life's like an hour glass glued to the table

Pripyat Soul · 01-03-2011, 03:43 PM

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824.

The boy barely realized it but he had been holding his breath, waiting for his mother's answer. When she spoke her voice sounded unfamiliar and distant, and the tone made him squirm in discomfort more than the words did. The words however hit him like a ton of bricks, and although he attempted to take a breath in he felt a heavy weight against his chest. Why couldn't he breathe and why did he suddenly feel like he had to run from her, his mother? Yet he couldn't do that, he was transfixed on the spot, his ears buzzed and his vision was going blurry before Geneva's voice cut in again. Pulling himself out of the haze he forced air into his lungs as she continued, but her words were fuzzy and made little sense just then.

Jordan is part of my life. It was this sentence that he focused on. Is? Is?!? Not was, but is? Why is? Wasn't he dead? Wasn't he gone? Wasn't Jefferson her mate? Jefferson and him were part of her life, not Jordan. Not some other child. If Pripyat knew that his insecurities were much the same as his father's at one point he wouldn't have felt so lost just then, but his father wasn't there. It was only he and his mother. But she wasn't just his mother, she was someone else's mother too. Someone dead, and if Jordan still was part of Geneva's life, than perhaps the dead daughter was at as well. And Pripyat didn't know how he felt about sharing his mother with a ghost, although from the lack of oxygen and the overwhelming pressure he felt upon his lungs just then he didn’t think that this knowledge was a good thing. Not at all.

The buzzing in his ears did not cease until finally Geneva lowered herself beside him and took up his hand. For a while they sat as Geneva examined his hand, and his ocean eyes turned dully towards the interlocked fingers, not really seeing them. Nothing had ever come between him and Geneva before, nothing had ever made him feel apart from her. Even when he was out and about, she was the glue that cemented him to Phoenix Valley. Of course he had come to love and respect Jefferson, and the desire to please and win the respect of his father grew daily, but it was his mother that made Raven Beacon his mother, and then the ranch, and all of Phoenix Valley. Without her he was lost, and despite that she was there beside him her fingers in his, he felt lost just then.

Her words came over him like an ice bath, pulling him from his cloud of confusion and ache. Of course she loved him very much, he knew that, even still with the lingering threat of another child and lover. His eyes slid shut, eyes that matched neither her's nor his father's and he tried to focus on that. She loved him, she loved him, she loved him. That should have been enough. And yet, why did he still feel so miserable? Pripyat didn't want to feel this way, didn't want to be jealous or hurt or confused, it was simply how the knowledge was being processed and maybe it would have been better if he had never read the damned journal in the first place.

"I don't want you to be sorry." Finally the words came to him as he opened his eyes, meeting his mother's gaze once more. Even if he felt miserable about the situation he didn't want her to. Didn't want her to feel bad about how he was reacting, and he didn't even want her to ache for Jordan anymore, not because he was jealous but because any unhappiness of his mother's was unhappiness to him. Still he couldn’t bring himself to say more and he squeezed her fingers gently, hoping that he could communicate better through that than he could with words right now. He could tell her not to worry, it wasn't a big deal, it was okay if she had Jordan and the other being, but those words wouldn't come, and he couldn't force them.

For a long while he sat there, not saying a word, clutching his mother's hand. Geneva had opened the floor to questions, any other questions he had, but there were too many and none at all at the same time. What did any of it matter really? He should just stand up and walk away, try and forget it, pretend it didn't matter. Maybe he shouldn't know anymore than he already did. Yet he could never just walk away from Geneva and if he didn't ask now he might never ask. And he would want to know one day. "What was her name?" What was his sister's name? That was a good place to start, or as good as any he supposed.

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