[WAR] Broken Crust

[Grassy_Aggron]

Well, I wasn't able to really make it clear who the narrator really is in this story. Oops. Leaves it open to interpretation though. PM me (or after it's judged) I'll reveal who it really was.

And apologies for how short this is. I normally write longer, but the theme was not something I could connect well with so...yeah. I'm rather ashamed how short it is.

EDIT: Un-centered because it was annoying Xanthe :D Except for the title. That title needs to be centered and I will rabidly attack anyone who thinks otherwise. No other edit was made.

Broken Crust

Our birth was a violent one. Father suffered a grand blow to his pride when we came into the world, enraged that there were now others whom bore his visage. He preferred to be unique, to be his own, and would rather not share it with any other. Even our aunts and uncles could not persuade him to be gentle, and he continued to spew fiery words at us. Spiteful, bitter words. They hurt, but in the end he only hurled accusations, as he could not actually do us harm. Our grandfather threatened to exile him if he did, and as violent as our father could be, he dared not anger him. None of us did, in truth, for Grandfather held benevolent power over all of us, and no one wished to see it turn malevolent.

For years, we simply danced around our father, aware that any careless step or word could ignite his fiery once more. He tolerated our presence, but he was more focused on our aunt with all of her children. We could sense his jealousy at her unique children that frolicked around her, ever joyful and growing. At the same time we could feel his disdain for us, mere copies in his name and stunted in growth. It was not our fault, but he failed to understand and his anger only continued to fester toward us. I did the best that I could and stayed farther away, hoping to be unnoticed, but my twin decided to employ the tactic of “if you can’t catch me you can’t hurt me”. I admit I envied him for being so brazen.

As we aged and became older, my brother only got closer and closer to Father. This was not to say he had become like him, for while bitter he was trying to understand him as any child, even older, would. Father remained cold and resigned, but he eventually began to speak to us. It was so enlightening to hear words that were not laced with venom or fire, but almost curious as to what we had been doing. We were more than happy to tell him this, hoping to appease him and earn his favor at long last. It was tentative, however, for there was always an underlying anger hidden beneath the surface, and several times he grew annoyed at our talking. We had to be careful and silent often, but in time we hoped the relationship would grow.

Inevitably my brother made the mistake of being careless, making it a sport of rushing around our father at blistering speeds. While he had tolerated it before, it was finally wearing thin. Father exploded with rage, reaching out to ensnare my brother with a tight grip. He pulled him down even while he screamed, shaking him viciously with his wrath. I was helpless to do anything, for if I did, I would suffer the same fate. I watched and pleaded as my father tore my brother apart, and I wept.

I barely heard my aunts cry out for me in comfort, nor my uncles verbally assault my father. Grandfather was silent, watching solemnly and respectfully, for the fallen. I cannot say what might have been said, despite my intentions to listen. My head was swimming as the link I always held to my twin, forever bound by fate, crackled and snapped, sending tremors deep through my core. It was agonizing yet numbing, hot yet cold, and I was left confused to the point of stupor. I could not speak.

Even worse, I could not scream.

Now don’t get me wrong, I wanted to scream. I needed to vent my fury at him, to berate and hurt him as much as he had just hurt me. My agony was tenfold, throbbing like a heartbeat, but I could not act on it no matter how much it felt like rupturing. I could not bring myself to bear down on my father, for even in my anger I would not underestimate him. Having watched him murder my brother, I was too shaken up to challenge him. Instead I listened to my family try and console me, but their words were just that. Words. They meant very little to me.

As time went on, the wound refused to heal. It festered with anger, but it was no longer directed solely at my parent. No, it was directed firmly at my family. They did nothing as my brother was murdered, only watching and shouting as the worst betrayal happened. Why hadn’t they stepped in? Why did they not force my father to stop? I hated them for it, despised them despite how they had tried to comfort me. In my eyes, they had committed just as much of a sin as my father. I refused to speak to them, and for many years there was nothing but tense silence.

In that quiet darkness I grew bitter towards myself as well. Just like my family, I had done nothing as my twin had screamed for me to help him, frozen in place by fear. The reality of the situation was that I couldn’t have done anything, but it only served to fuel my hatred. There was always a way to help someone, especially family, yet I couldn’t find it. I found myself wailing in fits that I could not control, lamenting over the loss anew yet screaming incoherently at a victory I could never achieve. I was so divided, wanting comfort from the pain yet feeling as if I deserved nothing but agony for my failure.

I may have continued on that path had my father’s words not suddenly breached the wall I had erected around myself. It was a fortress that I had built to protect my fragile mind, but instead it had trapped the illness within it. His words were soft and defeated, something that I had never dreamed would happen, and they slipped easily into the cracks that peppered my defenses. He told me to not hate myself for being unable to do anything, as rage was a powerful force that could render the smartest minds stupid. He said that had I or anyone else tried to step in, he would have likely killed them in his wrath. By not stepping in, I had saved my own life, and that I should not be ashamed about it. It was not cowardice that had stayed me; it was a smart mind recognizing that it was already too late to save him and that stepping in would result in greater tragedy.

He told me he had been suffering as well, but that he had deserved it while I had not. The others had completely shunned him and he had no one to talk to, and left alone had been dealing with nothing but shame. He had taken a life that did not deserve to be taken, and it was not something he was proud of. Yet he also recognized he still had one child left that needed a parent figure, and now, having realized how much he cared for us, he wished to be the father I had always wanted.

I told him no. The time for being my father had passed the moment that line was crossed, but I appreciated the words he had spoken. While he withdrew back into an understanding silence, I realized that he had been correct. I blamed myself for my brother’s death, but the blame was on no one but himself and my father. I could not step in myself, and the others could not either. The recovery process would be long, and the pain would always be there, but maybe, just maybe, if I could let go of a failure that did not actually exist, I could start healing.

The first step would be to start talking again.

The second step would involve listening.

The third step would be to forgive myself and others.

The final step?

Letting it go.

[Dragon Master Mike]

I love it. I didn't realize how good a writer you were until I read this (most likely on account of me having never seen any of your stories). I literally got chills at parts it was so good.

And what you said about the length: length doesn't equal quality. Sure, it can help, but it's great how it is, and long enough.