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Without You
Safe to say I would simply have to die, I couldn't live, I can barely breathe just thinking of the thought. How can you expect me to let you go? And I didn't mean so-- I didn't mean you to find out in the first place darling. So easy, ease up darling, and let me hold you here gently. I'll hold you gently as if you were glass and would break with more than the shudder of my breath. You are my breath, you are my life. You are the reason I was born. I can hold you without pain.
A Lesser Captive
”You shouldn’t have asked about that.”
“Why not? I just, well I like the city too.”
She couldn’t help but defend herself. And if she had done something wrong he didn’t have to go right to scolding her.
Just tell what was wrong!
He didn’t.
”Please, just don’t be saying that kind of stuff,” and his face turned pained. And it hurt her. “Not to Emile, Emile is— sensitive.”
Even though they were whispering just like he’d started doing.
Again, without saying anything.
Abel and Emile had spent Thanksgiving with her and her mother and her sisters too.
She’d— very nervously— made sure to sit next to Abel.
He told her of the chores he’d done while grounded, some books he was reading, and how long someone could hide in an attic just inside the roof?
The idea scared him a little.
And that was it.
No riddle, no point, he was just scared of what could hide in a dark single room full of dust and other people’s junk and for how long could it be a secret, one of the one things he didn't know.
And she’d buried her friend like a caterpillar on her bed which he’d certainly seemed to like.
Considering he didn’t get out for a whole hour and just buried in deeper.
It was good he hadn’t been punished too long, but apparently at the time Mr. Emile had ended up buying something bad at the store.
Which had made poor Abel sick. In a way his wealthy-palette food never had.
Violet made sure to be careful with the nicely wrapped house gift they’d picked out.
Certain thoughts wanted to escape, certain questions but they were the kinds that made people think she was crazy.
Mother rang the doorbell, Violet stared at the door and barely reacted when Emile flung it open, a grin on his face.
What if— could— Emile feed Abel something to make him sick?
The four of them stepped inside and to the kitchen where some tea was already made and a plate stacked with biscuits and next to it was a second with a fruit tart.
“You can just leave that on the table honey,” Emile said of the gift. So she did.
Violet licked her lips, the cake had blueberries and raspberries.
“Abby, our guests are—“
“Oh.”
Violet turned around pretty fast to see that Abel stood at the doorway to the stairs.
Abel's face grew into an awkward, somewhat starry smile. She would have joked if he'd developed a crush-- until he just about tumbled into her.
They were hugging now.
______________________
It was one thing, going to another person's home. A person who like the whole town was aware of his tendency to take things. If he told-- though he wasn't a liar-- he would be called one and looked at with pity. And Emile could decide all manner of things, do all manner of things.
Yet at their own house, where there were baby gates, locked doors, possibly the clothes he had come in that had been taken away-- surely not. That would be-- would be absolutely foolish. Idiotic.
But all the same, Emile had removed the gates at both ends of the stairs taking such thing as a challenge.
"This was never meant to be forever," drifted in his head just shy of the first step.
Violet was here. Had rung the bell and entered the house.
Violet had a wrapped present with her.
Abel's breath caught, his foot taking that step--
Abel had been so certain he had come to that point, the very worst outcome, where Emile's patience had run out.
Such consequences would be for him to weather alone.
But it had not come.
Abel had been concisely and pragmatically grounded. It was explained why this was being done to him and why the choice was being taken from him on where and how to spend his time.
"I guess, Abel, I am terribly selfish. Did I worry what you could have done with a lighter, of course. Though more that you may not be able to live with yourself if someone else were to have gotten hurt. And I know you know that," and he'd stayed right to his eyes.
"You're a smart, bright kid. You're a good kid Abby, I love you son."
One step.
What was happening? What-- what was this?
One step.
And two.
He closed his eyes.
Two, three, "Abby."
He rushed down the rest of the stairway. And could he explain the sudden jolt at hearing his voice, the sudden want to do as was asked? No, and that was infuriating.
But for now what mattered was pleasing his guests.
Violet was the first to look at him, followed by her mother and two teenage girls.
He almost backed having seen at how the mother's arms reached out, but focused on Violet.
He'd had fun with her over Thanksgiving.
They'd talked quite at length about life in a farm.
And at that moment, he couldn't quite describe what the feeling was, that wanting of warmth.
Simply that in less than a second he had very much invaded her personal space, which she certainly wouldn't appreciate.
Abel wasn't the kind to simply embarrass others.
Abel had been granted permission to roam the house.
However he was simply not allowed to be alone anymore, not outside to do the chores, not in the hours before mealtimes, and not even always in his room where he'd simply read and done his notes.
Emile hadn't looked into his notebooks, still he'd torn the pages out and into pieces. And made his mess right in front of him.
Sitting with his knees drawn up, he was in an ideal position to refuse anymore hugging or petting.
Emile came closer and fingered his cheek anyway, tickling at the skin.
However Violet did not shudder or squeak. She hugged him too and it was... appreciated. Very, very much appreciated.
Besides the adults' fawning-- yes he included the older sisters-- he was not required to hug anyone else. Emile ruffled his hair all the same, before taking a plate of biscuits which he handed to Abel.
"Have fun with your friend," he said with a smile, eyes equally jolly. Still, something almost, cold, lay in how he said so.
Scampering upstairs Emile reminded, "lunch will be in two hours."
This time Abel marched up the stairs, possibly confident with the knowledge that Violet was in tow.
Leading her into his room he gently shut the door behind him.
"Woah, this is, this is nice. Do you use all this? And this many books," she continued, fingering one.
He rushed beside her, quickly checking and confirming that it was just a book.
"I like to read," he said, passing it to her. "We can do that if you like, or we can work on a puzzle? Draw? Do you--"
"Eh not really. Reading sounds fine or talking, we can talk."
And per usual she held the book up to hide her lips.
"You were, clearly very happy to see me," she mused, a cheeky kind of happiness in her voice.
"I'm not exactly spoiled for choices," he replied in their usual rhythm, but then-- well, he did very much need her.
And, he suspected Emile had caught on to that.
Perhaps noticed that she was just a bit wary in how she would look at his guardian sometimes.
"But yes, I am happy. I enjoy your company very much."
"Huh, well yeah. I guess I-- I enjoy yours too," she replied. "Then we're friends?"
This time quite hopeful and dare he say eager to hear an answer.
"I would say very good friends," he decided with a firm nod, so he held out his hand palm open. For however she may take that.
She did so by twining her fingers between his, and they clasped hands.
The touch continued to be enjoyable.
"Oh my gosh," she suddenly said, "I bet, you rich kids have never played patty cake. Uh I mean it's kind of stupid but you know--"
Abel raised his other hand, "that sounds just fine."
"It is a word game."
But nonetheless straightened up.
Both sat at the floor just at the side of his bed.
"Well then okay, listen to me. We'll do a practice round first and don't get pouty when I have to correct you," she decided, serious and smug. "I promise I won't laugh at you too much."
Play date.
He'd never had much use or reference for it before. He knew other kids did it, even society kids. His Mother often derided it every time, his Father espoused they were important for the family and for Abel.
He found he much more agreed with her.
Play dates were dull and demanding exercises more for the adults. The children being shafted into a singular room with random colorful toys and menial level reading.
Emile then sequestered all the children into learning about "playing together" and "sharing" once he'd become a presence in their home. Turning Abel into the pseudo-popular one.
___________________________
It was just himself with Violet's charming mother. The two teens had decided to indulge of the gardens and the animals outside.
Taking pictures for their social media pages.
He waved them aside, somewhat auspiciously flubbing the names of the apps and the likes or followers.
His and their mother's own little joke.
Absolutely adoring the expressions they made.
Topped off with tea and the delightful cake Abel had made.
Which of course he couldn't not mention.
Abby had certainly become accomplished when it came to baking and putting together the food.
A far cry from the boy he had been just a few months back.
Who had screamed when walking into the sight of Emile, admittedly horrifically drenched in a poor slaughtered hen's blood for tomorrow night's chicken alfredo.
Granted, he omitted that his fear stemmed from a non-existent implicit threat supposedly posed by the blood and sharp knife.
Nevertheless it made his company burst out laughing.
"Oh I'm-- I'm so sorry, I shouldn't. Who knows why the child reacted that way. I imagine it was a nightmare to explain," she said.
"Yes, let's-- not mention we had this conversation," he agreed enigmatically, "and your right, I do think it was his city living until that point that made it so-- visceral-- I didn't mean for him to see it. I'd meant to use it once cleaned as a learning moment of where his food comes from."
She nodded, "I remember when I explained to Violet what one of the families who used to live around the area did with the baby cows. She was still quite young, but I did tell her they went for a lot of money in the city."
"Oh no."
"Mmm she'd imagined they were pets and well, I realized I'd caught myself in the coop at that point."
"Did you say it?" Emile uttered, truthfully wrapped up in the story.
"Oh I did," her mother said, drawing from what he was sure was a terrible expression on a poor, little face.
"She cried and cried, I couldn't get her to eat the cheese or any meat from then on, she'd thought all animals were treated that way and tried to free ours."
"My well," he said, "least that's a very good hearted girl you have."
"And you have a good son."
He beamed. Six times she had called Abel his son.
And Emile was rightly proud. But he knew it was just as much Abel's own progress and the person he simply knew had to exist, that had waited to be permitted to exist.
"Whatever did happen to that place, you had mentioned it used to be for veal."
"Abandoned, quite a long while now. Old and falling over, kids like to play there when they make the trek anyway," she said with a sigh.
"Is it-- safe? To allow that I mean."
"Absolutely not," she said, scandalized it looked like at the notion, "the townsfolk and the sheriff's office tried several times to put signs or fence the area off but the older kids could be paid off then by the little ones-- don't ask me how."
And Emile nodded, listening as well as worried. What with Abel--
"Turns out best course of action is to teach early. Tell them from the start its dangerous, spin a story if you have to-- so the bigger ones will tell the younger siblings and would be stupid to help any rambunctious adventurers from looking and possibly getting buried."
Emile shuddered.
And noticing how the mother looked askance, he quickly rectified that it wasn't her fault for anything.
"Thank you for letting me know. Then I'll be sure to let my son know."
He could almost burst and die from saying that.
"Happy to help, now how do you like that centerpiece? Be honest now sugar."
Emile glanced at the object now gracing the counter, what with the encumbered tea tray and cookie tower. It was a wooden made bird branch with adorable red swallows and bluejay at its top.
"Absolutely lovely, thank you so much."
"Violet was the one who picked it out, said her friend would like that it had native birds too, and what type of tree it was?"
"He'll absolutely try to guess," he agreed.
Emile spared another glance.
There wouldn't be any other place but his room that Abel would permit he and Violet to converse.
Perhaps play some games, simply to say they did and would not be lying.
He was clever like that.
What they were talking about-- he'd been prepared with ideas, should it become important.
He certainly hoped not.
And he certainly hoped there was a better option to a time-out.
After all, Violet's mother was just simply a lovely woman and certainly the sort of mother, whose heart would break.
To be parted from your child, for even a moment, he doubted any pain compared.
___________________________
Very soon he simply couldn't continue.
Keep playing games and assuring Violet of fears that he knew for certain crept up on her.
Often from very little.
But always, from the little he gave her.
Including when they'd still spent four hours together making deliveries and loading eggs and other produce for the stores and Mr. Haley's home.
"Abel-- Abel what is it? What's," she delayed but eventually said it, "wrong?"
Considering how out of character it was for Abel to simply coax himself closer to her and almost-- cuddle.
"I'm... tired," he said. "I'm really tired."
Perhaps so tired that his voice could handle little more than a heavy plunge, sounding wooden and hollow.
Violet put her book down.
She put her book down, and bit at her lip.
"This isn't-- let's go to sleep tired-- is it?"
"No."
"And I can't, I shouldn't tell weird Emile should I?"
"Please don't."
For a moment, he turned the idea over again. That Emile had done this with a secondary motive. Rather than just further expanding upon the role he envisioned for Abel, he'd meant to take his bluff and retaliate.
There was no guarantee, that Violet would keep what he said next secret.
Oh she would try, would certainly try as she understood the weight of what the situation was. And that was just it, it was such a heavy situation.
One-- even he may be less than fully adept to deal with than he'd dare admit.
Even to himself.
"Abby, hey Abby," she said, now whispering.
He'd perched his head on her shoulder.
Which he craned up just a bit so he could look into her eyes. He deeply, absolutely abhorred that nickname.
And even with a muted growl an otherwise silent contempt bled through, which she felt.
"Sorry," she said next still quiet and yet managing to express a waspish mood.
And he replied in kind, quietly stating it. "I am not a foster child, I never have been and never will be."
Emile would not-- physically could not-- hurt her. He wouldn't.
His entire philosophy, each and every thing he was hinged upon the principle and valor of protecting and safeguarding children. So to harm Violet, to blame Violet and not him who told her--
That was-- had to be-- his limit.
That was simply what he must trust in.
"Could you tell me your last name."
"What?"
"For when I go home," he said simply.
"Abel, you're--"
"Emile is my kidnapper, I have a family and a home, I am wealthy and I say am because this isn't my home, I wanna go home. I wanna go home right now but I can't."
Violet looked like someone who had been struck. Physically and violently struck. Or more accurately, he had metaphorically just throttled her.
She struggled to speak, her lips hardly moving despite the unsure, harried sounds.
Then he'd sorely miscalculated.
He slowly made to grab one of her shoulders, until she hugged him again, this time by the scruff of his neck.
"This never happened okay, this conversation never happened."
"I see, okay," he accepted dutifully.
"Erwin."
"I beg--"
"My last name is Erwin."
"Rossilini."
And he said it. Again and again and again, rapidly and discordantly until she would tire of hearing it.
Or until his captor called again.
"Kids, lunchtime!"
Objective: Who is Abel?
Violet didn't dress for the day until after breakfast, so wore her plaid white and pink nightshirt to the table.
"Morning," she called to her sisters on the table and Mother stirring what had to be oatmeal. And continued a consistent hum while her thoughts collected and shook out cobwebs from the night before.
Winifred oggled for a second before replying back, while Mildred's eyes sparkled at the words, placing a piece of toast for her on a lace trimmed napkin.
A spread of toast, butter and jam, along with fresh blackberry smoothies was also prepared.
Settled into her seat Mother poured and placed a bowl of cinnamon topped strawberry oatmeal in front of her.
She was content to let her older sisters talk around her while Mother made sure to give them both adequate attention.
Despite talking about the over-complicated things in their high-school books and New York celebrities.
"Their designs, they're so elegant and I bet you--"
"Costs more than the farm. And imagine the markup once they would hit stores."
"True, true but still--"
"I'd want one of those too!" both agreed. "Ughh that magazine is due back at the library today though isn't it."
"Well it's either do that or have to endure harvesting the silo again," Winifred whispered grumpily.
"Good point."
And Violet, for whatever reason didn't keep her peace.
"And have me do it. No thanks. I'd probably lose an arm or get trapped and choke in all that grain. Or worse yet have to hire one of the other men to do it."
Both her other sisters simply stared, before turning to each other, and outright pointing at her.
Granted, she kept to her own head most days unless there were issues Mother wanted to talk about or there were Sunday plans after church on a particular week.
Though really, she wasn't certain who did or didn't believe in a God or the God, or whether church was purely a social activity where even furthest flung households could catch up and connect with each other.
She knew in her house, it wasn't really enforced or spoken about save for the traditional holiday prayers.
That may have been it. People did it since it was just what the routine was. Just like every town needed to have a church just like it needed a candy store and bank.
Only did a town need two weird kids? Abel may have not been aware and she wouldn't tell him, but there was already a weird, eccentric child that all the others didn't exactly include in their games. And no it was not her.
But to the point at hand is that Abel was odd. Yet odd in a very different way than she was accustomed or learned on.
Some days she could imagine he despised her very presence from her lackluster, somehow always rumpled moth-eaten sweaters or skirts-- seriously she didn't wring her clothes that much! She'd counted-- to the length of her long hair.
It was a constant of circular riddles and inane questions. Underneath what he constantly told her may or may not have been lies.
"Why is he such a liar?" she whispered.
"Liar, liar, ants in his pants."
"Maybe I should give him a wedgie. He'd never see..."
"Is she, she isn't right? Our Vi talking about boys?"
It.
At her side of the table Froo-Froo the cat mewed, jauntily displaying herself with a purr at her leg.
Violet chuckled at the sight, struck by the urge to pick up her adorable cat.
Only to remember of how Abel had been the one to return her. A fact the foster father had simply had to mention when she'd opened the door.
But she was a fickle, indifferent type of creature.
Coldly independent and with the expectation of being adored solely on her schedule.
She imagined it had to be a nightmare to be a foster child, utterly unwanted and constantly given back as if he were some two-bit wool sweater with fleas.
It almost escaped her when her sisters mentioned boys now, mostly about whether they were cuter light or dark.
"That they're not liars," she answered thoughtfully, and that would genuinely be nice. "Are all boys liars?"
And that had them thinking, so she could keep thinking.
Why didn't he act like one? Talk like one?
All shy and uneasy of other people, because they were mean and scary and sometimes way-way bigger and with demon eyes.
And then other days, other days is where he would smile. A smile that wasn't quite right. Not right in that, it looked too much like what everyone else had.
When Abel had clearly lived in a city most his life and had probably been around a lot of money, the kind a Prince had from the movies shown in the cinema or DVDs Mother has bought Vivian of princesses and magic and Disney.
Viv was confident, bought her pastel pink, never owned a single pair of pants and if she could glue glitter to it she'd make it shine in neon pink and silver.
Way too confident if Violet was honest, when she wore awful round and oversized glasses and at sixteen had a litany of blackheads and huge porous grooves dug into her face.
"This is the most she's said in ever," Mildred acknowledged, voice serious.
"I know, and look at that face."
"Do you think she wants to kill someone?"
"It can be like that," Winifred mused, surely nodding in some type of "wise mentor" speak. "We should support her."
"Girls," Mother chided, "do NOT speak about your sister behind her back."
Taking a bite of her oatmeal, she let the thickened, congealed blob swill in her mouth. Before swallowing hard.
Stirring her bowl to gather together a massive, fat wad large as a tarantula's posterior. "They should talk about me in another room."
Mildred smacked her palm on the table, having cricked her neck the other way to look anywhere else.
"Millie," Mom said, completely aghast.
"Sorry but come on Vi never talks at mealtimes!"
"Or movie nights!"
"Or ever really."
Mother simply sighed. And feeling her gaze land, Violet scooped her bowl and shoveled a heap of breakfast in her mouth. Hopefully making her a little less concerned or she felt better hiding in her food.
No one would have to know which was which.
__________________________
Normally Mom, her sisters, and Violet too of course, would make their bread line to have product shipped the next day.
From their grains and fresh made flour were warm loaves and cinnamon toast treats available on shelves the same day for four weeks of every fall for as long as they'd been here.
And routine, routine was something she'd always appreciated. Better yet the completely optional nature of interacting with people.
Always on a Thursday, which she'd specially mark each year.
Thursday.
Compared to a bi-weekly plan for Mr. Emile's eggs and milk and well grown veggies, obviously diligently watered on schedule.
This Wednesday, she'd begged of her mother and convinced Vivian to make the trek out to the town proper.
Despite having no other thing to do herself.
"They were getting milk bottles ready. Eggs and vegetables too," Violet informed as a stark answer for Viv's unasked questions, who was a consistent few paces behind.
"Oh okay then," Vivian nodded along, "easy don't get your knickers in a twist."
"Abel just told me that. That they'd get the bottles and things, but to definitely expect they'll be delivering."
"The foster kid," and she wasn't quite sure why there was a slightly sad look to how she said it. Or something like it.
Violet simply puffed her cheeks, a creeping score of red taking up her cheeks.
Vivian did due diligence to make sure Violet stayed with her, within her line of sight.
Since usually, Violet would habitually hold her sister's hand, finding the presence of someone she really, really knew was right at her side-- on her side-- always and often soothing. Even if she should really be past that by now.
Abel from the city took to farm life with diligence, so that eventually she would watch him do the tasks by muscle memory, looking at her while talking instead of eggs or the stream from a hose.
Vivian offered an ice cream which Violet accepted.
She was just finished with her cone and her hands sticky with strawberry when coming to the tiny, vintage grocery store, mostly there for tourist and historic nostalgia, where deliveries of glass milk bottles were shuttled from pick up truck to door man.
The go-between being an adolescent from the community center.
His name was Dorian Laurel who had a little brother two years younger than Violet and completely full of himself. She knew him better so she asked him about who else delivered today.
"Emile, Emile," he pondered, furrowing his brow and then, "wait is that a new kid in town? Kind of a girly name."
Violet couldn't help herself and just groaned, "no the one with the foster kid. Y'know the one no city agency social worker visits for some reason."
"Shaa-- shoot-- I did see the guy actually. But no sorry, hasn't been in."
And before Violet could elaborate, "I only saw him at the community center checking up on the schedule for escape rooms and what programs were starting up next season for his son. Also, I thought he was well-- do they give single guys like that a son?"
Why was he asking me? I didn't know! I didn't know why he chose Abel who was so difficult to be honest much as I did like a friend who kept his voice down and really couldn't care one way or another which meant Violet couldn't disappoint.
"Nevermind, probably shouldn't have said something like that," Dorian decided.
He then waved ahead to Vivian who just tilted her head, keeping suspicious and glowering.
"Okay bye then," she decided with a succinct nod and wave of her own. Because it was what kids her age did. Even if people she wasn't even talking to saw and could get the wrong idea of some random little girl addressing them.
Just across the street was the bakery who should be expecting-- along with her own family's sorghum flour on discount-- a stock of white and brown eggs.
She would remember both kinds being in Abel's basket.
Before they went in she did ask, "is there something wrong about Mr. Emile?"
Vivian huffed, "you mean what Dorian said. Vi, I am not the person to talk to you about that."
It might be better to simply give up the line of questions there, Vivian did not like the topic. And if she got so annoyed at how Abel would needle-- then again forcing her to talk, to say what she thought, maybe she should take from his city-learned confidence.
"Why not? Is he sick? I think he's good."
"No offense but how would you know that?" Vivian asked crossing her arms.
"I think you should ask how I know Abby if he never leaves the house."
Vivian blew air from her still closed lips but eventually deflated on her guarded stance, "look don't repeat anything I say, and don't listen about the stupid stuff Dorian says. I should tell you to talk to Mom about this stuff but I'll tell you what I think anyway. I think you'll agree."
"What is it?" she wondered, now getting just a little uneasy. This sounded pretty serious and she never liked serious too much. Even a lot of the more fiery and death parts of Church and service made her heart hurt and tears spring to her eyes like red-hot pin needles.
"Most adults usually get married and have kids, they stay around, in small towns like this. It's different in cities of course and sometimes that means things can get messy but," Vivian shrugged quite casually, "long as we're here that mess isn't really our concern or much less have an opinion. It's just their way."
Violet nodded along for now. But she did know of plenty of adults who had left. Teenagers who had gone far away for college and then, were just suddenly not part of the big group anymore.
The notion scared her. The type of unsteady, dizzying anxiety that was so acute since-- she knew she wasn't of the group. Not really.
"So you know the son," Vivian pivoted but she didn't point that out, "and I won't ask why or how. See everyone knows about him too, the guy, really weird, has taken him out a few times for this or that. Mostly doing what the kid likes. Usually involves a lot of books and sitting still by the way, you're welcome."
Violet stared at her dryly. Then she assumed how Violet was feeling too, but she supposed she could grant Vivian grace.
"Alright, alright, now foster kids... there are all the rumors and horror stories of what goes on and from the looks of it they seem pretty true."
Why was she so stuck on finding Abel today?
Since she knew being in public meant running away would be more humiliating than not and they'd have two maybe even three hours of uninterrupted company together.
"Kids like that, they need special care, need someone who can be there full 100 without weird stuff or ulterior motives. I don't know where it comes from but it's "odd" somehow when a guy or girl without a partner adopts kids and well, most of the town-- here I mean-- is "in the know" about Mr. Emile being pretty obviously gay. Supposedly social services gets pretty weird about handing over kids to gays too."
That was a lot of words. A lot of which either didn't make sense as words or just didn't make sense for how-- odd and arbitrary it all fit together.
So, someone who liked men, couldn't have kids? Weren't-- allowed kids? Because-- because--?
"Look Vi, really don't think too hard on it. Besides rumor or what have you, it. Is. Not. Our business."
Violet nodded with a crooning hum.
"Good. So let's get going to your Princey-poo who may or may not be into other princes."
Violet just whined again, which this time Vivian misunderstood for hurt.
"What about the candy store or heck he could have dumped him at the bookstore or set him to wait on the church steps? See we know they make their own taffy over there."
It was a logical idea.
But the more likely answer is that Violet just wanted another sweet or better yet, take advantage of what was also near the church. The plaza where the high schoolers often met for crummy burgers or to catch a cab for the theater on the other side of town.
"Let's try that after the big grocery store."
Vivian didn't hold back on pouting but followed along anyway.
Where a bus terminal across the road could take them to the superstore center.
The bigger grocery store was just a stone's throw from the competing barbers and with a park across the street.
"Hey Violet, in all seriousness," she said in a light, careless tone, "you never want to go out really if you can help it, you-- you have no friends," she popped out, but despite the discomfort of saying so a grin spread across Viv's face. "I was right wasn't I? Little Violet has a boyfriend. I can help."
Violet violently shook her head.
"No Abby's just as weird as I am and I dunno about good or bad but Emile is really super weird about keeping Abel on schedule or something. Abel's super lonely and that's sad so I'm giving him my company."
She may prefer getting tonsils removed but it still sat wrong with Violet that Abel didn't get the choice to avoid social activity.
Vivian laughed but still nodded, looking vaguely pleased. For what reason Violet wasn't completely sure.
"Okay then sis. That's-- that's a real good reason to make me have to interact with the rabble."
"You mean the sun which is probably not great for your skin already," she figured quietly.
"But anyway we also all buy our clothes at second hand stores, but somehow only yours have colors like vomit had an affair with scorched Earth."
Delivered in the deadpan tone many still found "cute," not that she dared use that little trick often.
"Jesus Vi, the mouth on you," Vivian scolded but more impressed than anything else.
"Keep that up and I'll be having a talking to with this kid."
Violet couldn't help but frown. And not just since it would probably be a bad idea if Abel specifically, were to be accosted.
It was sorely her turn to be scolded.
Curse that she couldn't-- at least-- look her in the eyes as she did it.
Was she crazy? Probably, but she'd meant what she'd said anyway. Abel sorely needed a friend and why he couldn't just say so-- there had to be a why?
Just because people didn't hear or she didn't always speak when told, well Violet still had her opinions written on her face.
And least Abel would get her meaning and get that someone knew he would need talking.
Vivian was mostly forgiven-- key word mostly-- holding onto Violet by her shoulders in a warm hug that almost put her to sleep had the bus not screeched to a stop just then.
With a few bleary blinks she shook herself awake and did hope her hair hadn't gotten to messy. Abel would curl his lips in that way that whether he knew or didn't know made her feel insecure she wouldn't say. And maybe she would tell him, once she could be steady and not such a big baby.
Surely big city boy thought it even if it was one of the uncouth, unwarranted thoughts he often wondered why kids had to blurt out without decorum.
They got lucky, and Vivian got a drawn out vindicating "YEEEEES! I am foisting you off on those two!"
Parked at the store entrance was Mr. Emile's very odd car that shouldn't have been depended on to make heavy produce deliveries and for some reason traps yet more heat with its tinted windows.
Violet ran ahead to her sister's tense call, "wait! Oh I didn't mean literally!"
Charging on to the entrance it didn't matter when the doors opened with a cheery tune greeting, the attention didn't matter so much.
She careened and tumbled straight into the weird Mr. Emile whose mouth had gone into an O and so, unable to catch her.
On the floor it passed her mind to ask what got this man angry?
All adults got angry in some way or another for many reasons. And while she feared it, it was important information.
Only, she realized from her vantage point just how big Emile was. Big as any man or woman, who sometimes did judge her-- she knew they did-- and worse yet wasn't in with the group either.
She didn't know this man and that hit with a shuddering dread.
Violet eked away with a nervous, frightened little creen.
Hands at her ears were the last place she could defend herself but the voice was all muddled and confusing, she knew she was losing sight of herself and where she was.
Her face had turned feverish and she stuttered.
Unable to ask where Abel was or use any of the many, many ghastly ways she and he both knew to say what they mean without being offensive.
She closed her eyes but opened them again just as quick, realizing that it would be a very bad idea to not see if someone was attacking her or touching her wrong.
Violet knew Emile wasn't the kind to attack.
But he'd been bigger and he'd been older and he'd be taken more seriously even if he were quiet like her.
"Hey there sweetie," he whispered in a much quieter, more even voice. The kind her teachers often used whenever they talked alone or in front of the class. The one that said she wasn't there to be embarrassed. "Violet is it? My son's wonderful and clever little friend."
A bit of a dumb question.
She'd seen from first sight that he'd known she was in their yard.
And then, "Oh but don't tell him I called him that. Both of you won't mind that right?"
Emile looked up and so she had to infer Vivian had caught up.
And had been there to witness anything that may go wrong.
Her fears dissipated.
"Afternoon to you both," he said, but held a hand for Violet with a dazzling smile, "come on now let's get you up off that dirty floor yeah?"
Violet couldn't help but sink further inside, clutching at the hem of her peppermint blouse.
"I promise I'm not making fun. I should have caught you, any responsible person would have done so," he continued, "consider myself sorry for the whole thing."
Violet took his hand.
"There, good girl," he said approvingly.
"Abel," she said without segue. Stupid.
But in barely a blink Emile seemed to understand her absolutely perfectly.
"Picking out some treats and what he wants for dinner tonight, considering I've run him to the bone today. I'm sure you're aware dear," he pinned a knowing gaze with a torqued head.
"He lived in the city before."
"Ding ding ding."
Violet, despite her previous anxieties did preen and giggled along. Oh, Mr. Emile was absolutely still odd and that wasn't reassuring but she couldn't help it! She was less mature and much more easily impressed than Abel!
He admitted himself he'd be an outcast in most settings so it was alright!
She also remembered how he missed the few settings he wasn't.
“What’s it like mister?” she asked, wide eyed and staring at him, face for the most part quite blank. “In the city.”
For a moment he didn’t reply, he thought about it some before he smiled still. “Oh I’m sure you could ask Abel,” he said, “I do think he’d like to talk about it.”
“Okay,” she agreed, voice still unsure. Something she probably shouldn’t have let Emile or her sister see. Then he might think she didn’t trust him for no reason.
She didn’t but still.
“Uhh hey still over here Vi,” Vivian reminded with a pointed smile.
Back straight and face bemused she held out her hand, greeting Mr. Emile with formality.
“Oh yes hello, apologies really for my manners it’s just your lovely sister was talking and—“
And quite expertly she interrupted. Laughing heartily, as if she did implicitly agree. “Right I bet. She is… interesting.”
Hey!
“Oh I think the better word dear, is sharp as a whip,” Emile replied and really still only had eyes on Violet. As if he and Violet were still talking. Weird.
“And yes I heard it, just a joke but no less true,” he assured.
“Sure, I mean I didn’t mean anything by it,” Vivian replied looking uncharacteristically chastised.
“No of course not, but I have to admit we don’t know each other well,” Mr. Emile rounded off with a slight frown.
“Oh well I’m Vivian, this one’s older sister. And see she and your— ward— are friends?”
“Were you curious why he was out of home?”
Violet just shook her head.
“Uh uh he told me what the plan was. But I didn’t want him to be lonely and bored all day.”
“Oh that’s so sweet,” Emile gushed. “He’ll be so happy, well on the inside, he will be though. Then,” and looking at Vivian, “do you mind if we take her off your hands. A couple hours I think is how long she usually stays.”
“Hang on, you knew about that?” she asked.
“Oh well sure, I keep an eye on him, protective I guess she likes to climb fences and I apologize about her having come home wet.”
“Hang on back up, take me through that,” Vivian said in a more urgent note.
“See well— huh, Abel should have been back by now. I say treats but he only likes so much.”
“I mean surely he’s fine?”
“Fine I’m not worried about he’s good—“
”Will an Emile Frau please come to the customer service desk. Emile Frau please come to the customer service desk.”
Foster kids did tend to have issues.
But Abel wasn’t— he’d just never been like other foster kids.
Have you stolen?
Have you cheated?
Did anyone ever bleed cuz of you?
He was absolutely the kid who would if it meant sticking up for himself and what was his. By absolute legal and authority standards.
“No.”
“No”
“And no, why would— who would do that? It accomplishes absolutely nothing and begets more problems.”
That’s what one calls a net loss.
This was probably one too. Emile would no way let him spend time with a friend now.
And he hadn’t even tried to steal candy or other food. They’d found a lighter, a small dish soap liquid, and a pack of pens.
Objective: Unequivocally Failed
Player Piece
And so begins, a life.
When a piece-- violet-- clunks the board.
Let us begin.
Smiling with vigor and youth.
How arrogant, how playful.
Moving along colored tiles.
Rambling around in graceful ballet steps.
Dancing and floating about.
In a storm of dandelion fluffs.
But wipe that away and so is left the solemn duties of social graces.
Social graces, that for the little purple piece, possesses thorns.
And so the player grows antsy as they do cold.
Moves their piece along with caution.
Desires money and status.
Draws their cards and does the maths.
Which school? Which value? And what course of study?
She is ten years old.
The violet piece, who knows its age. It is a toy.
And from there on continues the dictated clothes.
Did you notice?
The player is in a nice shirt and khaki pants.
Continues life all on their lonesome.
In the sickness and the health.
Of loneliness.
Some days it is sickening.
The utter quiet, the destitute of doing nothing, being nothing beyond a small house.
Others it is a pleasure. To be left to thoughts and amalgamations spanning the sky of imagined ideas. Of creative overture.
Directed, dictated with the wand tipped in pencil lead.
And who knows when it starts.
Just before, when they have met the other.
Player and piece.
Meeting upon the board.
Seated herself, just like that.
Our player, for a whole second, may have scowled.
But then, then she beamed.
They continue on together.
Sometimes one ahead, sometimes the other.
Until joy and laughter fills where the kids are playing with their different colored pieces.
Through cold and through heat.
Through the rain and through the snow, when they do by phone.
But the game, is still not done.
It's still not done.
The purple piece wants to shout.
Because there's a future, there's life and there's friends. They may leave me behind.
The piece, is no longer a toy.
Having lived and run and raced across life.
Before tasting laughter and having the caring hands of another.
Days and days go by before her player comes back.
She is in loose clothes but still smiles.
Leering towards that little toy.
That with two fingers she flicks to its side.
The game, very much over for the time being.
Passion v. Remembrance
I believe that anger is the more powerful, as it is one of the more base emotions that we have-- not a mixture or the product-- but purely rage and purely within each of us from the moment we are born.
Take Inside Out, the most kid-friendly metaphor we have for the development of children. In a given child and adult's control room, Anger, Joy, Fear, Disgust, Sadness, are the primary overseers of a human's interactions. They are base emotions and match up with the psychological concept of primary facial expressions which are universal and visible via our body language.
Anger, in the film and so proven in real life, appears as early as babyhood. When the child will throw tantrums or throw their food, refusing to eat what they judge is unpleasant-- thank you Disgust-- but also when denied immediate pleasures. Of course, many humans grow past the need and fixation toward immediate gratification and on all levels develop a manner of patience for greater rewards. They are able to temper and resist their anger, it does not consume them. That is not where anger's power comes from.
Anger comes from the fact that it is so old, so primal and programmed to be necessary to human survival. Anger is what powers aggressive mating rituals among males, anger is in part what drives a mother to claw and fight to protect her children.
Anger is the programming in all of us that if removed runs the risk of damaging the individual in all things.
Anger, even colors our nostalgia.
Nostalgia, is an odd abstract idea. When defined it is the longing or fondness a person has for the past. Whether the past in chronological sense as the years and its trends or for their own personal past which is a bit more distinct, and much more riddled with emotionally fueled memories that the former does not posses to the same degree.
So you see, nostalgia cannot solely be-- an emotion, or if it is is more accurate to call a mixture of emotions that combines into a wholly new feeling. Perhaps, is what was felt by Riley to remember Minnesota, her childhood so sadly at the beginning and realizing that time has gone and past, where she must make due with San Francisco. Perhaps it is what colored the memory at the end both blue and yellow-- happy and sad as she was finally relieved of and allowed to verbalize what she longed for. What she missed of her home and what she missed. What she... nostalgized about.
And perhaps, that ending to the first film is why nostalgia-- explicitly and exclusively an old woman among definitively younger emotions-- makes appearances in the second film. Since soon after the first she had been born but for a young person would be for the most part displaced. Notably no other adults present even signs of nostalgia or the same type of blended, bittersweet memories that Riley does.
Nostalgia as a concept, is surrounded and associated with memory. Memory and what powers and other emotions those memories hold for us, which is what shapes the experience as we indulge in "nostalgia."
Riley's memories had been colored blue, so as she was fond of them, they nevertheless brought her sadness. And much in the same vein could red color our memories.
A bitter love turned foul or ended abruptly that we were left in bewildered heartbreak, the missed opportunity or failed exams, the toys that turned out to be a scam, or the people throughout sepia colored childhood that should have been our protectors utterly fail in their role.
Coloring our whole lives, the bases of who we are in blood red.
Nostalgia: Is the longing or fondness we have for memories of the past and a desire to return and experience the wonders of our past that have been imprinted in our memory. And simply that, fleeting, impermanent memories.
And yet that fondness doesn't necessarily have to be present, and we still call it nostalgia. Even when our memories are bitter, even when they are tragic, we look back on them. To soothe the ache and the twist of sad or angry blades. Of the twist in our hearts for those lost or those who have forgotten us.
or, the want of what could have been, from those who had never valued us at all. When there was hope, despite the absence and despite the failures when in death or distance we are now all on our own. That hope irreversibly extinguished. Struck dead as the hollows of tree branches in the cold fall season.
Anger, is the emotion.
Nostalgia is the remnants and what we may put into tangible proofs when we feel.
Nostalgia lies in the place within our emotions.
The Last Unicorn
This was the first thought in seeing this challenge title, and really all I'll write about for a brief topic.
The film is an older movie released in about the eighties, with central themes on the loss of innocence, death, love, and regret. Among the central rules of its magic system is that only those who believe can see a unicorn, while all other "men" see only a white mare. A normal horse.
And sure enough there is only one or two exceptions among the women who see the unicorn for what she truly is.
A clumsy, somewhat inept sorcerer who nonetheless has a good heart and more power than he himself realizes and the old, wizened King Haggard who is a miserable almost non-human entity who has never tasted anything like the euphoria of a unicorn's gallop across his long life.
The sorcerer is an especially interesting case as he represents the innocence that the unicorn herself does in a much less ethereal form. Many could call him childish with how he blusters and makes himself grander than he actually is while in the employ of a cruel, vindictive master. His journey is one of learning as he steadily matures to understand the true nature of the magic he had attempted to wrestle and force into being what he wanted. And through that innocence as well as an optimistic attitude that preserved his ambitions despite failure, is he able to believe and see the magic in front of him even past illusions and his momentary misery before he takes freedom alongside the unicorn.
But what is really poignant is the middle-aged woman, a bandit wife, who sees the unicorn despite being what the archetype would call, in her "crone" phase. She had never had children and now has lost all her appeal as an attractive, fertile mother and provider. She is introduced as a cynical nag, and yet retained the magic within her of the tale of a unicorn. Through all her years did in her goodness, believe in and revere the powers of a unicorn.
Despite her bitter feelings of never having been so lucky.
When taken into perspective, of history and of our literature the phases of a woman's life are uniquely entangled with loss. As a maiden she loses power and agency, often a victim in need of a savior and of respite. In many ways like any young child but especially sharp-- the sharp tang of aged cheese-- for little girls who society tells are the most worthy as voluptuous, incorruptible princesses, who should stay innocent forever until it is to the convenience of someone else that they transition from their childish purity, from believing of unicorns into motherhood.
Motherhood, where they have experienced pain, where they realize the ticking clock of losses to come, from their own mothers and their fathers, who have already lost the assurance of their warm breasts forever there for their comfort. Where most women will lose that belief in fairy stories and unicorns, but will nevertheless pass on what "must be" a pretty lie to their own children. Pass on that lie because they love them. Whisper lies until they can do so no longer, because their own mothers have unfortunately left them and so have, that treasured innocence that always made their smiles brighter. Leaving behind a tired, so-called unappealing crone. The spinster.
The crone, devoid of the warmth and light she had once borne, now ugly and hollow. The symbol of death and decay. Who has long and so bitterly grieved, the idea of unicorns. Who believe, they have vanished from the world, or were perhaps never there to begin with. This is where we meet the secondary female character of the film.
Bitter and angry at the unicorn, the last of her kind, for never appearing to her-- the unicorn, meant to symbolize the purity and chastity of a bride-- ever the status symbol, as a bride when she had been married or when she had been new.
Who nevertheless never stopped believing that they existed and that perhaps she herself had sinned to never be worthy of the unicorn. Never worthy of being called innocent or beautiful or lovely or magical.
But in her goodness, did she forgive and was equally honored to be worthy of the Last.
"Where were you twenty years ago, ten years ago, where were when I was new. When I was one of those innocent young maidens you always come to? How dare you? How dare you come to me now? When I am this!" Molly Grue, the Last Unicorn.
A Boy by Any Other Name is Always a Warrior Toy
In contrast to the woman who is protected and rescued, held within the arms of those whom she trusts and loves-- whom she is compelled to love-- this boy, newly born is forced to fight.
This little boy designated already as a soldier, already commodified for product by his youthful, psychologically alluring neoteny of his face. The virtue and wonder inherent in the innocent want to protect. It is the soldier boys who protect out of love, compared to their compatriotic men, defending their right-- faded and slowly peeling at its yellowed edges-- to live and to survive, fighting to see blood, to see blood validating their lives to continue. Insisting, begging that their lives be deemed worthy to continue by the pierce of their bullet or the blood upon curved Army knives.
A boy must fight to live, must fight to love, must fight and fight and fight.
In contrast to the women, trapped within the lovelessness of gilded glass as the rosy promise of a fairytale. Which play upon slowly withering apple cheeks. But amidst the knights and the dragons with their hateful flame, among evil men and other domineering ugly women, who protects the man, who takes their chisled jaw and strong chest to feel the heart beating underneath? Who tells these soldier boys fed the idea of red strings and fawning young maidens that the danger has past? That they are safe. And when are they safe?
To a female past the archetype, to a female breaking from their mold, their opposite is the enemy. The man who so demands their love and their bodies.
However it is the elders in their silvery misted bogs and their wizened hands on cool glass crystal balls who so dictate those rules. Old authors, old male authors of a besotted, plague riddled time who placed these expectations on paper. Of the little girls to be wives, and of the little boys to be soldiers and to constantly battle and beat off the competition.
Separate yet somehow never equal, not within their spheres, or upon each other. When they are.
Borrowing from a more Asian belief, a shuddering notion to be sure, yin and yang. Representing the light and the dark, the good and the evil, as well as feminine and masculine. What we have denominated to equate as boy and girl.
From the youth and exuberance of a boy to the beauty and therefore vitality of a woman do we come to see life be made, new life a blessing in whatever binary form it takes. For a child is sacred in all spheres.
So says the matronly nature of a woman's archetype. But the question must be posed, where is the paternal? The Father is often off fighting war and in stories is often a non-entity or otherwise, a constant obstacle near exclusively to their daughters. In more recent years to the "daughters when asked for sons," of the boys who prefer the artistic, nurturing pursuits deemed gentler and woman-like. When if anything, the brutal punch of an emotional blow damages an individual in a way unreachable for the rite healing much similar to simple and shallow conceptions of human beings.
And better yet when both are in twilight, nearing the end of their lives here and to rise toward guiding lights in the night sky, we focus upon the wisdom gained from a lifetime of war and bloodshed. We call him the sage. While we call her the crone. What of the wisdom from watching a life grow and prosper? What of the wisdom within the peaceful, artisanal little village?
The wisdom of what made a child smile and where vice came to be born within every child making for the dysfunctional. Those all too-- almost too human-- to be included in the category so loftily described.
Okaze Arima
Just seventeen years old and in a standard black uniform, the first thing had been cleaning the blood off the poor boy's face. And afterward was to replenish the lost nutrients from a Manifest that large and that long-acting.
"The first thing any of us heard was the evacuation alarm and announcement on the intercom. It was my second class sir, Civics in the West end of the building, when the alarm sounded. I couldn't hear over the footsteps. But the suspects could only be within the range of where they had set off the bomb. It went... black afterwards."
Alone
Alone? Alone is the bite of fiery tongues upon the pink flesh of intestines. That thing that's defined as "the gut."
Alone is closed doors and closed, shuttered expressions,
Alone is the disdain those stupid idiots don't bother to hide anyway about anything.
About my waist, about my voice, about my likes, about the desire to just... talk. I don't know how, not really.
I just, wanted to say what I liked.
I shouldn't-- I don't deserve to be judged!
I'm not wrong.
I'm not useless.
You ARE!
You are Unabled and dumb and mean.
And no one wants mean people, the mean people stink!
Alone is screaming at nothing.
Alone is turning your insides to ice and ceding your affections-- cast off-- completely useless. Dangerous.
Alone is the fact, the grim knowledge that the world is made of liars and "teasers," who don't care who gets hurt.
What poor girl might take their "dates" seriously.
You can't trust.
You can't love.
People are ugly.
I tell myself in the mirror, ugly and fat as I am. A lumpy, lard thing.
And no, I don't believe I hated others because I hated myself.
I hated others since all I ever heard, were spears across a crumbling, already fragile self-worth.
And self-awareness, that I know I'm a freak.
I was alone, apart.
Alone is unable to see colors and light, unable to find beauty and being angry all the time at everyone you see on the TV.
You think the worst when your lonely.
And when the first hand finally deigns to take a chance on you-- is when rose exploded across my eyes.
The Martyr
Very simply, from what is described, the Sin-Eater is a position that provides ample excuse to sacrifice the undesirables of any given village. Those who simply humans deem are unworthy of God in some way, and so very often do pay for it with their lives since one) they're eating off corpses, two) if they have that person's sins than are they now marked as sinful and deemed "acceptable" to further shun and even attack? People can be-- savage and stupid in so few words. And three) they aren't even paid well for the work, at best get a meal infested with maggots and flies for their troubles until they're back to starving by breakfast time and no one to give them the time of day.
The Sin-Eater supposedly such an important task, is not left to the "worthy," not those with souls deemed saintly or innocent. I doubt they think children should be spared for their imbibed purity as God's favorites, God's most precious creations and angels among humans. I doubt such thoughts of who may die or be ill crosses their minds in order to spare those people the strain. Rather, who "should," be ill or dead.
Much more likely is that the Sin Eater is thought of in the ways of virgins sacrificed to mountain gods in Edo Japan, perhaps beautiful but more likely little girls deemed unsuitable for marriage among the boys and demonized by the adults and only family to defend her if she's lucky. Or the unlucky child in 'The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,' who were blind to a single child's constant misfortune since it forfeits their utopia, which is frankly a sickening principle. It should be that the collectives are safe, that a society is loyal and serves the many-- as many as it can-- and do good by its people.
In any fair world, in any one that supposedly reveres their God as much as they fear him the Sin-Eater should be exalted and do that duty willingly and for selfless purposes if they wish to preserve the meaning in the first place. Then otherwise what kind of fair is it if a person already sinful is tainted with the sin of greed and vanity? Or better yet, the entire ritual poisoned by prejudice, disdain, and apathy?