#decline wip

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Karma bowed his head, inhaling hurriedly against an invasion which threatened his airways. He was choking, in simple terms. Choking on responsibility. On the war between passion and obligation. The desire to do the best possible for those who had given up their lives for him and to pursue that which allowed him to glimpse a future of joy.

"I can't-" He gasped, forcing the unyielding words beyond his lips, "Can't even write anymore. I-"

His sobs reverberated into the eaves, showering down upon him in their aftershocks. Tears wet his cheeks, clinging stubbornly to the underside of his jaw.

Remus and Allie continued brightly in their conversation, not quite pleading ignorance. Oblivion, perhaps. For an instant, Karma dared to wish he may be recognised for what he was. For the cursed, twisted thing which reigned within him.

But Allie acted, through no fault of his own, with only a portion of the puzzle. He laid his palms against the table ledge, rising with an smile, impersonal yet radiating warmth regardless.

Still, somehow, Karma managed to muster a feeling of recognition from the action, regardless of intent.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Sometimes I wonder how Icarus felt as his descent began. Did he laugh with delight as the wax scorched his flesh? Did he revel in the sun's heavenly warmth, despite its cataclysmic nature? Perhaps he spread his arms wide, mimicking the effect of soaring even as he fell.

Somehow, I had always been convinced that his final moments were spent in joyous celebration, the culmination of a childish adolescence.

Icarus was an inspiration. We build him brick by brick into the perfect figure to reflect our dreams. We went to him in order to fuel our blind dreams and, as if we stood before a looking glass, he always reflected what we told ourselves under the guise of jesting.

Now, I can recognise that Icarus preformed no noble sacrifice. Saints become martyrs, they suffer for our sins. But not Icarus. A mere child has no claim to sainthood nor to biblical proportion.

Now, I understand that an innocent death can not justify our philosophy. We never acted as preachers or priests. No, all we were capable of was blatant disrespect.

We may as well have found his site of final burial and spit on it.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

The Allistar James library began construction in September 1902. It opened to the general public in June 1904, although that fantasy expired quickly. With the outbreak of war, it, along with surrounding buildings, was transformed into a makeshift hospital. Then, following Hitler's reign during which it, too, was utilised for storage of arms, it managed to stand desolate for a number of years. It was in 1982 that the repurposing was approved. January 3rd 1984, renovations commenced.

By this time, of course, the Allistar James whose wealth wretched the dream into reality was long stirring in his coffin. His son, however, oversaw the upheaval, supplying funds where the Minister For Education was rather stingy. Due to this fact, they decided it would have been rather rude to rename the building in honour of a fallen soldier, as the school building had.

So, the Allistar James library perseveres into the twenty-first century. The first and the second have long passed, bringing with them their aspirations for mahogany tables and tasteful sterling-silver reading lights.

Allie- That is, the third, merely seven years old- squints at a science-fiction novel. Seated upon a hardback chair at one of those same mahogany tables. The emboldened 3 at the page's topmost corner mocks him, weeping. Scowling, the letters begin to preform. Gymnastics routines, if he is not mistaken. Jumps and flips like wondrous circus animals.

There is an unmistakable echo as he discards it, his forehead colliding with the table's surface in a similar manner. He winces, thinking about mahogany and hard wood in general and the general decline in wood quality in recent years and how he would sooner auction off the entire building in which he resides to the lowest bidder rather than admit the truth.

You can be born to a legacy and be undeserving or you can be born to a legacy and refuse responsibility.

Allie was rather content to do both.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

No, I do not believe I was constructed with consistency in mind. On a Monday, I invent an identity for myself and by Tuesday afternoon it has been abandoned without care or regret. Wednesday morning, perhaps I decide to invest in philosophy. Afternoon rolls around, I'm a nihilist.

Mama calls me spirited. Katie, impossible. Karma, emotional. I would say 'Manic', if they cared to ask. Allie avoids the subject entirely. Brilliant for a melody, that Allistar, but far from the desired accompaniment when handling a delicate topic.

Delicate. Another word of Mama's, the one she employs when rationalising to my father. The situation is delicate, Charles... No, you can only make it worse.

I wonder now if I ever possessed a concrete opinion on anything, or if I ever will. I wonder if I am even capable of pretending. If the agonising head ache which encroaches upon me in moments of shattered identity is to be a permanent fixture. If my bedroom would be preferable in a lighter shade of green. If, in twenty years, some eager, bright-eyed doctoral candidate will present me as an anonymous case study.

I suppose I am of the belief that I need to be studied. My god, how narcissistic is that? I wish you wouldn't think less of me for it, truly. When you're born to the chorus of camera shutters, you hardly find time to adjust to anything foreign.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

"Can I ask you something?" Maria, her armour shed, lay with her feet in Charles' lap on the white sofa, now bearing an immaculate red wine stain on the left arm.

In response, Charles hummed, one hand resting heavily upon her ankle. In his other, he held a pint glass. Periodically, a drop of water smashed upon the hardwood, disturbing their silence. A silence, that is, which Maria invented in her vigour to speak. A silence which she insisted was not only mutual but familiar. A welcome silence.

"Do you ever wonder if we fucked up?" And Charles laughed, moving to answer, but Maria continued, ignorant in her fervor, "With Remus. Because, no matter how beautiful and flawless and- And how much of a blessing they are... I still wonder if my life would be- Not better but... Closer. To what I thought it would be. To what I dreamed about when I was a kid. I keep asking, you know- Asking what reality would be like if we- Is 'Terminated' the right word? Because it's sounding a little Arnold Schwarzenegger now that I've said it out loud... Charlie?"

His expression was thrown into shadow by the drawn curtains. Maria swallowed as his hand closed like a shackle around her ankle.

"What the fuck, Maria?"

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Maria Kenning-White became a mother in her twenty third year of life. Charles White, however, never quite became a father. This, Remus pondered as they reclined upon the carpeted alcove, an ear to events transpiring below as Nyx demanded attention.

"Aside from your name, what exactly have I asked of you, Charlie?" Maria's voice was shrill, laced with a scorn unfamiliar.

Charles' reply was even, "I'm here, aren't I?"

Her responding snort, Remus knew even without a glimpse at her expression was disbelieving. Maria's footsteps tapped across the marble as she presumably approached the man whose children were both the greatest blessings and burdens of her life.

"Arriving with a lollipop isn't playing 'Daddy', Charles. It's reading from the wrong fucking script for a night." She sighed, "I- I know you must mean well to an extent, but you have never been welcome here. Hell, even when you were pretending to live here-"

"Pretending?" Charles sounded distant, as if had never truly existed but in Remus' mind's eye.

Maria's reply was biting, "Bastard, I know where you spent your nights."

With that, Remus dragged themselves to their feet, scooping Nyx into an awkward bridal carry. She yowled softly, ultimately settling into the hold as Remus stroked her neck. They meandered toward their bedroom. now pleading ignorance to the disorder below.

To have your suspicions confirmed, that is one thing. To live with the reality of life afterward, another entirely.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

And so, dear reader, if these are to be my final remarks, let me say this:

Grief demands your attention, whether you care to view her or not. Ignoring her is neither healthy nor kind. Embrace it, I beg of you. Otherwise, I fear you may not recognise yourself in the aftermath. I would take my advice, after all, I am an expert on the matter; I spent my youth dodging grief with such dexterity that I grew not to know her at all.

Do not follow my example. I am no role model, as you have seen, although I am aware that so many of you will frame me as such.

Finally, I would like to impart on you the wisdom of my final, choked breath:

Memories are created to be forgotten.

The written word, however, is a different case entirely.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Maria gazed absently at her left hand. The polish on her middle finger was chipped, a product of the faulty wall of her daughter's crib. Perfectly safe for the baby, of course, or else Maria would have swallowed her pride and replaced it months previous. No, it was merely irritating in that the wall which claimed to drop down for ease did no such thing unless prodded ceaselessly.

A thin, white band of scar tissue spread across the knuckle of her thumb. Some incident during her adolescence, she was sure, but not a memorable example.

Then there was the ring.

Charles had approached Maria's father about it months previous to ever lowering himself to one knee. It was a cheap stunt, utterly unsophisticated and entirely embarrassing. In stroking her father's ego, aiding his belief that his blessing was required before Charles even considered asking, Charles ensured a financial aid, as well as an oppressive, encouraging hand on Maria's shoulder.

He opted for gold, the highest content available in store, with several small, inset white diamonds surrounding a centre-piece pink diamond. Objective perfection. Maria doubted she could have chosen better if she had walked into the store herself and spent hours laboriously picking through each item of stock. Yet, just the sight of it caused tendrils of disgust to rise in her stomach.

"Maria White." She murmured, attempting to disregard the mounting unease within her.

"You could do both." Charles' voice wretched her from wherever she had travelled to- Somewhere far beyond their aggressively modern kitchen, surely-. "Kenning-White."

"Yeah, er..." Maria shook her hands in an attempt to return them to their regular colour, "Yeah, sounds good. Kenning-White. I like it." She was speaking too quickly, her mind swimming.

Luckily, Charles was never the brightest star in the sky.