I miss the days when I had a smile on my face
"Oh?" he laughs softly. "S'don't worry, I's got more." He wouldn't push the issue, but he hadn't traveled all the way here with only one bottle of tequila. That was just dinner.
It was a surprising question that Sunjata asked. No one had ever asked Iskra that. It was as if the shroud he'd wrapped himself in for so long had replaced who he once was, so that anyone who looked at him did not see someone haunted by grief, but only saw what they thought was normal. He didn't blame them; they did not know the laughing boy who had raced down warm sands with nothing but joy in his heart and wildness in his veins. How could they see he was just a shell of his former self when that's all he'd ever been to them, shuffling through existence because if he gave up, who would feed his dog?
It wasn't normal, though, was it? For someone, anyone, to lay in bed for days curled up in the bottom of a bottle. If they had wondered though, he had smiled, and laughed, and done some work. Someone who's lost surely doesn't laugh and they definitely don't make you laugh. Someone who is surrounded by darkness cannot shine.
You pretend. You fake it, because you don’t want to be a burden to anyone else. You’re already enough of one to yourself. Besides, everyone has troubles, yours are not special. You've lost people? Wake up, everyone has. You're just weak and seeking attention to make your miserable self feel a little bit better. Pathetic.
If someone does ask, you reassure. It's easy, because no one really wants to ask, because then they would know, and that knowledge is a discomfort. No one likes a buzzkill.
So smile.
Iskra smiles, but doesn't answer. He takes another draught. "Iskra."
Reassure.
"Flower hunting too? I wasss tryin', 'afore I go back to Alo." See, he's fine. He's up and working, he's helping.
It was a surprising question that Sunjata asked. No one had ever asked Iskra that. It was as if the shroud he'd wrapped himself in for so long had replaced who he once was, so that anyone who looked at him did not see someone haunted by grief, but only saw what they thought was normal. He didn't blame them; they did not know the laughing boy who had raced down warm sands with nothing but joy in his heart and wildness in his veins. How could they see he was just a shell of his former self when that's all he'd ever been to them, shuffling through existence because if he gave up, who would feed his dog?
It wasn't normal, though, was it? For someone, anyone, to lay in bed for days curled up in the bottom of a bottle. If they had wondered though, he had smiled, and laughed, and done some work. Someone who's lost surely doesn't laugh and they definitely don't make you laugh. Someone who is surrounded by darkness cannot shine.
You pretend. You fake it, because you don’t want to be a burden to anyone else. You’re already enough of one to yourself. Besides, everyone has troubles, yours are not special. You've lost people? Wake up, everyone has. You're just weak and seeking attention to make your miserable self feel a little bit better. Pathetic.
If someone does ask, you reassure. It's easy, because no one really wants to ask, because then they would know, and that knowledge is a discomfort. No one likes a buzzkill.
So smile.
Iskra smiles, but doesn't answer. He takes another draught. "Iskra."
Reassure.
"Flower hunting too? I wasss tryin', 'afore I go back to Alo." See, he's fine. He's up and working, he's helping.
Iskra
