Do you forgive me? [Karnes one-shot]
Oct 4, 2015 19:50:32 GMT -5
Post by arx. on Oct 4, 2015 19:50:32 GMT -5
Samantha Karnes
It was on this day, 19 years ago, that Simon Karnes was born. Fourth child and second son, he was the first baby I remember being born. I was nearly 5 years old then, and I remember Mom and Dad had let me skip school so that I could hold him. I used to have a picture of the moment framed and sitting on my dresser in my room. But I didn't take it with me when I left home; I doubt it has survived 5 years of neglect.
Nostalgia. It always manages to catch you in the most unlikely of times. Like now, as I walk passed a little boy and girl whose eyes glow the same color, whose noses follow the same curve, whose smiles and laughter are nearly identical. It reminds me of my siblings, how much we all looked exactly like each other. It was easy for other families to identify us with our blonde hair, blue eyes, and toothy grins. I remember looking at an old picture of Seymour and I sitting side by side on a tree branch and thinking it was the twins.
We hated it as kids, looking so much like out parents. No one likes looking like their parents even if they do age beautifully as mine have. Children always detest the idea that they will one day be old. That and we hated getting caught by the neighbors when we would steal their sweetcorn during the summer. For the longest time we couldn't figure out how the old man knew it was us. Turns out Mom and Dad had done that when they were little, too. Old Mr. Hullford told me when I was older that he could've sworn it was Sally and Seymour, Sr. jumping through the corn the day my brother and I started racing through the field.
The funeral was --- nice. My parents didn't have much money, but I made sure to give all I could. (Which happened to be quite a bit when you worked for a rich and powerful man.) I sat in the back, hood drawn and face covered. There wasn't a real need to upset my family with my presence. We were all sad enough as it was. It was the 3rd funeral I had attended in 3 years. Two brothers and a sister, one of which was definitely my fault.
It was when I was 19 years old. A year earlier I had walked out and left. Maybe it had been a good idea at the time --- I mean, I was an adult, safe from Reaping, and deserved to be able to start my life. At 18 independence was something I craved and my old life of story telling and apple picking seemed dull. Of course it did. I was a teenager who craved adventure instead of stability. I was wrong. Of course I was wrong, most teens are. I insulted a perfect lifestyle that revolved around family values. I abandoned the people who loved me most.
I didn't see Seymour again until I was staring into his coffin. His face was pale and unshaven, and I'm guessing that if a suit hadn't been covering his arms I would've seen miles of track marks. He didn't die the boy I grew up with, but instead as someone I completely didn't recognize. And it was mostly my fault --- or at least it felt that way. When I left I told him to grow up. I told him he was playing into this fantasy that everything was perfect, that our family was perfect, that reading fairytales and baking pies was not something that happened in the real world and that he was nothing more than a naive child.
I didn't say goodbye. I didn't tell him he was my best friend. And I didn't tell him I loved him. And I think in that moment --- the moment I flung open the screen door and marched out of the house without looking back --- I forgot what it meant to be the oldest sibling. I threw all my responsibilities to my family into the wind so that I could go and live my own life. I had a responsibility and I ignored it. And then Seymour, my best friend, my partner in crime, my little brother, died.
After that it was my little sister, the youngest of seven. I was 12 years old when she was born. She weighed 7 pounds and 7 ounces and she had more hair than any of us had had. And when ever my Mom used to tell us the stories of the day we were born, Saph's was always the best. Mom swears one every single one of our lives that she came out laughing and that the smile on her face didn't leave for an entire month. She always gave the credit to have so many older brothers and sisters to look after her, but I think she was always just the best of us.
Simon, he---
He killed her.
I didn't understand then, what was wrong with Simon. But a couple of years after we buried Sapphire, the closed coffin a necessary precaution because of all the damage that had been done, I got a letter. I didn't get to see Simon --- never got the chance to give him the hug I had been saving since Sapphire's funeral --- until he returned home nothing more than a soulless body.
The letter had been reconciliation, so I made sure to take it to the funeral and leave it where Mom and Dad might find it. It had been addressed to me, but I thought they deserved to see it, even if it was the pouring of all the pain Simon had endured in the years since he left home. It was the least I could to, to give them a little piece of him now that he was gone forever.
I visited the graves yesterday, all three lined up in the same plot. I was there for nearly an hour but I didn't feel any better afterwards. I had expected apologizing would make me feel better, that if I admitted out loud that I was wrong and had been wrong for nearly 5 years now--- I wanted to feel better. But I couldn't say sorry to the ones I had hurt the most. And what are we if we can't say sorry? If we can't admit we are wrong?
How can I move on if I can't be forgiven?
Nostalgia. It always manages to catch you in the most unlikely of times. Like now, as I walk passed a little boy and girl whose eyes glow the same color, whose noses follow the same curve, whose smiles and laughter are nearly identical. It reminds me of my siblings, how much we all looked exactly like each other. It was easy for other families to identify us with our blonde hair, blue eyes, and toothy grins. I remember looking at an old picture of Seymour and I sitting side by side on a tree branch and thinking it was the twins.
We hated it as kids, looking so much like out parents. No one likes looking like their parents even if they do age beautifully as mine have. Children always detest the idea that they will one day be old. That and we hated getting caught by the neighbors when we would steal their sweetcorn during the summer. For the longest time we couldn't figure out how the old man knew it was us. Turns out Mom and Dad had done that when they were little, too. Old Mr. Hullford told me when I was older that he could've sworn it was Sally and Seymour, Sr. jumping through the corn the day my brother and I started racing through the field.
The funeral was --- nice. My parents didn't have much money, but I made sure to give all I could. (Which happened to be quite a bit when you worked for a rich and powerful man.) I sat in the back, hood drawn and face covered. There wasn't a real need to upset my family with my presence. We were all sad enough as it was. It was the 3rd funeral I had attended in 3 years. Two brothers and a sister, one of which was definitely my fault.
It was when I was 19 years old. A year earlier I had walked out and left. Maybe it had been a good idea at the time --- I mean, I was an adult, safe from Reaping, and deserved to be able to start my life. At 18 independence was something I craved and my old life of story telling and apple picking seemed dull. Of course it did. I was a teenager who craved adventure instead of stability. I was wrong. Of course I was wrong, most teens are. I insulted a perfect lifestyle that revolved around family values. I abandoned the people who loved me most.
I didn't see Seymour again until I was staring into his coffin. His face was pale and unshaven, and I'm guessing that if a suit hadn't been covering his arms I would've seen miles of track marks. He didn't die the boy I grew up with, but instead as someone I completely didn't recognize. And it was mostly my fault --- or at least it felt that way. When I left I told him to grow up. I told him he was playing into this fantasy that everything was perfect, that our family was perfect, that reading fairytales and baking pies was not something that happened in the real world and that he was nothing more than a naive child.
I didn't say goodbye. I didn't tell him he was my best friend. And I didn't tell him I loved him. And I think in that moment --- the moment I flung open the screen door and marched out of the house without looking back --- I forgot what it meant to be the oldest sibling. I threw all my responsibilities to my family into the wind so that I could go and live my own life. I had a responsibility and I ignored it. And then Seymour, my best friend, my partner in crime, my little brother, died.
After that it was my little sister, the youngest of seven. I was 12 years old when she was born. She weighed 7 pounds and 7 ounces and she had more hair than any of us had had. And when ever my Mom used to tell us the stories of the day we were born, Saph's was always the best. Mom swears one every single one of our lives that she came out laughing and that the smile on her face didn't leave for an entire month. She always gave the credit to have so many older brothers and sisters to look after her, but I think she was always just the best of us.
Simon, he---
He killed her.
I didn't understand then, what was wrong with Simon. But a couple of years after we buried Sapphire, the closed coffin a necessary precaution because of all the damage that had been done, I got a letter. I didn't get to see Simon --- never got the chance to give him the hug I had been saving since Sapphire's funeral --- until he returned home nothing more than a soulless body.
The letter had been reconciliation, so I made sure to take it to the funeral and leave it where Mom and Dad might find it. It had been addressed to me, but I thought they deserved to see it, even if it was the pouring of all the pain Simon had endured in the years since he left home. It was the least I could to, to give them a little piece of him now that he was gone forever.
I visited the graves yesterday, all three lined up in the same plot. I was there for nearly an hour but I didn't feel any better afterwards. I had expected apologizing would make me feel better, that if I admitted out loud that I was wrong and had been wrong for nearly 5 years now--- I wanted to feel better. But I couldn't say sorry to the ones I had hurt the most. And what are we if we can't say sorry? If we can't admit we are wrong?
How can I move on if I can't be forgiven?
“How often when we are comfortable,
we begin to long for something new.”
