This Side of Reality Chapter 2
Notes: If you look at my writing index master post, you'll see that this was originally chapter three. However, things just...weren't working. While I have no qualms about writing out of chronological order, the original chapter order was a little jarring.
This Side of Reality
Chapter 2: Survivor
My family was slaughtered that day. My entire family. My mother in the kitchen, my brother and grandmother in their beds. My father, out of town for work. They found only death when they looked for family to take me in. I was only spared because Ivis took me away. I escaped thanks to a person that belongs to a race that technically doesn’t exist.
I look back on everything as detached as possible, closing off my feelings. Pretend it wasn’t me it happened to. It’s the only way I can handle it.
Something in my childish mind broke. A mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, still reflecting, but never an entire picture. The world around me grew hot, feverishly so. I couldn’t grasp it, my mother dead like that. Blood everywhere, and the...the scissors buried in her body like that….
Fortunately I never saw the rest of them. I would probably still be in an institution otherwise. Knowing and seeing are two different things.
It’s still an unsolved case. It was nearly a year before I would answer any questions, and even then I don’t think they believed any of my answers, even the logical ones. Who believes a child that says a faerie saved them? The few leads they had led to dead ends. What motive is there to systematically slaughter a family and spare only one boy?
They won’t find the one responsible for it, I have no doubts. What they’re looking for isn’t human. I can feel it in my bones. Ivis knows what it was but he won’t tell me. He won’t lie, he’ll just evade the question, or maybe tell me, flatly, that it doesn’t matter because there’s nothing to be done about it. There’s an ember in his eyes when he says that, a rage mirrored by my own at the injustice. So long as he keeps it contained, so will I. Or anyway I’ll try. Sometimes, when there’s a heavy fog, I hear a voice on the wind, not Ivis’s, whispering “not yet.” Those foggy days, those words, make my heart strong. Somehow, I think there will be a reckoning.
I finished growing up in foster care. I suppose it wasn’t terrible. Some of the families almost made me feel like I was home. Almost. I could still remember my mother’s warm auburn hair, the love and sense of security. It wasn’t much, just enough to know that my new life paled in comparison. I didn’t try to remember much else. I know a little about my family, maybe I can’t remember much, but there are a few pictures, some words that are a shadow of that life. The memories are closed as tight as the box of keepsakes that I rarely look at. I didn’t try to make new memories, either. I made few friends, not bothering much once I realized that there was no knowing when I would next move.
I ran once, from a foster family, an impulse to escape from a dark and dull time, when Ivis had been absent for an especially long time. He found me before they did, scolded me for leaving. It was futile; I knew there was no point in me trying to leave again.
I wouldn’t have found what I was looking for when I ran. A few photos in a box were all that remained. So I kept it shut tight.
It didn’t matter that I had no one else, because Ivis was always there for me. Even when he disappeared for days, I knew he would come back to check on me. If I worried, I would feel the Fairy’s Heart resting coldly against my chest. It connected us.
After that, I made it through my education, middle and high school, despite my mobile life. At least a disjointed education could be pieced together, if I tried enough. And there was the violin.
One of my longer foster stays, a kind, almost-home family, allowed me to begin learning violin. I was captivated by the sound of the instrument, something about it tugging at a memory that I couldn’t remember, always haunting me. I showed an aptitude for it, and when I was moved along, they gave me a violin as a farewell gift. Sometimes I had to make do with self-study, and sometimes I could take classes at the schools, but even now I’m still chasing a haunting tune.
When I was old enough, I managed to get a job and afford private lessons and scrape together some meager savings for college. An overworked school counselor had made that much clear--go to college. It almost seemed too mundane, following a normal path, as I chat with my winged friend over here… At the surface, it even seemed uncertain, like my whole life had felt, but as Ivis pointed out, it would be at least four years of stability, on my own terms. Once I came of age, I wouldn’t have to be shuffled around if I didn’t want to be.
Violin continued to call my name, and my instructor of two years now, a kindly, middle-aged woman, guided me in finding a school where I could pursue my instrument as a career, while still getting a strong, general education. JoAnn has come to know me better than any adult, has helped me better than the harassed-looking school counsellors. Even though I paid her for lessons, she’s become almost a family to me. With her help, I made it through my first year of college without incident. I formed friendships with a handful of other students, mostly other music majors.
For once, I wasn’t afraid to cultivate those friendships. JoAnn invited me to stay with her over summer, taking me under her wing in a way that almost scared me. Not because of her, but because of the security I felt for the first time, a sense of security like what I’d locked away in my box of disused memories. She was a friend now, maybe even a glimpse of family. I was afraid of losing it, but I was on my terms now.
Ivis remained my best friend, more: he was a part of me. We shared the knowledge of the past. My new stability was good, but it could still fall apart. Ivis would continue to be there.
I returned to the dorms in the fall, to start my second year of college. I was a new, more whole person. I was optimistic. I was--
Shocked when I met my new roommate.
This Side of Reality
Chapter 2: Survivor
My family was slaughtered that day. My entire family. My mother in the kitchen, my brother and grandmother in their beds. My father, out of town for work. They found only death when they looked for family to take me in. I was only spared because Ivis took me away. I escaped thanks to a person that belongs to a race that technically doesn’t exist.
I look back on everything as detached as possible, closing off my feelings. Pretend it wasn’t me it happened to. It’s the only way I can handle it.
Something in my childish mind broke. A mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, still reflecting, but never an entire picture. The world around me grew hot, feverishly so. I couldn’t grasp it, my mother dead like that. Blood everywhere, and the...the scissors buried in her body like that….
Fortunately I never saw the rest of them. I would probably still be in an institution otherwise. Knowing and seeing are two different things.
It’s still an unsolved case. It was nearly a year before I would answer any questions, and even then I don’t think they believed any of my answers, even the logical ones. Who believes a child that says a faerie saved them? The few leads they had led to dead ends. What motive is there to systematically slaughter a family and spare only one boy?
They won’t find the one responsible for it, I have no doubts. What they’re looking for isn’t human. I can feel it in my bones. Ivis knows what it was but he won’t tell me. He won’t lie, he’ll just evade the question, or maybe tell me, flatly, that it doesn’t matter because there’s nothing to be done about it. There’s an ember in his eyes when he says that, a rage mirrored by my own at the injustice. So long as he keeps it contained, so will I. Or anyway I’ll try. Sometimes, when there’s a heavy fog, I hear a voice on the wind, not Ivis’s, whispering “not yet.” Those foggy days, those words, make my heart strong. Somehow, I think there will be a reckoning.
I finished growing up in foster care. I suppose it wasn’t terrible. Some of the families almost made me feel like I was home. Almost. I could still remember my mother’s warm auburn hair, the love and sense of security. It wasn’t much, just enough to know that my new life paled in comparison. I didn’t try to remember much else. I know a little about my family, maybe I can’t remember much, but there are a few pictures, some words that are a shadow of that life. The memories are closed as tight as the box of keepsakes that I rarely look at. I didn’t try to make new memories, either. I made few friends, not bothering much once I realized that there was no knowing when I would next move.
I ran once, from a foster family, an impulse to escape from a dark and dull time, when Ivis had been absent for an especially long time. He found me before they did, scolded me for leaving. It was futile; I knew there was no point in me trying to leave again.
I wouldn’t have found what I was looking for when I ran. A few photos in a box were all that remained. So I kept it shut tight.
It didn’t matter that I had no one else, because Ivis was always there for me. Even when he disappeared for days, I knew he would come back to check on me. If I worried, I would feel the Fairy’s Heart resting coldly against my chest. It connected us.
After that, I made it through my education, middle and high school, despite my mobile life. At least a disjointed education could be pieced together, if I tried enough. And there was the violin.
One of my longer foster stays, a kind, almost-home family, allowed me to begin learning violin. I was captivated by the sound of the instrument, something about it tugging at a memory that I couldn’t remember, always haunting me. I showed an aptitude for it, and when I was moved along, they gave me a violin as a farewell gift. Sometimes I had to make do with self-study, and sometimes I could take classes at the schools, but even now I’m still chasing a haunting tune.
When I was old enough, I managed to get a job and afford private lessons and scrape together some meager savings for college. An overworked school counselor had made that much clear--go to college. It almost seemed too mundane, following a normal path, as I chat with my winged friend over here… At the surface, it even seemed uncertain, like my whole life had felt, but as Ivis pointed out, it would be at least four years of stability, on my own terms. Once I came of age, I wouldn’t have to be shuffled around if I didn’t want to be.
Violin continued to call my name, and my instructor of two years now, a kindly, middle-aged woman, guided me in finding a school where I could pursue my instrument as a career, while still getting a strong, general education. JoAnn has come to know me better than any adult, has helped me better than the harassed-looking school counsellors. Even though I paid her for lessons, she’s become almost a family to me. With her help, I made it through my first year of college without incident. I formed friendships with a handful of other students, mostly other music majors.
For once, I wasn’t afraid to cultivate those friendships. JoAnn invited me to stay with her over summer, taking me under her wing in a way that almost scared me. Not because of her, but because of the security I felt for the first time, a sense of security like what I’d locked away in my box of disused memories. She was a friend now, maybe even a glimpse of family. I was afraid of losing it, but I was on my terms now.
Ivis remained my best friend, more: he was a part of me. We shared the knowledge of the past. My new stability was good, but it could still fall apart. Ivis would continue to be there.
I returned to the dorms in the fall, to start my second year of college. I was a new, more whole person. I was optimistic. I was--
Shocked when I met my new roommate.