ichabod [d4/fin]

ichabod [d4/fin] Jan 6, 2016 19:02:04 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Jan 6, 2016 19:02:04 GMT -5

Blood of an unborn son shed upon the holy ground— the first conversation I overheard between my mother and father involved the word burden.

I have been flying too close to the sun for seventeen years and counting.

Fuck ‘em if they think I’ll fall.

My mother would tell me that this was a man’s world— that to crumble the walls of this castle you had to work twice as hard, give twice as much, shed every ounce of your being until you could buy yourself back and then some.

I’m still giving away pieces of myself; this body may be fading but the throne sits within eyeshot.

How hard it will be to hold up this crown with hollow bones.

She told me that there is security in what others do not know, that ignorance and intelligence are interlocked within the right mind, that any deal second guessed is one you can count on to fall through.

I have never broken a promise.

Back alleys and broken spaces I have shaken hands with the damned and dying alike, staked my claim in broken bottles, in bruised knuckles, in black eyes— what a fucking kingdom this is. I have not bloodied my hands for the cause, though, and there is a point where planning and preemptive action do not mesh well within this right mind. The balance is existent, just not evident.

My mother would tell me that my father had plans for a third son, that the balance he was trying to find had only been tipped off by the birth of a daughter; the birth of a burden— I was not, am not, will not be his glory. I suppose I no longer wish for redemption on the days when another year has been passed; he is no longer a ruler I wish to please— give me a god I can relate to that does not share heritage through a name alone.

Words and actions do not reflect themselves equally in his ribs; when he promises better days, I see empty hallways, quiet houses, and the word burden whispered under his breath.

I see my reflection in a broken mirror.

I am not the continuation of this family line; the kingdom is not mine to obtain by security. Nothing here lasts longer than time told thought anyway. My father speaks so that he will not be forgotten; I stay silent so I will not be remembered.

I have never broken a promise because I have never given myself, my word, this body to anyone in the first place— the best rulers have never answered a single question.

How the walls they have built protect a heart that does not know eternity.

I will not waste a single second that has been pressed to my palm; will not fire another bullet from the chamber when the deed is done— my mother has told me that in a man’s world, you cannot waste the space you are allowed to occupy.

How much longer until I am reduced to a single thought and a lack of ability to carry action where action is due?

I count the seconds that remain, fitted tightly in the palm of my hand I see a future confined to my skin, these bones, this mind that cannot differentiate between a world that wishes for impact and my own.

I cannot be the only catalyst for change.

No glory, this burden, what’s a dead girl to a man’s world?

My mother tells me a success.

I hear my father’s voice instead, muffled by my ear pressed to the wall— if a girl is to succeed, she has to work twice as hard, after all.

He says that imagined perfection was within his reach, that he was one away from a hand of aces and he was about to show his hand— he calls me a wild card.

Indeed.

I believe in faith at the hand of the dealer— that the only true winner in any game is the one who can haggle with luck and not have the devil sitting at his shoulder every step of the way. I suppose this is why I have always beaten my father at cards. He is consumed with the idea of a perfect deck; that every variable can be manipulated if you simply try hard enough.

I am no manipulation, no lost art, no variable with which to be toyed.

I am the cause and effect, simply put, I will be the beginning of his downfall and the end of his line.

The one perk to being a burden, I suppose.

My mother has told me that to succeed in a man’s world, a girl has to work twice as hard, but in the meantime, there is no harm in picking up a man’s bad habits and making them look good— I am the unwanted reflection of my father in the foggy mirror; the end of a line he has brought upon himself when he gave me a name that denoted no glory to be found.

Now, he calls me daughter; he can never bring himself to address me by name when he calls. I do not answer, do not bring myself to his beckoning— I know how hollow his words are.

When I stand to face him, kingdom in hindsight and crown at the crest, I ask that he address me as Ichabod— at least then he will know his glory is gone.