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‘There was nothing to be done—nothing could have changed this. I know what a terrible parent is, and Enna, you couldn’t not love this child even if you wanted to. Look at yourself, you have loved her long before now.’ It is too little, too late— but you silence your argument, allowing for him to give you the comfort that you so very desperately crave, your will to fight what is so glaringly obvious all but lost. And so your sobs turn to whimpers and soft gasps, gasps to breaths as you once again ease against him, drinking in his warmth, listening with a stillness as he speaks of her, making you wonder, briefly, how she would have been. If she would have loved, how she would have laughed, of the beauty that would have followed her all of her life—before it becomes too, too much, and you wrench from the thoughts, the images, the emptiness. Lips move to speak, but it is another’s harsh voice that fills the void, snapping your head up to see what pompous asshat thought it so perfectly fine to drag his sorry carcass— “Misael?” You cannot hide the hurt that lingers underneath, smothering your anger, as you look up, recognize the blue-marred face, those sunflower eyes, so cold when held against the memories that flood your mind, all of him, all of the small little moments that meant more than they ever should have. You cannot hide the way that you wither at his words, the way that they cut through you, your heart too raw, too defenseless, to feel, to comprehend his hurt and the way that he bleeds, because of you. It is only when Rohan stirs that your eyes break from Misael’s frame, spine trembling as his voice resonates, his anger swelling too terribly quickly. “Rohan,” it is graceless, the way that you climb back to your feet, sway with the dizziness that grips you suddenly, hair uncoiling in waterfalls as it frames your face, stray pieces sticking uncomfortably despite all the sweat having dried up. Tender lips finally press to your sandstone man’s shoulder, a silent plea for him to stop, a promise that everything would be alright. Without hesitation you step from the shadow of his protection, step pointedly towards the man that is nothing more than a stranger in this moment, shielding her from those golden eyes, eyes that know nothing and presume too much. You had thought you knew him, once, thought that he had loved you enough to understand you in turn, but maybe, for the thousandth time, maybe you had been wrong. It doesn’t matter now, none of it, when his heart is steeled against you, blinded from a truth that he will never know. And so you do the only thing you can do with all of his rage, surmising the remnants of your strength, throwing it back at him, as blind as he is to the damage that you will no doubt cause, wanting only for him to disappear, for those eyes to leave you because all they hold is hurt, because his heart, all of your regrets, all of this is more than you can handle: “What is it that you want to hear?” I’m sorry—I know nothing will ever be enough— “That I made a mistake?” I never wanted this, “That I fucked someone and you never even so much as crossed my mind?” I never wanted to hurt you. “That this is punishment for my (I was never yours, never his) betrayal?” But she is gone. “It does not matter. Believe what you want, take from this what you will—” She is gone— “But do not do this here. It is the only place that I will ever be able to remember her.” and I have nothing left to give. Tears line your tired eyes by the time you fall silent, and you blink hard to keep them from falling, vowing that the cuts that he had made would remain unknown, like so many things, to the man that you once trusted, the man that once knew you better than you knew yourself, was once someone that you didn’t think you could bear to lose. Maybe it would change in the future, when you are too old to hold on to your anger any longer, when there is nothing left of you to guard, when you are too lonely to even think about being selfish anymore. But that is not now. Now you only want him gone, only want one more moment, one more look, at your daughter, at the piece of yourself clutched in her tiny hands. A backwards glance is the only acknowledgement that you give Rohan, another plea, before turning back to Misael, body trembling once more, the act of standing, of thinking, of breathing so very exhausting. |
@Rohan
@Misael
please tag enna in every post
violence permitted barring permanent injury / death
