This is the real deal. No more sidestepping, Hiccup. This is the real thing.
Breathe.
The mocking gaze of the window stares me down. Will it be a window of opportunity, or a way to fall from the top to the bottom?
It'd be hard to tell.
And it will continue to be if I don't start preparing myself. For my sales pitch. For the actual throwing.
Breathe in.
I am going to throw, whether I like it or not. This is for what remaining dignity I have - for the entirety of the Haddock family tree.
Here.
Goes.
And...
...
Nothing.
...
Nothing flies out my hand. Or my throat.
The weapon is still there, trembling. I feel the ground shake and my ever-loosening grip along with it.
My form plummets, knees first, hands burrowing into the ground – the weapon stares at me, utterly bewildered.
"How can somebody fail so hard at doing something so amazingly simple?"
Oh, oh, you listen here you little bastard.
You don't even know half of it.
Every word of persuasion I could possibly think of simply dies on my lips.
My mind lies under siege by the mountain waves of anxiety, and the latter?
They are currently winning a landslide victory.
Sometimes, it just isn't fair.
When I am stuck. In a corner. Being held by my shadow. As his captive.
He roars at the top of his lungs. Not the animalistic kind of roar. But the whole-hearted, leap-for-joy kind. To remind me of how utterly disposable I am.
You cannot ever comprehend under how much burden the shadow causes my shoulders as every second passes. He sits there legs crossed, relishing gluttonously and lavishly in the suffering he causes his plaything to experience every day.
I despise that shadow so, so much.
I wish I was that shadow sometimes.
For one fleeting moment. To experience what he is experiencing. To fantasize about what I could experience. The pure joy he feels when he sees people suffer at their expense.
I feel my stuttering heart crack from being under the weight of all that potential happiness in life that I will never ever get to feel.
The shadow only makes me despise myself that much more.
My knees touch my forehead. My freezing hands run along the surface of my knees. I put my head in between.
I feel an urge to bawl.
To cry and whimper, to bury my shameful face in my trembling hands.
I want to lean my head on Dad's shoulder. To let it all out. To beg him to scare the monsters away.
I want him to soothingly wipe the tears away from my face, to hold me warmly as the night slowly takes me.
I want him to listen to my weaknesses, my utter uselessness to my people. A sick and twisted longing for him to understand how I feel every day.
Is that so wrong? So audacious?
Please answer me. Don't leave me here alone. Please don't leave me alone...
The floodgates open that night.