Jude
I remembered I had fists today
I wash my hands and they are red like the sunsets of paradise
Jude’s gaze can only hold hers for the briefest moment before they fall, ashamed, to the space between his feet as her gentle fingers brush against his mottled skin. This is the feeling he’d been wanting to avoid; shame, embarrassment. He’s grateful beyond all measure that it seems to be temporarily rhetorical, because he goes quiet and submissive into the embrace of her arms, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder despite the slight ache it inspires. I wash my hands and they are red like the sunsets of paradise
The gentle way she cards through his curls and croons with concern between kisses makes the tears come, slow but scalding, making his shoulders shudder beneath her arm. Ever since his dad left, he’s been entirely alone. Even Noe’s easy physicality couldn’t stand to replace the way his family has always been so physical, so present. To go an entire season without it has left him raw and aching, and to have those hurting spots finally filled makes everything else overflow.
“Désolé, Maman,” he rasps, though he isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. Showing up unannounced? Crying all over her immediately? Though he isn’t sure he’s truly sorry, not with how his own hands cling to the back of her blouse, refusing to part from her. “Everything is wrong. Tout fait mal,” he cries, trying to withhold the worst of the torrent so he might actually tell her what’s wrong instead of how badly he hurts. He’s already worrying her enough - he has to get it together and actually tell her, or he’s just going to keep holding the record for worst son ever.
“Sohalia and I broke up, and dad left with only a letter, and then Sohalia saw him first and came to visit and - and I was so angry, I hated her,” he sobs, glad she can’t see the confusion and shame on his face. He’s horrified by the way it had all gone down, but at the same time…Gods, he isn’t really regretful, is he? And that must make him a terrible person. “I was so horrible to her. And I’m not even sorry.” It’s whispered like a confession at the end, terrified to ruin the image of her perfect, polite son with whatever monster he has become lately. “And fighting is all that feels okay anymore.” The only suitable replacement for the growing holes in his chest.
Am I a murderer?
Or did I just kill all my thoughts in self-defense?
Or did I just kill all my thoughts in self-defense?
