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he will realise in the many years passed how fate has done him wrong. he will find in each memory a wound that never healed. when he gives himself the time, the chance to truly see, he will wish he never did.
sorrows shared much too young to understand, the hands that cradled him were soaked in blood all his own. he will miss it as much as he loathes it, poke at the scab as it tears and rots. his reflection will mock him with a face he’d near forgotten.
and on shores of sand that dig into his skin, he will cry to the heavens until his lungs grow hoarse. he will claw at his chest and bury his heels where he stands until they answer his woes. the mass of each memory will pulse in his rib cage, reminding him that he lives long after his life was stolen away. and he will beg, plead, fall to his knees, praying to those uncaring to send a sign. why? why me?
and the skies will weep as he did, a warm embrace in the chill of cold air. they will croon with a thunderous crack through the static-filled silence. it was not your fault, child, you had done no wrong.
perhaps one day he will look that man in the eye once more, met with a face he’d seen in the corners of his mind. perhaps he will apologise for what he had done all those years ago, apologise for the crime of being a person with thoughts and dreams, for the crime of not being him. perhaps he will tell to his face how it hurt every waking hour, how he never for a second forgot that day, how he still remembered being stared down and abandoned when he was barely grown. or perhaps he will not care at all, turning his back on that man as had happened way back when.
but what if’s mattered not in the face of the present, no point in tearing himself apart over a man long gone. he will have a team then, a family, and perhaps that would be enough.
not a word spoken, not a soul told, he will carry this sorrow until the day it swallows him whole.
he will yearn for a touch he had lost before he’d known, he will mourn for a man looming over his shoulder, he will sob with every breath and scream without a sound.
but for now here he lay. small, innocent, his hair tangled in sticks and leaves. the birds sing as his father comes home. his clothes are muddied from a day’s worth of play. his hands are soft, uncalloused, having never known a hardship more than a bad dream followed by the rising sun come morn.
unaware, blissful, unbridled by tomorrow, he smiles. they’re going to the park today, he’d learned. each breath in and out is met with a laugh, soft and carefree.
not too long and his father is at his side, a hand on his head and a grin on his face near invisible to all but the child. he is proud, he says, delighted with how he’s improved.
a paddle is placed in one hand, a ball in the other. his father drags him along, excited for what’s to come. he knows not what will happen, but the crinkle of his father’s eyes and the slip of his glasses down the brim of his nose is enough.
the fields are a blur in the corner of his eyes, faint splotches of greens and yellows and flowers of all kinds. it takes not much to reach that faded blue table by the lake, not a single speck of dust on its pristine coat. dandelions flatten beneath his feet, ferns brush against his bare scraped knees, and his grip on the paddle tightens.
his dad tosses him a ball faster than he can see. he copies the blow the best he can, practiced in his motions. his attempt is met with a hand on his shoulder, the grip tight and warm.
in this moment, he knows he is loved.