No... no, you did wander. Even in youth, you were effortlessly drawn in by the antics of small creatures. I did not stray, but you were rambunctious, and endlessly eager to take in the sights of this new world. [A pause, and then, for clarification:] There were lizards. I could not hold on to you tight enough to always be by your side, no matter how much I tried to cling. That we could be separated was a horrendous novelty I was unprepared for. I remember being forced to come to terms with it all alone — something I had never been.
[The memory spills out of him, unstoppable. And, though his heart beats fast, his expression is softer than before. That week, despite everything, is not wholly a bad memory. He leans back, then, releasing his grip entirely to fold his hands on his lap. He carries a tension with him still, fingers twitching and staring off into the distance. But he continues with the reminiscence that cannot — must not — be stopped.
Stopping now would end this brief moment of peace. For as long as he speaks, everything between the two of them can be fine, tranquil, nearly normal. There is no need to think about the surely-buried truth that agonizes him. As long as his attention is on this and not Trish, there is no conspiracy to worry about and no betrayal to fear.
The brief thought of her name sends a jolt of anxiety through him. Moving on:]
I'd started to piece together everything I'd forgotten by then. I vividly remembered fear, and death, and they were... too terrifying to cope with alone. I'd thought I'd lost you for good. [Here his posture stiffens, regret spiking up within him as soon as he confesses his weakness and doubt. So he switches his course here to spill a less mortifying truth.] That was when I met Beatrice. I suppose I've never mentioned that — I wouldn't have. I didn't want to remember that week; I could not bear to explain it to you even in vague terms. But I met her then, and she was patient and gentle with me, and I believed her to be someone reasonable and predictable. And a few months later, she tracked down our address and deposited Struffoli on our doorstep.
[Blink.]
I still don't know what to make of that. I was certain it was her idea of a sick joke. This miserable little thing, drifting in solitude... it felt like open mockery. And yet... as I've been exploring this island, I haven't been able to put him out of my mind. I've been sincerely considering where the best place for him to live would be.
[He's changed. Something changed him, and there is nothing in the world more disconcerting than that knowledge.]
Is this what I've become? Reduced to... this? Doing menial work, mingling with the masses, entranced by the mundane? Was I not meant to strive for greater heights?
no subject
[The memory spills out of him, unstoppable. And, though his heart beats fast, his expression is softer than before. That week, despite everything, is not wholly a bad memory. He leans back, then, releasing his grip entirely to fold his hands on his lap. He carries a tension with him still, fingers twitching and staring off into the distance. But he continues with the reminiscence that cannot — must not — be stopped.
Stopping now would end this brief moment of peace. For as long as he speaks, everything between the two of them can be fine, tranquil, nearly normal. There is no need to think about the surely-buried truth that agonizes him. As long as his attention is on this and not Trish, there is no conspiracy to worry about and no betrayal to fear.
The brief thought of her name sends a jolt of anxiety through him. Moving on:]
I'd started to piece together everything I'd forgotten by then. I vividly remembered fear, and death, and they were... too terrifying to cope with alone. I'd thought I'd lost you for good. [Here his posture stiffens, regret spiking up within him as soon as he confesses his weakness and doubt. So he switches his course here to spill a less mortifying truth.] That was when I met Beatrice. I suppose I've never mentioned that — I wouldn't have. I didn't want to remember that week; I could not bear to explain it to you even in vague terms. But I met her then, and she was patient and gentle with me, and I believed her to be someone reasonable and predictable. And a few months later, she tracked down our address and deposited Struffoli on our doorstep.
[Blink.]
I still don't know what to make of that. I was certain it was her idea of a sick joke. This miserable little thing, drifting in solitude... it felt like open mockery. And yet... as I've been exploring this island, I haven't been able to put him out of my mind. I've been sincerely considering where the best place for him to live would be.
[He's changed. Something changed him, and there is nothing in the world more disconcerting than that knowledge.]
Is this what I've become? Reduced to... this? Doing menial work, mingling with the masses, entranced by the mundane? Was I not meant to strive for greater heights?