achilles grae | d1 fin
Apr 7, 2017 23:49:54 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Apr 7, 2017 23:49:54 GMT -5
A C H I L L E S
My mother would always tell me stories. They were legends passed down, twisted and changed as they passed the lips of each generation. The tales weren't confined to paper or written word, each telling was somehow different and eventually evolved into something else entirely. My mother wove her stories from what she remembered hearing as a child, dutifully changing the ending when I would demand the same fantastical tale night after night.
I was born a child with a mother who wasn't expecting him and had no desire for offspring. But she quickly twisted her sob story into one of fate. "This is my son." She would say to anyone who'd listen, something in her voice that could almost be mistaken for maternal. "This is my son and one day he will be like no one ever has."
Closed eyes and tight fists, I didn't make much of an impression on anyone until I took my first breath and started screaming. "Strong lungs." My mother's doctors had said to her. "He's a fighter. He'll make it."
I remember being young and careless. Loud laughter echoed through empty rooms and long halls, running footsteps chased the sound throughout the house. I remember how much I liked to make my mother smile. When the sound of her laughter mingled with mine I felt invincible. A people pleaser, was the phrase I learned later.
I remember dragging crayons across paper, frustrated that the tips would always break off so easily. Heroes and monsters from my mother's whispered stories appeared on the pages in childish scribbles. My mother tacked red and gold streaks of glory onto the bedroom wall. "That will be you one day." She whispered into the halo around my head, pointing at one of the crude drawings. A man was depicted, sword raised triumphantly in the air, standing over the body of a beast twice his size. They became the subjects of my mother's stories that night.
With wide eyes, green like the springtime, I took in the world through a filtered gaze. I mimicked my mother's words like a parrot, doing my best to follow her example. A dark halo of golden curls grew around my head like a lion's mane. My mother liked it long, would run her hand through it as she spoke. It was a heavy golden crown that I didn't understand the weight of. I didn't understand a lot of things back then. I was scared of the monsters under my bed, drew my feet up to my chest and blinked silently into the dark. I started to leave the window open, letting the moonlight wash into my room and flush out the darkness. "Don't worry about the shadows." My mother said when I asked her to please leave a light on. "They're more scared of you than you are of them."
I soon reached my most impressionable age. The time when everyone's childhood innocence is stolen away and they realize that it's finally time to grow up. We watched the games like everyone else, but my mother seemed to love them excessively. "That will be you one day." She'd say quietly, running a hand through my hair, her eyes fixed on the screen.
I watched children lose their limbs and have their faces mutilated beyond recognition, thinking my mother cruel to condemn me to such a fate. I shook my head, hands curling. "But Mother, I don't want to be like them." She'd click her tongue and send me off to train.
It wasn't soon before my mother decided that I would at least have to learn proper etiquette. Gone are the days of muddy hands and wild hair and scraped knees. Running through the barren halls of our home is no longer acceptable for a prince and he suddenly has to learn how to act kingly. I had to grow up and protect what would be my kingdom.
"Achilles the mighty." My mother would say to herself at night. "Achilles the great." I could tell she was pleased with the way it rolled off her tongue. If glory would make my mother happy, then I was determined to get it for her. Maybe it would be enough to make me happy too. I tucked the thought in the back of mind where it manifested, growing and twisting into something believable. I made myself want it, an idea of love and glory, and it almost felt like enough. I could have it all and this pressing weight would be lifted.
"Just wait until your father comes back." She'd say. "He'll see how you've grown and come crawling back to us." I couldn't understand why she wanted him to come back. From the moment I was born, I had been the man of the house, covering for some creep who didn't give two fucks about us. After everything, was I still not enough for my mother? I tried to keep my sentiment to myself and just held her when she got wistful.
There's always been an underlying anger. Something hidden away that tainted my actions and wandering thoughts like poison. I didn't like having things taken away from me. Especially when one of my mother's associates was involved. We lived with him, or rather, he lived with us. The only reason my mother seemed to put up with that lowlife was his money, even his reputation wasn't as respectable as she would've liked. If he had a name, I made myself forget it quickly. I remember he was taller than me, an impressive feat even at that time. He had dark beady eyes and his voice was pitched low, almost pleasant sounding if you didn't know him. The expanse of my skin was his ashtray. The circular burns littered the expanse of my shoulders and upper arms. The burn of a red hot poker lay across my back and torso.
"Kings aren't made overnight." I would whisper to myself in the dark. I took what he gave so he wouldn't touch my mother. The sick fuck knew I wouldn't go against my mother's wishes. I was her protector, and hers only. When I heard them yelling upstairs I would run to get in his way. And when my mother ran to her own room, I'd lock the door behind her, standing guard with the key around my neck.
I waited and the moment he raised a hand against my mother I was on him.
Inhale.
Anger.
Exhale.
My mother kissed my forehead and went to settle her new estate.
I always tried to hide the burns from her. Tight shirts and fine jackets now covering broad shoulders and strong arms. Chiselled from marble and steel, I was forged to carry the weight of my mother's ambitions. The endless years of career training never seemed to affect that particular burden. When we stood in front of the hall mirror together, my mother's frame looked so small and fragile next to mine, even though I knew she hid steel underneath. I had always known that I looked nothing like my mother, but the though that I had taken after my father was sickening. I let my hair grow out until it curled against the nape of my neck like hers and thought of other things.
There was a harp in one of the unused rooms of the house. I had wandered away from my lessons in table manners one day and found the old parlour. The furniture was hidden by stiff white sheets, covering them like dead soldiers. Dust covered every surface in the room and filtered through the air, sparkling in a shaft of light from a grimy window. There was a oddly shaped object in the corner, a sliver of gold peeking out from under the sheet. I was undeniably attracted to it. I pulled the sheet off, disturbing the dust and making myself cough, the sound echoing loudly against the plain walls. When I had finished rubbing the grime out of eyes, I could see a harp waiting for me. It was gorgeous. Ornately decorated and painted gold, almost enchanting, like something from my mother's stories.
I don't know what brought me to take my warrior's hands and pluck the strings but once I did I found that I couldn't stop. I considered asking my mother if she knew where the instrument was from, how it got here and why it was hidden. I didn't go to her in fear that she would take it away. I didn't want her to find out where I snuck off to when she wasn't looking. The music brought moments of solace to my life. It was a time of tranquility where I could be not Achilles the mighty, but just Achilles the boy. For a few moments I could forget about the weight of the crown I wore. It was so tiring sometimes. Exhausting to keep the act up when all I really wanted to do was run free.
There is a new man in the house one day. On business, my mother says and she must be telling the truth this time because he doesn't stay the night. I still watch him warily, I had fallen for this before and trust no longer came so easily. He's old and weathered, terrifying to look at, with cloudy eyes and long thinning hair. He dresses in fine but old clothes, polished bronze buttons on his coat and a chain of gold hanging limp from his pocket. His whole body twitches, eyes moving like they're chasing something I can't see. He smells like shoe polish and mothballs and I can't stand to be around him for very long.
He taps down the hallway with a gold tipped cane, his gnarled hand resting on a gilded bird skull. He passes me in a doorway, pauses, and taps a golden shoulder with the stick. "And who might you be, boy?"
His voice chills my blood, but I jut my chin out and force myself to look at him, "Achilles." I say. "The mighty." Just in case he was thinking of trying something.
He squints at my pretty features, things that should be found on a little girl and not on a warrior. Things like high cheekbones and stern eyebrows, full lips and blonde curls. His bones creak when he moves and shifts, making my teeth grind. "Mighty? Is that what you want to be called?"
I don't understand the question, "I'm going to be called the best."
He makes a tittering sound and turns away dismissively, "Then your glory walks hand in hand with your doom."
It makes me angry. This man knows nothing about me and yet he speaks of my future like he's seen it already. "And you'd live to be old and boring? Stay in your cage, rot away to nothing and be forgotten?"
He laughs, a wheezing sound that makes my own throat hurt, but I wasn't trying to be funny this time. "I wouldn't take a violent bloody death over a rich comfortable one, child."
I huff and snap at him. "That's why no one will remember you, old fool."
He shuffles away cackling, "Your blood belongs here, but you, Achilles, do not."
Later, I had fitful dreams. Visions of myself drowning in a river of blood from victims I had yet to kill. I was caught in a web, stuck on a path that led to death and destruction with no way out. I desperately wanted to please my mother, but I selfishly didn't want to die. Mother, I don't want to kill anyone.
I started to wander where I pleased, disobeyed my teacher and indulged myself. A heart of gold and fists of iron, I attracted people like moths to a flame. I hid behind brute strength and pretty smiles. Skin of marble and veins of ichor, painted with a smile that blinded the sun. For the smallest moment, I was free and the nightmares stopped. My mother found me growing soft. "You can use a spear as a walking stick, Achilles. But that won't change its nature. Go back to your lessons."
Death isn't silent like people often say it is. It's the loud crack of a skull hitting marble tile, the wet gurgle of a throat in the back of an alley. It's a flowing river of blood and a scream, narrowed eyes and a rush of adrenaline. It's a disagreement that escalates into a fight, two quick tempers that are easily lit like matches. It's the body of a career. A sword and shield. A body and two fists. It's a god in the body of a boy who calls himself Achilles. One who pretends that he's a hero.
It's a mother's whisper.
You'll do amazing things.
(You'll do terrible things)
I was born a child with a mother who wasn't expecting him and had no desire for offspring. But she quickly twisted her sob story into one of fate. "This is my son." She would say to anyone who'd listen, something in her voice that could almost be mistaken for maternal. "This is my son and one day he will be like no one ever has."
Closed eyes and tight fists, I didn't make much of an impression on anyone until I took my first breath and started screaming. "Strong lungs." My mother's doctors had said to her. "He's a fighter. He'll make it."
I remember being young and careless. Loud laughter echoed through empty rooms and long halls, running footsteps chased the sound throughout the house. I remember how much I liked to make my mother smile. When the sound of her laughter mingled with mine I felt invincible. A people pleaser, was the phrase I learned later.
I remember dragging crayons across paper, frustrated that the tips would always break off so easily. Heroes and monsters from my mother's whispered stories appeared on the pages in childish scribbles. My mother tacked red and gold streaks of glory onto the bedroom wall. "That will be you one day." She whispered into the halo around my head, pointing at one of the crude drawings. A man was depicted, sword raised triumphantly in the air, standing over the body of a beast twice his size. They became the subjects of my mother's stories that night.
With wide eyes, green like the springtime, I took in the world through a filtered gaze. I mimicked my mother's words like a parrot, doing my best to follow her example. A dark halo of golden curls grew around my head like a lion's mane. My mother liked it long, would run her hand through it as she spoke. It was a heavy golden crown that I didn't understand the weight of. I didn't understand a lot of things back then. I was scared of the monsters under my bed, drew my feet up to my chest and blinked silently into the dark. I started to leave the window open, letting the moonlight wash into my room and flush out the darkness. "Don't worry about the shadows." My mother said when I asked her to please leave a light on. "They're more scared of you than you are of them."
I soon reached my most impressionable age. The time when everyone's childhood innocence is stolen away and they realize that it's finally time to grow up. We watched the games like everyone else, but my mother seemed to love them excessively. "That will be you one day." She'd say quietly, running a hand through my hair, her eyes fixed on the screen.
I watched children lose their limbs and have their faces mutilated beyond recognition, thinking my mother cruel to condemn me to such a fate. I shook my head, hands curling. "But Mother, I don't want to be like them." She'd click her tongue and send me off to train.
It wasn't soon before my mother decided that I would at least have to learn proper etiquette. Gone are the days of muddy hands and wild hair and scraped knees. Running through the barren halls of our home is no longer acceptable for a prince and he suddenly has to learn how to act kingly. I had to grow up and protect what would be my kingdom.
"Achilles the mighty." My mother would say to herself at night. "Achilles the great." I could tell she was pleased with the way it rolled off her tongue. If glory would make my mother happy, then I was determined to get it for her. Maybe it would be enough to make me happy too. I tucked the thought in the back of mind where it manifested, growing and twisting into something believable. I made myself want it, an idea of love and glory, and it almost felt like enough. I could have it all and this pressing weight would be lifted.
"Just wait until your father comes back." She'd say. "He'll see how you've grown and come crawling back to us." I couldn't understand why she wanted him to come back. From the moment I was born, I had been the man of the house, covering for some creep who didn't give two fucks about us. After everything, was I still not enough for my mother? I tried to keep my sentiment to myself and just held her when she got wistful.
There's always been an underlying anger. Something hidden away that tainted my actions and wandering thoughts like poison. I didn't like having things taken away from me. Especially when one of my mother's associates was involved. We lived with him, or rather, he lived with us. The only reason my mother seemed to put up with that lowlife was his money, even his reputation wasn't as respectable as she would've liked. If he had a name, I made myself forget it quickly. I remember he was taller than me, an impressive feat even at that time. He had dark beady eyes and his voice was pitched low, almost pleasant sounding if you didn't know him. The expanse of my skin was his ashtray. The circular burns littered the expanse of my shoulders and upper arms. The burn of a red hot poker lay across my back and torso.
"Kings aren't made overnight." I would whisper to myself in the dark. I took what he gave so he wouldn't touch my mother. The sick fuck knew I wouldn't go against my mother's wishes. I was her protector, and hers only. When I heard them yelling upstairs I would run to get in his way. And when my mother ran to her own room, I'd lock the door behind her, standing guard with the key around my neck.
I waited and the moment he raised a hand against my mother I was on him.
Inhale.
Anger.
Exhale.
My mother kissed my forehead and went to settle her new estate.
I always tried to hide the burns from her. Tight shirts and fine jackets now covering broad shoulders and strong arms. Chiselled from marble and steel, I was forged to carry the weight of my mother's ambitions. The endless years of career training never seemed to affect that particular burden. When we stood in front of the hall mirror together, my mother's frame looked so small and fragile next to mine, even though I knew she hid steel underneath. I had always known that I looked nothing like my mother, but the though that I had taken after my father was sickening. I let my hair grow out until it curled against the nape of my neck like hers and thought of other things.
There was a harp in one of the unused rooms of the house. I had wandered away from my lessons in table manners one day and found the old parlour. The furniture was hidden by stiff white sheets, covering them like dead soldiers. Dust covered every surface in the room and filtered through the air, sparkling in a shaft of light from a grimy window. There was a oddly shaped object in the corner, a sliver of gold peeking out from under the sheet. I was undeniably attracted to it. I pulled the sheet off, disturbing the dust and making myself cough, the sound echoing loudly against the plain walls. When I had finished rubbing the grime out of eyes, I could see a harp waiting for me. It was gorgeous. Ornately decorated and painted gold, almost enchanting, like something from my mother's stories.
I don't know what brought me to take my warrior's hands and pluck the strings but once I did I found that I couldn't stop. I considered asking my mother if she knew where the instrument was from, how it got here and why it was hidden. I didn't go to her in fear that she would take it away. I didn't want her to find out where I snuck off to when she wasn't looking. The music brought moments of solace to my life. It was a time of tranquility where I could be not Achilles the mighty, but just Achilles the boy. For a few moments I could forget about the weight of the crown I wore. It was so tiring sometimes. Exhausting to keep the act up when all I really wanted to do was run free.
There is a new man in the house one day. On business, my mother says and she must be telling the truth this time because he doesn't stay the night. I still watch him warily, I had fallen for this before and trust no longer came so easily. He's old and weathered, terrifying to look at, with cloudy eyes and long thinning hair. He dresses in fine but old clothes, polished bronze buttons on his coat and a chain of gold hanging limp from his pocket. His whole body twitches, eyes moving like they're chasing something I can't see. He smells like shoe polish and mothballs and I can't stand to be around him for very long.
He taps down the hallway with a gold tipped cane, his gnarled hand resting on a gilded bird skull. He passes me in a doorway, pauses, and taps a golden shoulder with the stick. "And who might you be, boy?"
His voice chills my blood, but I jut my chin out and force myself to look at him, "Achilles." I say. "The mighty." Just in case he was thinking of trying something.
He squints at my pretty features, things that should be found on a little girl and not on a warrior. Things like high cheekbones and stern eyebrows, full lips and blonde curls. His bones creak when he moves and shifts, making my teeth grind. "Mighty? Is that what you want to be called?"
I don't understand the question, "I'm going to be called the best."
He makes a tittering sound and turns away dismissively, "Then your glory walks hand in hand with your doom."
It makes me angry. This man knows nothing about me and yet he speaks of my future like he's seen it already. "And you'd live to be old and boring? Stay in your cage, rot away to nothing and be forgotten?"
He laughs, a wheezing sound that makes my own throat hurt, but I wasn't trying to be funny this time. "I wouldn't take a violent bloody death over a rich comfortable one, child."
I huff and snap at him. "That's why no one will remember you, old fool."
He shuffles away cackling, "Your blood belongs here, but you, Achilles, do not."
Later, I had fitful dreams. Visions of myself drowning in a river of blood from victims I had yet to kill. I was caught in a web, stuck on a path that led to death and destruction with no way out. I desperately wanted to please my mother, but I selfishly didn't want to die. Mother, I don't want to kill anyone.
I started to wander where I pleased, disobeyed my teacher and indulged myself. A heart of gold and fists of iron, I attracted people like moths to a flame. I hid behind brute strength and pretty smiles. Skin of marble and veins of ichor, painted with a smile that blinded the sun. For the smallest moment, I was free and the nightmares stopped. My mother found me growing soft. "You can use a spear as a walking stick, Achilles. But that won't change its nature. Go back to your lessons."
Death isn't silent like people often say it is. It's the loud crack of a skull hitting marble tile, the wet gurgle of a throat in the back of an alley. It's a flowing river of blood and a scream, narrowed eyes and a rush of adrenaline. It's a disagreement that escalates into a fight, two quick tempers that are easily lit like matches. It's the body of a career. A sword and shield. A body and two fists. It's a god in the body of a boy who calls himself Achilles. One who pretends that he's a hero.
It's a mother's whisper.
You'll do amazing things.
(You'll do terrible things)
Achilles Grae | 16 | Male | D1
