Something in his body cringes at the word - mother.
He hadn’t thought about parents. Hadn’t wondered who his were, had not had cause to, he supposes. But at her comment his eyes flutter closed, and he suddenly thinks of desert sand, hot enough to burn, and his face aches, as if with old wounds. Another echo, and not a pleasant one.
Who had she been, his mother? He supposes she would have been the one to give him the name, but he doesn’t know the circumstances of it. He has not dwelled overmuch on his name, the ugliness of it, the implication that it was likely a name bequeathed on him by someone.
(The truth: it was a mix.)
He smiles and attempts a laugh, though his response is delayed. He is still thinking of the desert, and wondering if it’s home.
“I can’t remember where it came from,” he says, then, “there’s a lot I can’t remember.”
It’s stupid, to share this. She doesn’t need to be made privy to his embarrassing lack of memories, lack of existence. As much as he wants her invited in, he knows that whatever he is, he is a burden, and she does not need to bear any of his weight.
He should walk away – he knows he should – but he answers her other question. He wants so badly to stay.
“Only a little,” he says, and he should stop, he should stop, but of course he doesn’t, he’s a foolish man, “I almost know things. About before I came out of the river. Where you found me. It’s all just…slightly out of reach.”
And oh, he is grasping. Grasping for the description of how he feels, what has happened. Grasping at anything to keep her talking, keep her here. She is the opposite of scorching desert sand, she is water, cool and deep. Almost like a river.
@Agetta