A/N I actually had this up a few days ago, then decided to take it off. I was really uncomfortable with it. So I rewrote it some. However, if you've already read it, I wouldn't recommend rereading it, I just did a little editing and added a couple paragraphs in.
As for the people who reviewed me for the original: (both of you)
THANKS!
AGodofIrony: Luv ya bro. ;)
Daidairo: I'm glad you liked it. Your review was actually the one that convinced me to repost it after I had removed it. Yes, alas, poor Dora does not get the credit she deserves.
A woman in her early forties stared blankly ahead. Her pale-eyed gaze bore invisible holes in the white washed walls of the dining room. Hands worn from the tough labor of a peasant woman were clasped in her lap. A cup of tea sat on the table in front of her; a chipped, worn mug filled with lukewarm liquid. Bleakly cheerful sunlight poured in from the windows, signaling that it was nearing noon. Yet, Dora still hadn't moved from this spot since early that morning, and other than the tea, had made no effort to supply herself with nourishment.
Her reason? Two memories cruelly juxtaposed themselves in Dora's mind. The same two kept replaying themselves over and over again, side by side. Her mind's eye could do nothing but watch in endless sorrow. No matter how hard her spirit fought back, rising deep in her abdomen to face the illness in her mind, she couldn't drag herself out the paralysis that bound her to the hard wooden chair. A dull depression had settled over the woman, successfully overpowering any thoughts of cheer or good will.
The first memory that tortured her was short, but definitely the worst of the duo. Even after three years it still haunted her. In the middle of the night she would suddenly waken, brown hair unbound as tears and sweat mingled freely on her ashen face. A cry would form on her lips, but she would choke it back, not wanting to wake her son. Every night that boulder came crashing down. Every night her husband, her love, disappeared into the chill gray river. Every night dark memories beckoned her into thin. Strangling arms that wound icy fingers deep in her brain; strangulating both thought and hope.
Now it didn't matter if her perpetual nightmare caused her to rouse and shriek. It didn't matter because Isaac, her only child, her last link to Kyle, her baby, was gone. No more would she have to worry about rising him from his pleasantly dreamless slumber. Torn from her before she was willing to give him up. If anything, his Fate was crueler than that of her husband's; for Isaac had to live with being wrenched away from his homeland. Yes, Isaac was still alive, but for how long Dora knew not. All she knew was that another nightmare of the same feverish intensity would come calling later that evening, and every night afterward. In this nightmare it would be Isaac dying; Isaac far off in lands unknown, lying in a pool of blood; killed by one of the many perils of the road.
His leaving was the second memory. Only a few hours old and still so mind numbingly new. It left a dull, pounding ache in her chest as if she had been underwater too long. Unshed tears constricted her heart and throat. Every mother bird knows that sooner or later, the baby bird will have to try out his wings. However, most baby birds don't immediately test their newfound freedom by flying over a cliff. That was akin to what Isaac, her sweet, darling child, had done.
Dora buried her face in her hands. She refused to cry though. After Kyle had died, she had spent days crying. It hadn't helped. It hadn't brought him back, and it had only kept Isaac depressed for longer than any teenager should be. All she could do for Isaac was hope and pray. But who listens to you when you no longer believe in a god of any kind?
"Isaac," she moaned peeking at the thatched floor between her fingers, "How could you be so foolish?"
A blonde boy stood in the doorway. He wore blue clothes and a bright yellow scarf that his mother had made for his father many years past. A pack was slung over his right shoulder and one foot was already out the door. Hesitatingly he looked over where Dora stared forlornly at him.
"Mother…" he said quietly, shattering the silence into pieces of silvered glass. Dora winced, if only he hadn't said anything, then she could just pretend that he wasn't leaving her, wasn't going away.
"Mother," Isaac repeated, his voice soft, so like Kyle's, "I'm leaving now."
Dora nodded numbly.
"I-" he bit his lip, brow furrowed ever so slightly, "Mother, I'll come back. I promise. Me and Garet, we'll bring back Jenna and Kraden, we'll save the world. It'll be just like the stories Dad used to tell us. You'll see."
Normally she would've corrected him on his grammar. "Garet and I, son," she would say with a smile, pushing away all references of her husband. But not that day, she had just looked at him. Her eyes had gotten a little blurry, but no tears managed to squeeze out; such was her iron will. "All right Isaac," she had replied mechanically; voice revealing none of her inner turmoil.
He could put it off no longer. Taking a step out the door, he cast a last glance toward his mother. She remained frozen, glued to the seat. "Bye," he muttered, then, more loudly, "I love you Mum. Take care, and," he forced a grin, "at least Garet won't be making anymore holes in the roof for awhile."
Dora smiled faintly. The upturned corners of her mouth barely made an impression. Still she said nothing. Her throat was too tight to allow any spoken word slip through; any idea of what she was really thinking to alight onto her son's ears. Her whole body just wanted to rise up and embrace. Every maternal instinct in her body burned with the desire to cradle her little boy; take him in her arms and never, ever let go. Yet, she didn't, she couldn't.
Isaac twirled a piece of his hair. It was a habit Kyle had had; they only did it when nervous or upset. "Bye then." He adjusted his pack and left, not looking back. His mother watched him go, watched him walk down to the town's gate where the villagers had assembled, watched till she could no longer see him. Vaguely she hoped Kay remembered to give her son her message, her gift.
The memory ended there, taking with it what could be her last sight of Isaac's face; his noble visage, his summer-sky blue eyes, his sun gold hair the color of his grandmother. Like moss in the sun, his image became shriveled and dry; blowing away like smoke.
Already the house felt empty. Bare, incomplete. His presence haunted the rooms and hallway. There she could see him smiling, laughing. In that corner he often sat and read. It was on that rug that the three had played on when Isaac was young and before any of this had happened.
None of this was helping. She could go over an endless litany of memories, both sad and pleasant of her now broken family without anything changing. And, above all else, Dora was a practical person. Sitting here as her soul bled would only cause her to be hurtled deep into the dark pit of the past where shadowed memories would rise up and drag her down.
Finally, she managed to stand and stretch; pushing aside her thoughts once and for all. She straightened her apron. There was nothing, no matter how much she prayed and wept, nothing she could do for Isaac now. It was even to late to say good-bye; that she loved him.
She pulled her hair back into a bun and let her eyes sweep across the room. A bowl and plate from Isaac's breakfast lay forgotten on the counter. The woman walked toward them and picked them up. They were plain earthenware like everyone else's in Vale.
Carefully she placed them back down. Remnants of oatmeal still clung to the bowl, and Dora knew she would have to wash it along with the plate. Grabbing a bucket, she opened the door and headed towards a well. Dishes didn't do themselves after all.
She forced on a sunny smile. It was the same façade she had assumed after Kyle's death. Happy and capable on the outside, but on the inside dying a slow death; crying her eyes out every night with the vain hope Isaac wouldn't overhear. The rest of the village would look on just like they had before with kind eyes. Whenever she turned her back they would cluck their tongues and give each other knowing smiles.
"There goes Dora; poor thing." they would say, "She was such a good wife; such a good mother! It's just tragic what happened to her, but look how well she handles it."
Dora stopped, and pressed a hand to her pounding chest. She had done it again, reverted back to her sad, angry thoughts. With clammy hands she readjusted her grip on the bucket. With her face set in its frozen mask of blissful serenity, she tried not to think about how the middle of that daisy was exactly the same shade of yellow as Isaac's favorite scarf.
It's sad but true, this is the only way humans can cope with loss. Memories and thoughts are cast aside to make room for new, happier ones. People that you care the world for are steadily replaced until you manage to live without them. We fill up our sorrow with the mundane events of everyday life. Hope is a luxury we can ill afford, and our coping is done by forgetting and avoiding. We cease to live, just continue to function. And it is only at night, alone but for our dreams, that we truly remember.
A/N Hehe….I'm kinda uncomfortable with this one. It's my first try at angst and was written on a whim. I know it's not very good, but a review would be nice. No flames. Thanks.
Disclaimer: I don't own Golden Sun, never have, never will.
Zaurak