on a brave one, some hand-picked, pleasant grin, and lift your head from the table.
For a longer moment than the last, you stare. You’re trying to look calm, and prepared, but the wrinkle of your brow betrays you. This boy isn’t familiar, but not in the way that seeing face after face, day after day makes each face run into another and each day, too. You search for a name, or some part of him that you recognize, and all that comes up is the same, dreamless black as your sleep.
In some ways, this might be better. No one to tell you to be grateful, or full of bliss and purpose. No one to look you dead in the eyes–eyes they have seen since you were small, too small to say their names and after that too small still to look up from your toys when they ask–and smile like they have never met you. You always thought it was strange, how easily a person can be undone, entirely, by a well-timed misplacing of another’s name. It’s almost as if you–sorry, they were never there at all.
“I am,” you say, in the dark. Your lantern is unlit, your forge is cold, and the only light that filters in is the one Lyr brings through the doorway: the pale, cold light of winter. Your wide eyes, still blinking, do not quite convey the sense of calm profession that you’re hoping for. The pleasant grin goes a long way, though.
You’re still looking at him when you strike the match, like it’s second nature, and light a row of fat candles on the table, carefully stacking stray objects–leather scraps, tools, the quiver you had been working on before you dozed off again–out of the way of the flame. In the light you almost love this place like you should. In the light it looks more like home than your home did, anyway.
“What can I do for you?” you ask, rising finally from your seat at the table, tucking your wings against your ribs as you do. “Name’s Hugo.”
It might have been different, before–well, before. You might have stepped up to bat with eyes like perse fire, tipping your hat to the pitcher. It might have been easier to look Uncle Rickand in the eye and say yes like it wasn’t a question. It might not have fallen so flat.
You can’t change the past, Hugo. There is only the here and now. There is only your bottomless sleep and a voice that rolls in from the doorway, calling you back from it–and, louder still, the percussive clang of something falling close to you; this is the thing that wakes you like an animal, scrabbling for purchase on reality, your heart like a panicked bird in your chest.
For a moment the room looks different. These days you don’t recognize it without the film of sleep or the blur that comes with very carefully not paying attention, like seeing a thing in periphery. You realize too late that someone is talking – not too late in general, but far too late to save face, so you put on a brave one, some hand-picked, pleasant grin, and lift your head from the table.
For a longer moment than the last, you stare. You’re trying to look calm, and prepared, but the wrinkle of your brow betrays you. This boy isn’t familiar, but not in the way that seeing face after face, day after day makes each face run into another and each day, too. You search for a name, or some part of him that you recognize, and all that comes up is the same, dreamless black as your sleep.
In some ways, this might be better. No one to tell you to be grateful, or full of bliss and purpose. No one to look you dead in the eyes–eyes they have seen since you were small, too small to say their names and after that too small still to look up from your toys when they ask–and smile like they have never met you. You always thought it was strange, how easily a person can be undone, entirely, by a well-timed misplacing of another’s name. It’s almost as if you–sorry, they were never there at all.
“I am,” you say, in the dark. Your lantern is unlit, your forge is cold, and the only light that filters in is the one Lyr brings through the doorway: the pale, cold light of winter. Your wide eyes, still blinking, do not quite convey the sense of calm profession that you’re hoping for. The pleasant grin goes a long way, though.
You’re still looking at him when you strike the match, like it’s second nature, and light a row of fat candles on the table, carefully stacking stray objects–leather scraps, tools, the quiver you had been working on before you dozed off again–out of the way of the flame. In the light you almost love this place like you should. In the light it looks more like home than your home did, anyway.
“What can I do for you?” you ask, rising finally from your seat at the table, tucking your wings against your ribs as you do. “Name’s Hugo.”
Hugo Arkwright
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@lyr
