Jaxon Evos // District Four // Fin
Jul 25, 2019 1:37:16 GMT -5
Post by Arrows on Jul 25, 2019 1:37:16 GMT -5
Behind every person is a bigger shadow
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It's nearly half past midnight when he stumbles into your room, the rancid rancor of alcohol slurring his speech. You're just a boy, barely ten, but already you are on your feet with yours hands only halves of his helping to hold him straight. He's shivering, sweat soaks every section of his skin but still you push your body up against his without a single cringe. He's scared, you can see it in the way he watches the shadows and can hear it in the way his voice unwillingly breaks. Others would wither away at such a scornful sight, but you hold no hesitation in your actions. You're the only one who understands his world, the only one who knows the soft soul stuck inside of a swirling storm.
"I... their... always... the voices!"
Your hands instinctively move to wrap his cheeks in the blanket of your palms.
"It's okay Dad, I know. I'm right here, you're okay."
And you lead him to the bathroom, your small frame gently guiding his larger one through a maze of hallways. He is grasping at an old picture outside while you cover the bathroom mirror with a towel and begin to warm the waters of the bath. Glass shatters, and you suddenly sprint around the corner. The picture, an old one with the entire family, lays shattered across the hardwood floor. Several small streams of scarlet stain your Dad's hands as his eyes fixate on them with absolute panic. Again you don't hesitate to hold them with your own, hiding the blood beneath the palms of your hands. Your touch, the diversion, it calms him enough to take him back to the bathroom.
He's quiet in the water, subdued by the thing that has always brought him constant comfort throughout life. Your hands glide through his brown hair, a carbon copy of your own, with bubbly ease. His fingers playing with the water's edge brings a small smile to your face. You don't mind that it's now nearly two. You don't care that you have school in the morning or that your life isn't like your friends'. All that matters is that for a moment, you can see peace settle over the frame of your Father's usually pained face. And in this same moment, you are your happiest.
A lot has changed in the seven years since then, a lot hasn't. He's better about taking his medication, you're a bit older now and can make sure he does. But there are still slips, times when alcohol is his agent of anti-anxiety even though the issues aren't something that it can solve. And you're still there. There to hold his hand in your hands and to help hide just a piece of the shadows he sees. But you don't mind it, because you knew the man before the progression. The Dad who would walk you to the shore on his shoulders and get sand in your eyes just to blame it on your brother before Mom found out. The man who would dance with his wife while swaying in the summer breeze. The person who lost it all because of something he can't help. Who had to watch, already afraid, as wife and children left.
All except you.
You chose to stay, and that's never going to change.
Outside of home you're different now than you used to be. Back then you were a silent ten year old with blue eyes of whirling worry. Now you carry a crown, a reputation. You're one of your training center's stars. Calm and composed in the blur of battle, a career with a mastery of swordsmanship. They all see you as some kind of hero, the future of the District. Yet they have no idea that what really drives such development is your fear. Horror of what might happen if one day you are stolen away to die and leave your Dad without anyone else. So you let them see whatever they want, but you know the real shadow standing right behind you.
You have a job now too, fashioning fishing hooks for the company of an old friend of your Uncle's. It's the perfect place because even during times when you can't come in because of troubles at home, you can take your work with you. And you really don't mind it either, the tender and tedious repetition is actually rather soothing. Your Dad likes it too, sometimes watching from the seat next to you for what feels like hours. Maybe it helps as a distraction, you like to think it does. And luckily your boss never has anything to complain about, even when times are tough you always get your quota completed. You need the money considering you work for two.
There is one thing you know you struggle with though. When your friends ask what you like to do, you never seem to have an answer. It's hard for you to see yourself as anything other than your Dad's son and care taker. It's hard for you to feel anything other than immediate emotions: fear of leaving him, love for him, and blistering anger for your Mom and your siblings. Beyond the life of necessity, you don't know how to define yourself. You love the water, just like your Dad does. But you don't get down to the shore much. You suppose if there is one thing you, and not your Dad, likes to do: play guitar.
You saw it in a pawn shop one day while in town gathering groceries. It's the only money you've ever spent on yourself. At first it was an impulse buy, but it became a harbor for you. Plucking the strings of folk songs from the pastures of District Ten became you're favorite pass time. You can travel to any place you want while being right at home where you're needed.
So yeah, maybe what the world sees is some strong boy. But you know your shadow, and you accept it.
"I... their... always... the voices!"
Your hands instinctively move to wrap his cheeks in the blanket of your palms.
"It's okay Dad, I know. I'm right here, you're okay."
And you lead him to the bathroom, your small frame gently guiding his larger one through a maze of hallways. He is grasping at an old picture outside while you cover the bathroom mirror with a towel and begin to warm the waters of the bath. Glass shatters, and you suddenly sprint around the corner. The picture, an old one with the entire family, lays shattered across the hardwood floor. Several small streams of scarlet stain your Dad's hands as his eyes fixate on them with absolute panic. Again you don't hesitate to hold them with your own, hiding the blood beneath the palms of your hands. Your touch, the diversion, it calms him enough to take him back to the bathroom.
He's quiet in the water, subdued by the thing that has always brought him constant comfort throughout life. Your hands glide through his brown hair, a carbon copy of your own, with bubbly ease. His fingers playing with the water's edge brings a small smile to your face. You don't mind that it's now nearly two. You don't care that you have school in the morning or that your life isn't like your friends'. All that matters is that for a moment, you can see peace settle over the frame of your Father's usually pained face. And in this same moment, you are your happiest.
A lot has changed in the seven years since then, a lot hasn't. He's better about taking his medication, you're a bit older now and can make sure he does. But there are still slips, times when alcohol is his agent of anti-anxiety even though the issues aren't something that it can solve. And you're still there. There to hold his hand in your hands and to help hide just a piece of the shadows he sees. But you don't mind it, because you knew the man before the progression. The Dad who would walk you to the shore on his shoulders and get sand in your eyes just to blame it on your brother before Mom found out. The man who would dance with his wife while swaying in the summer breeze. The person who lost it all because of something he can't help. Who had to watch, already afraid, as wife and children left.
All except you.
You chose to stay, and that's never going to change.
Outside of home you're different now than you used to be. Back then you were a silent ten year old with blue eyes of whirling worry. Now you carry a crown, a reputation. You're one of your training center's stars. Calm and composed in the blur of battle, a career with a mastery of swordsmanship. They all see you as some kind of hero, the future of the District. Yet they have no idea that what really drives such development is your fear. Horror of what might happen if one day you are stolen away to die and leave your Dad without anyone else. So you let them see whatever they want, but you know the real shadow standing right behind you.
You have a job now too, fashioning fishing hooks for the company of an old friend of your Uncle's. It's the perfect place because even during times when you can't come in because of troubles at home, you can take your work with you. And you really don't mind it either, the tender and tedious repetition is actually rather soothing. Your Dad likes it too, sometimes watching from the seat next to you for what feels like hours. Maybe it helps as a distraction, you like to think it does. And luckily your boss never has anything to complain about, even when times are tough you always get your quota completed. You need the money considering you work for two.
There is one thing you know you struggle with though. When your friends ask what you like to do, you never seem to have an answer. It's hard for you to see yourself as anything other than your Dad's son and care taker. It's hard for you to feel anything other than immediate emotions: fear of leaving him, love for him, and blistering anger for your Mom and your siblings. Beyond the life of necessity, you don't know how to define yourself. You love the water, just like your Dad does. But you don't get down to the shore much. You suppose if there is one thing you, and not your Dad, likes to do: play guitar.
You saw it in a pawn shop one day while in town gathering groceries. It's the only money you've ever spent on yourself. At first it was an impulse buy, but it became a harbor for you. Plucking the strings of folk songs from the pastures of District Ten became you're favorite pass time. You can travel to any place you want while being right at home where you're needed.
So yeah, maybe what the world sees is some strong boy. But you know your shadow, and you accept it.
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