U2 - Lemon


July 15, 1794

...

Yaaaawnnnngh...

It's another of those days, isn't it?

We live in a beautiful world, don't we?

The rain and its scent poured down onto me as I got outside home, on my own. It's your birthday, and shouldn't you be happy about it?

The days had become gray as the clouds above the skies, same for this fur who grew into my skin. Many things grew as well, besides my height. I am tall like a wood plank, sharing a lime dress like green leaves, and the eyes of those kids covered in mud tell me that they want to climb onto me. Not only kids, but everyone who shares those claws, and tails wants to do it, now that I've reached the age of consent. To be fair, they all had been waiting to see me like that, even though I wore dresses like these when young, and ponytails tightened at the back of my hair and tail as well.

My tail... Someone stepped on it, and I couldn't scream, or even shiver. I trembled, and the result was that I let some white porcelain fall to the floor. 'Don't get in the way, Freya'; 'why are you standing there?'; 'Freya, could you bring the tea to your aunt, please?'; my house has become a turmoil of legs and humdrums to bare with.

Since mother got ill, all the close friends and relatives of her family branch, the Crescent, are standing there. They aren't that much akin to those who share of white hair, unless it's someone old. Mother ain't that old, but she is as young as me, beautiful as well, although the purple of those eyes seems to have disappeared with the time, unlike father, who died once.

...KNIT, KNIT, KNIT, KNIT...

...dad, where hid?

...KNIT KNIT KNIT...

...Dad is sleeping, my dear...

...no, dad no! dad did not sleep...

...Yes, he's sleeping...

...knit knit kNIT KNIT...

...mom, you lying. why?

...I am not lying, Freya. I told you the truth...

. ...what is the truth? you lie, not truth!...

...I'm not lying, my dea-

NO! you lie! liar! Liar liar liar liar liar liar LIAR!...

...That's enough, Freya! Your manners are boorish...

…mom... sorry. you taught me not lie... not lie...

Not lie.

I was only five years-old.

It was the first time I shouted at my mother, and so she did the same. That hurted. I still didn't learn how to control myself in order to preserve my identity, the same one I had been building up since I felt your warmth, mother.

For you, and my sake, I stopped doing the many of my drawings on the walls. They were so wonderful to look at, but what they only saw were ugly scratches. My brother Jack didn't mind, or bothered about them, although I used to bite his tail with my jaws, and ears on his sleep as well whenever my bed had been soaked like the potty made of clay.

Besides the bed, my face had also been soaked by tears. They were so easy to be felt, and to be shed by me as well, but I couldn't make them appear on my own, still I don't. I shouted to my mother... How rude I had been towards her, and towards my father. If given the task of pulling the stone up the hill, only to see it slip to the bottom, and do it again, or back to the fields of war; anyway, he died as a miserable person, who couldn't even bleed elegantly.

A miserable, but a good father. I knew how much of a father he was, but not enough to call him more than a good person. For mother, he was more than a good example of a pair, of a lover, of a husband. When she stood away, due to her routine as a Dragoon Knight, father was there, sometimes it was Jack, grown up enough to be able to take care of me, even if I refused of his sometimes, but an only brother is a fine, and rare gift to be given.

Before I came, many called my mother 'infertile', because she only brought an only son instead of an offspring. Incidentally, they never said anything about my father, but gossip always seemed to surround my mother instead. Still they do, and by 'they', I mean my own relatives as well. 'She couldn't even take care of her own children'; this statement is a clever lie. If it was right, or if it was wrong, I guess mother didn't mind, but she knew what to do, instead of letting me on that way, without a hand, or a cloth to wipe my eyes.

...mom?... ...mom, why cry?...

...the truth... Freya...

...mom?...

...do you... still want to hear the truth?...

...Jackie tell truth. Truth hurt me and Jackie. Mom, you hurt... ...Tell truth feel better. Mom...

...oh, my dear child... My child...

I am still a child, even grown up like that. We live in a pitiful world. My relatives are all children as well, seeing how they laughed at any joke to find some relief for that bad atmosphere, as the tea was still being prepared by me, of course.

'Life is great. Without it, you would be already dead', that's what uncle Clyde once said to my father. I wasn't even born, but those people in the room were, still they are alive somehow. How great that now both are dead; my uncle died before he could come back to Burmecia, and father passed away after five years of my existence, and mother is currently on the brink, even if I tried to deny it.

I can't lie, but you already know that the truth hurts, although such truth to be told is meant for me to feel better, but I look worse than a puke. Too much of me had been thrown away out of my throat, in words, or had been withheld like the blood inside of me, but those wounds always seem to open, in days like these, or in months like the ones who came weeks before. Because of my blood as well, I ain't that much of a child, although I'm afraid, yet I couldn't admit such easily to them.

They wouldn't listen to me, or they wouldn't care about me. Or my birthday, who doesn't share any 'happy' on its name, unlike the days that came before.

— Happy birthday, Freya! – I heard a voice, belonging to my cousin Dan.

He was on my back, wearing that Royal Guard suit. Though today is my birthday, there is nothing 'happy' to share. I was happy when I was together with other children, of the same age, some older than me, but at any age, I always seemed and looked older than those ten year-old boys, still sticking their fingers on their noses and doing some nasty stuff. Jack, my brother, ain't alike them, but still I seemed more responsible than him, like Dan does. We both lose our fathers, but Dan loses his own first.

— Well, thanks Dan. Hope you have a good day. – I said, as I turned my back to his. I had my own destination, and less time for small talk. Dan had been the only one who remembered, or had the audacity to call such an awful day by 'happy'.

Only for the children, as it seems. I saw some of them, belonging to my relatives, outside that house, playing with wooden broomsticks, like future Dragoon Knights. Mother was one of them, but now she doesn't seem to share of any future anymore, since the uncertainty of her life turned out to be the certainty of death.

— Are you going to the market? I'm sorry, but there won't be anything in there to help Lenneth feel better. – Dan said. He already knew the news who came out of that house like a fly's noise into his ear. A gray fly, spreading its disease.

Dan still shares that gap in the middle of his teeth, even though he shares ways to fix that thing, but it's still in there, to define some part of his. He didn't smiled, but even if he did it so, that gap would foil him here.

— I know, Dan. I know, but I want my mother to share something else other than her last meal... – I said. The rain is cold, but since I share these clothes, and mother shares warm blankets, there is still time to do it.

There is time for many things to be done, and I wished that mother could do some of them. To drink the last chai... That sounds fine for an entire life spent until now. I'm searching for some ingredients to be prepared as a chai to be sipped, before it's all done. I'm sure that I'll be there, with the chai, to give mother some warmth. She is so cold, like ice, even though she didn't melted yet.

— Maybe I can do something for you, and Lenneth as well. – Dan said, as he followed me to the market. This place is a maze, as these people keep moving in circles, squares, rows, and throw in any direction, but since Dan is here to put some order in the row... Thanks again, Dan. At least, you didn't have to reveal what lies inside this sheath.

Well, I need some dry carnations, cinnamon rolls, cocoa, ginger... It must share a spicy, yet sweet taste. Mainly these ingredients can be found on the kailyard outside home, but I didn't wanted to be there for too long, smelling fennels, and listening those voices, kids throwing tantrums to each other, walls of people crying, heads filled in by headaches, the withhold of blood... I couldn't stand in there without being here, not a silent place, seeing how much those people talk, but a place without that kind of noise, and pressure that kept crushing me like a bug.

I was crushed on that bed before I woke up. A single bed, the same one I began to sleep above, was a substitute for the crib, but instead of others awakening because of my cries, I woke up because of the cries of a crowd. But I would be awake anyway, since I couldn't be there, without doing nothing, as mother has already done enough for the sake of us, and this kingdom as well.

I saw no members from the Dragoon Knights at my house, not even the close ones related to my mother. I guess Dan won't be able to be there as well, but at least he did something so I could share of a moment with mother, before she's gone.

— So, how is Learie doing? – I asked my cousin. Not that I minded about his personal life, as much as I am not someone with a cold stare on the face.

Cold as that tea I've prepared, everyone in that house was so cold before they even sipped a cup... Only because it's an imminent funeral, not a marriage like Dan's, or a birthday, as it should have been. The pleasure of seeing both of their hands and tails tied to another can't be related to this day, except if on a memory.

Dan, Learie... I envy them. At least, I've brought them a gift, a pair of spoons, metallic ones, cold as much as I had been with both.'She is into one of those days', that was the major excuse bought by many of my relatives to justify my behavior back on that day, as if those cramps changed the whole of me, or that they became me. 'Freya Crampscent'... Ever since I was a child, I was the one who tried to put some order, by any means, and so began the comparisons between me and mommy.

The gift I presented to them may not sound like a thing, but at least it was something, other than a look of inoffensive disgust, unlike the times I had bitten other people's tails. I used to taste the entire world and it's flesh with my mouth, until I learned to feel it coming from inside of me as well. This rain, unlike me, didn't changed, only the intensity of it's fall seems to vary.

— …She is fine. – he said lately, as if 'fine' could be the best way to describe his wife's situation after a painful labor.

It wasn't Dan who had to bare a swollen belly for a month and later give birth to two brats, after all, and I hope they don't turn out to be such, because those children don't deserve such a thing. One is called Adam, and the other has been given the name Jack, the same belonging to my only brother.

I even had the opportunity to hold them, even if I didn't want to. They think those arms are only made to hold those children with phlegm and lice running around their body, although I was once this kind of kid; itchy due the gathering of chickenpox I had gotten from another kid. It was only a kiss... A straight kiss that almost became the kiss of death.

Besides the scratching of those eruptions into my skin, anyone else seems to have fled from my sight, unlike my mother, who treated me with those baths. Within a week, I felt better, and no more that I wanted to tear apart my own skin, or any hopes. How long will mother be waiting for me, if I never had the reason to wait for her instant aid?...

...And out of the houses the rats came tumbling...

As I cross this bridge washed by the rain, and this basket I hold in my hand gathers all the ingredients needed for the chai, I am about to go home, again, to see mother. Back to square one, throw another stone, and walk again into the hopscotch...

Jack once pulled a sharp stone, and so I stepped over it, as if I was willing to do it so. Who else to blame, other than the rock that cut my feet? They can't blame the objects, but people instead, and since Jack was, still is, older than me, he got grounded, same for that stone who remained on that same street of cobblestone, alike this one; the children here look all the same, yet I can see myself there, on the middle of them.

Maybe it's just a tiny water puddle, but still I can see a bit of myself. How could my brother and I have kept playing such games, while mother didn't have the time to do it anymore, same time relative to the one she used to spend with father?

Dan has some work to do, so I left him, but not without saying goodbye. He said it for me, clearly a goodbye, for this day. We'll meet again, on any street, unlike my mother, who can only be found lying on that same bed I was born in, my brother Jack as well. What we thought to be just a few coughs turned out to be the beginning of the winter fever.

Her lungs had been suffering from the pneumonia leakage, and since then, those coughs had no more reason to be thrown out of that throat, besides making everything worse to see, and feel. If, by any chance, they worked to make mother feel better, I wouldn't be covering my ears with the pillow on the nights, but even that is useless. I shared some good moments on that place, on that sleep, and mother is one of the few ones who ever saw the plenty of father's green eyes on me.

Jack also shares the same eyes, though mother had noticed them mostly on me, her second child, the last one of the family meant to be more than both of us. Sure, mother could have adopted an orphan, but we became orphans anyway, since she couldn't be there all the time. Only the weekends seemed to stretch the time and ties between us, besides the diseases strong enough to put me to bed.

Lenneth Crescent... I don't seem to recall ever calling mother by such full name, just mother is fine. When people are close enough to each other, there is no demand to call them by the title given or the full name, but it may get sick for someone to keep calling their wives by 'love', 'sweet', 'heart', anything that reminds me of sugar puke. Father never called mother by such things, and if he did it so, it may have been faithful to what he truly felt for her.

That's another reason why mother didn't married anyone else, not because it's wrong to marry another after a beloved's demise, but because it takes some time to establish relationship between people that shares of same closure from the one that came before, and and those who are desperate, anxious in heart, always seems to commit the harshest of the mistakes. That's something a father would say; his daughter as well.

...Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins... Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives...

Many see mother in me, in my hair, my ears, my arms, my feet, and even my tail; still I am a child for their children's eyes, not because of my innocence, if there was one, or because there are vermins inside me, but because of my attitude. They still see me the same Freya from ten years ago, the one who used to speak broken words. Father taught me well many of the things meant to be learned by me in his short time, before he left this same front door, to never come again.

He didn't abandon me, only that weary body of his. That couch, now occupied by some of his relatives, only a few, unlike the ones belonging to my mother, is the place where he used to sit, or fall asleep. With me, he only could do a single lap, before I cried, demanding his attention. Now, everyone who's here cries, and nobody pays attention, and why would they?

Most of these people are here because of my mother, not because of themselves, though I am here because this is my house, the place where I belong, same for mother, and Jack, who's also here, pouring the tea on those empty cups instead of me. Courtesy, or just anxiety, they soon became empty again, unlike the source of that tea; the rain falling from outside offers plenty of water to be collected and boiled into a warm slurp of chamomile or pennyroyal.