ISKRA
Her belief that they would have made it is perhaps an indicator of her madness, a rejection of reality as it stands. There’d never been anything close to capable of carrying them at that height in that childish prototype. He takes her words for the comfort they offer though, the promise that they would have been able to conquer the sky, just the two of them, if they had tried hard enough. His gaze flicks over to her, bright and appreciative, as she scans the stars and dreams among them. "Then we could race," he agrees with a glimmer of mischief for what reckless speeds and altitudes they could face off against.
At her tale, a laugh breaks free, rumbling around the bottle as he fights to swallow his draught against the burst of humor. It comes easier now—the happiness—with the heat of the liquor, with the fire of Melita so close, with the golden shimmer of good times now gone... Could the weight of the world have actually been this light, all this time, if he'd bothered to linger at her side and lend some of it to her capable shoulders? "Oooh she was mad mad that day." His wolfish grin says he doesn't regret it one bit. "I puked so much that day."
He twists around, leaning against the side of the boat, hand holding just the tail of the little wooden bird while his other one hangs the bottle over the side. He inhales heavily and exhales loudly. "Hey, mom." he says low, like he can't really rally the words any higher, not without finally breaking. "I miss you, a lot, and I'm sorry... for everything." For the way he carried her memory like a set of irons, never something she would have wanted. For the way he failed to make something of himself. For the fact she had to leave so soon, too soon for it to be fair to her. Only certain parts of that could he repair, and gods, he was trying to, now.
"I promise, I'll visit you more often, and I'll work hard to make you proud." Maybe now she could rest a bit easier, and he could shrug off her shadow. He owed it to her to manage it, because she didn't deserve to be drug behind him like this. "Bye, mom." The words drag like anchors. Too big for his throat, too heavy for water—but they make it out, cracked and shaking all the same. He tips the bird into the sea, and the bottle slips from his hand into the ocean, floating for a bit until it takes on enough seawater to gradually sink below the surface. His next breath shudders, finding new space to fill inside him where he'd grown a bit hollow, where he used to shelve all the grief. He sags away from the edge, laying flat on the boat's floor, trying to remind himself how to breath.
At her tale, a laugh breaks free, rumbling around the bottle as he fights to swallow his draught against the burst of humor. It comes easier now—the happiness—with the heat of the liquor, with the fire of Melita so close, with the golden shimmer of good times now gone... Could the weight of the world have actually been this light, all this time, if he'd bothered to linger at her side and lend some of it to her capable shoulders? "Oooh she was mad mad that day." His wolfish grin says he doesn't regret it one bit. "I puked so much that day."
He twists around, leaning against the side of the boat, hand holding just the tail of the little wooden bird while his other one hangs the bottle over the side. He inhales heavily and exhales loudly. "Hey, mom." he says low, like he can't really rally the words any higher, not without finally breaking. "I miss you, a lot, and I'm sorry... for everything." For the way he carried her memory like a set of irons, never something she would have wanted. For the way he failed to make something of himself. For the fact she had to leave so soon, too soon for it to be fair to her. Only certain parts of that could he repair, and gods, he was trying to, now.
"I promise, I'll visit you more often, and I'll work hard to make you proud." Maybe now she could rest a bit easier, and he could shrug off her shadow. He owed it to her to manage it, because she didn't deserve to be drug behind him like this. "Bye, mom." The words drag like anchors. Too big for his throat, too heavy for water—but they make it out, cracked and shaking all the same. He tips the bird into the sea, and the bottle slips from his hand into the ocean, floating for a bit until it takes on enough seawater to gradually sink below the surface. His next breath shudders, finding new space to fill inside him where he'd grown a bit hollow, where he used to shelve all the grief. He sags away from the edge, laying flat on the boat's floor, trying to remind himself how to breath.
I'm losin' my grip, caught up in the current
I can't swim, I'm startin' to slip
I'm runnin' out of breath, I'm scared to death
I gotta keep my head up, Up above the water
I can't swim, I'm startin' to slip
I'm runnin' out of breath, I'm scared to death
I gotta keep my head up, Up above the water
