07-25-2016, 12:34 PM
Pain is the only thing I am able to perceive, all other sensations drowning beneath the onslaught of pain nerves firing in waves, rolling through my body, searing in every wound. I know that I lie on the ground of my home, my guardian wrapped around me and holding me close until my father is there in his place. But all that I can feel is the burn of ice and claws. Hearing Father’s voice allows me to finally slip into unconsciousness.
When I begin to stir again, he is still curled around me, holding me. My body doesn’t hurt anymore. All trace of it gone from my senses and I wonder briefly if perhaps I had my first nightmare. But no, Father would not be holding me like this just because I was distressed in my sleep. Nor even would Mother, though she would have done when I was younger. This is definitely Father, though. I may not have opened my eyes yet, but I would know his scent anywhere. Mine.
It is harder than I expected to open my eyes. Instead, I just breathe out a heavy breath, a sigh weighed down by hours spent screaming and still more hours spent dragging myself home one reluctant step at a time. And as I breathe, I nestle into my father’s warmth, actively accepting the contact, seeking more out in a way that would normally be rather out of character for me. I drift back into a doze for a little while longer, cradled by the comfort of my father’s touch. But eventually my heavy eyelids flutter open and I blink slowly, tired eyes fighting to focus.
I thought I knew pain. I’ve become intimately familiar with agony in the last day or so, but it is nothing to the pain in my father’s face. I wonder if I would have recognized it yesterday, the anguish and the fury simmering beneath it. “Father?” I ask, my voice barely breaking a whisper. I almost move to rise, but bone-deep weariness holds me in place. That’s alright. Here is comfortable. Instead of following through with the motion, I rest my head on my father’s legs, looking up at the sky.
“I do not think socializing went particularly well this time.”
When I begin to stir again, he is still curled around me, holding me. My body doesn’t hurt anymore. All trace of it gone from my senses and I wonder briefly if perhaps I had my first nightmare. But no, Father would not be holding me like this just because I was distressed in my sleep. Nor even would Mother, though she would have done when I was younger. This is definitely Father, though. I may not have opened my eyes yet, but I would know his scent anywhere. Mine.
It is harder than I expected to open my eyes. Instead, I just breathe out a heavy breath, a sigh weighed down by hours spent screaming and still more hours spent dragging myself home one reluctant step at a time. And as I breathe, I nestle into my father’s warmth, actively accepting the contact, seeking more out in a way that would normally be rather out of character for me. I drift back into a doze for a little while longer, cradled by the comfort of my father’s touch. But eventually my heavy eyelids flutter open and I blink slowly, tired eyes fighting to focus.
I thought I knew pain. I’ve become intimately familiar with agony in the last day or so, but it is nothing to the pain in my father’s face. I wonder if I would have recognized it yesterday, the anguish and the fury simmering beneath it. “Father?” I ask, my voice barely breaking a whisper. I almost move to rise, but bone-deep weariness holds me in place. That’s alright. Here is comfortable. Instead of following through with the motion, I rest my head on my father’s legs, looking up at the sky.
“I do not think socializing went particularly well this time.”