People are afraid of the unknown. Why? Well, it's because they don't know what to expect from something they know nothing of. So, they're scared to see what the outcome will be, especially if all their brain thinks of is the bad outcome. They don't try to explore the undiscovered; in fact, they shy away from the unseen, to crowd around in the known. Their safe haven. We choose not to know the things that we might think will turn out to be bad in the end because we don't want to know the bad. It's been ingrained in our heads all our lives to only know the good, the things that will help us, but what we see is only the bad. Humans are a nonintellectual, but still intelligent, species, who happen to fear the absurd because of the lack of knowledge. I guess that's why, in my younger and more vulnerable years, I never once thought things over, only believed what I was told. My life's story is foolishly strange. My parents are not who they were made out to be, but they were still the best parents I had. I would simply like to say this: my father was not my actual father, but my mother never told him how or why. He was left believing that I was his blood-born son, and not once questioned why I looked so different to him. Thinking back, I often pity my father's stupidity and ignorance; it's almost laughable how he never doubted my mother's words. But I suppose that's for a later explanation; for now, you get the story of how I came to be in this godforsaken world. Mother always made her younger self out to be this beautiful woman that all of the boys in her village chased after. Because I was told this story as a young boy, I never questioned just how pretty she wanted herself to actually be. But for your information, my mother wasn't all that good-looking; in fact, her hair was a ragged, raven-black mess and her eyes were always sleep-deprived brown. She wasn't that old, but she looked like she aged thirty years in about the span of a couple weeks, give or take. Anyway, Mother didn't have a nice history of her own, so I guess you could say I inherited that bad history. Her father and mother were poor, and her father was always out fishing to make money or to keep as their food. Every time, she told me, that he came out, he'd be drunk off his ass and beat her or her mother for no goddamn reason. So, the next morning, she would always have bruises on her arms or her face, maybe even a black eye. I think, looking back on this story now, the boys didn't chase after her and the girls weren't jealous of her, they pitied her. My guess is that everyone pitied her and her mother because they knew just how horrible her father really was. My own the most of all. I think he would sit on the sidelines and watch the days pass by and would there never be one that she didn't have some sort of mark on her. Father, well, he was the young boy who lived just down the road from Mother, or so she would tell me. He would come to her house from time to time and chop their wood for them because neither her mother or herself were capable of doing so. To be honest, this was probably where Mother started falling in love with him because he was really the only other person she talked to on occasion. By the way, this isn't my actual father we're talking about; he comes in at a later time. When her father wasn't around, and my stepfather was, they would strike up conversation while he chopped away at the wood. It came to a point where Mother would sneak out from her house from time to time, even when her father was home, just to see him. They would always go to the forest just outside the village and wander through there, chattering away. Mother must have enjoyed it a lot because she always tells me stories that Father told her back then they wandered the forest. The stories are quite interesting, but I never really saw the point in them or what Mother even found attractive about them. I suppose it wasn't really the stories that she found attractive, but Father actually, and she eventually married him. Her father didn't approve, but he never really approved of anything when it came to my mother. She's always said that she had the happiest of years with my stepfather, but never specified what was happy about it. They never had their own children together; I'm their only child, even though I'm not Father's actual son. Father was nearly always gone from the house because he was either out fishing for food or chopping wood for people. Mother. . . well, she always sat in the house, cooking what little we had, or sewing new clothes for me. But maybe those were just the years that I saw; years where she looked heartbroken, like she longed for something. Being me, I didn't know what it was, and then she finally told me one day that the father I knew wasn't mine. Anerosa (that was my mother's name) explained to me that in those years he and she were married, she met another man. Inteus was his name. That's who made all those years of marriage happy for her because Father was "such a bore after marrying him". "Love was never love with Fumishi", Mother would always say, "it just never felt the same after I married him". Anerosa encountered Inteus one day when she was out harvesting vegetables for whatever she was happening to make. Mother said, but I never really paid attention to the smaller details. I was curious about this "Inteus" guy. She injured her ankle walking back to the house, and he just appeared in front of her from who knows where. He was "the most gorgeous man" she had ever laid eyes upon, what with "shaggy, short, blue hair and brilliant, light blue eyes". These are Mother's words, by the way. She couldn't not fall for his beauty. There was something "unrealistic" about him, "no man was that perfect", but she still loved him. Because I was so young at the time, Mother didn't go into much detail about my father's and her relationship. In fact, I hardly know anything other than his name and a very small description of what he looks like. All I know is that something happened when mother met him that day, and I was the result of that encounter. Whether I was out of love or not, I really don't know; she hasn't spoken to me about my coming to be since then. word count: 1,166 As I pondered weak and weary |
Made by Sifr @ THQ.