In The End, We Fall

The Early Years

1.

In the beginning, there was only us.

And, I wasn't very keen on change when I was younger. I would cling to things, hating letting go, giving up. A broken toy was a crime and a ripped teddy bear was a sin. It all had to be fixed.

It was stupid most of the time, and even at the scrappy age of seven years old, I knew that. My mother had always said that I was too calculating, I cared about things too much for my own good. And, on those days, in our hapless seafront village, where we would collect salty shells on the edge of white sands and crystal waters, the days heat basking on our skin, she never failed to tell me how thankful she was for that fact. 

I didn't remember much of my younger years. Not because they were bad, no, they were amazing. My dad, throwing tattered pillows around and me catching feathers in the summer air, later sowing dream catchers for the kids of the town. My mother, baking breads and cakes in the kitchen, those tantalizing smells never fully leaving my mind. We would watch the stars together, pointing out constellations and the myths behind them. 

 The air would be hot or cold or humid, either way, it didn't matter. Those days were heaven, a paradise entirely of my own making. 

  "They're torches," my mother would say. 

"Those who we've lost, they carry torches in the night sky, reaching out to the ones that they left behind."

"But why?" I asked, voice squeaky with boyhood and awe. 

"Well, when we lose the people we love, they leave this . . . this hole in our hearts." For a moment she looked sad, something faraway in those brown eyes of hers.

"And, nothing ever truly fills it. But those lights-" she pointed, fingers dirty with housework. 

"They remind us that, even though we can't see them, or hear them; they're always, always with us." 

   And she would smile wide, the dimples in her pale cheeks lighting up her face, a glow that even the moon couldn't outdo. The grass would be soft under my head, the smell of saltwater thick in my nostrils. I wondered how many torches there were and how many hurt people saw them. 

And then everything passed in a blur; school, random jobs to pick up some extra change, graduation, more random jobs. I was alone most of the time, besides with my family, of course. I didn't have many friends, I couldn't find any genuine work. There were options, there were people, but nothing fit me. I found no interest in conventional things. 

Too much of my time was spent looking at stars. 

I could trace them in my mind, every etch and poke in the sky. They were as much a part of me as was the blood in my veins. Maybe that was my problem. 

I ate dinner with my parents, attempted to find a profession, failed miserably, planted flowers, ignored invitations to events and public gatherings. Truly, my village didn't offer much. To this day I still can't remember the name of it, or any significant things that we did there. My life wasn't boring, but it wasn't interesting either. There were no defining moments, no big changes, the craziest thing that ever happened to me was catching a fish with my father. 

  So, time passed without haste, barely giving us a moment to breathe. With that, it was suddenly the dawn of my eighteen birthday, and I had accomplished absolutely nothing of notice. 

One thing to probably note is that we lived long, on this planet of ours. 

We aged very, very slowly, and almost thirty years had already passed before I could finally be considered an "adult." Nearly five years had to pass for it to be considered one. And, we were all granted three lives, died a third, and you were gone forever. Life was something to be had here, not wasted.