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He knew she would inevitably be curious for his whereabouts, though his mother had never been enlightened to what exactly Attila spent his time doing in his oh-so-inconvenient absences. He considered himself to be young, a free spirit; the ways of his parents were not the ways of he, for Attila chose to live his life recklessly and to the extreme. He would enjoy it no other way knowing he would only grow up to regret everything he hesitated if that were the case. He loved his mother still, but she would not understand. She would not understand the migratory soul she'd given her son, the drive for sex and freedom that resulted from a childhood of, well, perhaps too much freedom. He didn't regret a thing. She did not greet him, or at least not loudly, and her smile hung weak in the air. Tayui gave an excuse she forced to sound legitimate, but he knew her well—or he himself had adapted all to well at the arts of deceptions and lies, and perhaps it was that knowledge instead that dispersed any mist his mother attempted to veil before his eyes. "Don't lie to me," he snapped, then withdrew quickly, his ears flicked back. He had never been assertive with his mother, but it had been a long time. It was always a long time between the periods they dwelt around each other. Maybe more had happened to him in his absence than he had thought. Her last words she spoke with an enthusiasm absent in fibs, and yet he still wanted to disbelieve it. "You didn't leave AniWaya," he said, subduing to a much more reserved tone, "did you?" |
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