04-04-2016, 11:49 PM
As I fall asleep, the world around me fades away. No more am I alone in the shadows, left behind by a mother who didn't want me and a brother who was better off without me. No, my dream is of warmth and darkness, cushioned from the world by a sea of water, tangled up in my brother and wrapped in our mother's endless embrace. She was safety, in that time before this brief life began, a time marked only by the intermingling drumbeats of three hearts. That safety was fleeting, lasting only as long as her body could hold us. Now it's just a sweet memory, a comfort in my weariness.
In my dream, I feel the gentle rocking motion as she walks, her belly swaying and soothing the ever-restless Rile. If she was still too long, he would kick, demanding movement, demanding more of that rhythmic rocking. I always tried to let her rest, to embrace the stillness and the subtle waves of her breathing. It must be hard work, after all, growing two new people. But Rile knew what he wanted even then, and was never shy about taking it.
It is my shining light memory, this dream, the only place the starlight touches me. So when I feel warm breath against my skin, it fits. She is safety, of course she is watching over me, running her oh so gentle muzzle over the downy fuzz of my neck, playing with the scruffy strands of my ashen mane. “Momma?” I murmur, stirring to wakefulness as she presses her lips to a sensitive spot behind my ears.
Her voice, almost imperceptible in its gentleness, is the dissonant note that breaks the reverie of my dream. “Wake up, little love,” she says to me, her voice barely above a whisper. So gentle. And as I wake, I remember. Not Momma, with her dark coat and vibrant mane and tail. Momma was not gentle, and would never have called me love. I blink my eyes open, ashen lashes fluttering through my field of vision once, twice, thrice before I can focus in on her face. Her eyes are a rich, dark brown, wide and endlessly deep, and an ache starts deep in my chest. Something new, something I don't have a name for yet. A quiet yearning for...for home. Like my heart is stretching itself in my chest, reaching toward her and begging her to reach back.
But I am not meant to be loved, or to be cuddled or crooned to or rocked to sleep. I almost forgot it for a moment, but it comes crashing back down on me. “That's not my name,” I whisper, looking away from those endless eyes. Don't see me, that glance says, as I shrink in on myself and stare at the ground, not letting myself want the impossible. “You must be looking for someone else. I'm not little love, I'm...Nnneverwas.”
Why does it hurt so much more to say it to her? When mother named me, it was just a fact, just an inevitability. I was the smaller twin, whisper-thin and barely there and destined to fade into oblivion. It was a truth, nothing more and nothing less. Now, though, the word cracks something in my chest, maybe the heart that still reaches for home even as I fight it and hide it and try to breathe like I'm not breaking. I am Neverwas, meant to never be, and when she knows it she will leave me to come undone in peace.
In my dream, I feel the gentle rocking motion as she walks, her belly swaying and soothing the ever-restless Rile. If she was still too long, he would kick, demanding movement, demanding more of that rhythmic rocking. I always tried to let her rest, to embrace the stillness and the subtle waves of her breathing. It must be hard work, after all, growing two new people. But Rile knew what he wanted even then, and was never shy about taking it.
It is my shining light memory, this dream, the only place the starlight touches me. So when I feel warm breath against my skin, it fits. She is safety, of course she is watching over me, running her oh so gentle muzzle over the downy fuzz of my neck, playing with the scruffy strands of my ashen mane. “Momma?” I murmur, stirring to wakefulness as she presses her lips to a sensitive spot behind my ears.
Her voice, almost imperceptible in its gentleness, is the dissonant note that breaks the reverie of my dream. “Wake up, little love,” she says to me, her voice barely above a whisper. So gentle. And as I wake, I remember. Not Momma, with her dark coat and vibrant mane and tail. Momma was not gentle, and would never have called me love. I blink my eyes open, ashen lashes fluttering through my field of vision once, twice, thrice before I can focus in on her face. Her eyes are a rich, dark brown, wide and endlessly deep, and an ache starts deep in my chest. Something new, something I don't have a name for yet. A quiet yearning for...for home. Like my heart is stretching itself in my chest, reaching toward her and begging her to reach back.
But I am not meant to be loved, or to be cuddled or crooned to or rocked to sleep. I almost forgot it for a moment, but it comes crashing back down on me. “That's not my name,” I whisper, looking away from those endless eyes. Don't see me, that glance says, as I shrink in on myself and stare at the ground, not letting myself want the impossible. “You must be looking for someone else. I'm not little love, I'm...Nnneverwas.”
Why does it hurt so much more to say it to her? When mother named me, it was just a fact, just an inevitability. I was the smaller twin, whisper-thin and barely there and destined to fade into oblivion. It was a truth, nothing more and nothing less. Now, though, the word cracks something in my chest, maybe the heart that still reaches for home even as I fight it and hide it and try to breathe like I'm not breaking. I am Neverwas, meant to never be, and when she knows it she will leave me to come undone in peace.