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Pripyat Soul · 05-13-2011, 03:40 PM

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Pripyat’s desperation broke the calm exterior, it seemed that if one hammered long enough and persistent enough they could break through any wall. The gruff gimp shouted with such strength that the boy was jolted into a quiet stare, looking up at the man with one eye. He felt four months old again, having lived the majority of his tiny life alongside Geneva, staring up at Jefferson then had been like staring up at a stranger. It seemed so now. And he felt tiny again, so tiny in comparison to his father, although their sizes were ever coming closer to one another.

The man spewed emotions and confessions the boy hadn’t expect, because if he expected anything it would have been Jefferson’s deflecting of Pripyat’s inquiries, or more likely answering them with a detached bitterness. No, this was better, although the boy didn’t know how to react. Partly it felt good to know his father hurt in very much the same ways he did. Partly it broke his heart to know that his father was pained even further. Whether to cling to the comfort this provided or the further anguish and guilt Pripyat could not decide, he wavered with both emotions stirring up his insides.

And then the man melted and Pripyat knew which emotion to cling onto. Guilt. That was ever the correct choice, though not one he made consciously. The stranger was again his father, and Pripyat no longer felt tiny but rather large. Like he could break the man before him, for Geneva had already put in fresh cracks when she left. How much more damage could one being bear? With a hesitant hand, as if physical contact with his own son might indeed be the last blow before the man crumpled, he reached out and touched his father’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Dad.” And it was so genuine that certainly Pripyat couldn’t be apologizing for less than everything.

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