The Weight of the World

Chapter 1: Viridian

It was Thursday. He knew it was Thursday because when he woke up the house was empty. He turned in his bed, a slight glow forcing his eyes to open. The sun cast a warm dusky light, which was sent in seeping hues through a carmine-tinted window. There was nothing to be heard but the birds' songs, filling him with such seatherny he shivered. Morning was creeping through the streets, its haze beckoning every villager to rise from their sleep. With weary eyes, he pulled himself onto the ground, each tattered floorboard groaning at his feet.

As he trudged down the stairs, the stillness and hush seemed almost sincere. The kitchen was just as his father had left it; disorderly in a sense where life lingered despite the solitude. Clutter from someone's breakfast rested on the countertop, and he could smell the dawdling aroma of a recently put-out candle. I'll tidy later, he thought to himself. It wasn't as if his father would return until late dawn. Not today- no, not on Thursdays.

At this time of the week, his father would routinely disappear into the early hours of the morning, only to get back way after the sun had set. Some years ago, with a much more naïve state of mind, he didn't know better but to play along with his father's story that Thursdays required much more work, and that his time away was spent furiously labouring. But now, a bit older and considerably wiser, he realised that'd been the utmost lie. Of course, he wasn't supposed to know that his father told tales or to where he went, but he'd been a young boy with far too much spare time on his hands and a father who simply did not care. So indeed, he'd defiantly spied and broken into a study or two to obtain the information that his father did in fact not work on Thursdays.

The silence in his home had begun to drive him mad, so he started humming a melody to perhaps not feel so lonely. As he sang, the soft tune brought back familiarity which made his heart ache. Images of her flooded his head, and he clenched his fists sinking to the floor. He found himself seated in front of the fireplace and with the flick of his wrist, he ignited the wood- a trick which he'd practised to near perfection. His signature blue flame danced wittily; whimsical but alone.

His mother would sing him that song, and everything he did reminded him of her. It wasn't fair what he felt every time he thought of his mother. They had only created good memories, so why was it that they added to the agony he unjustly felt knowing she was gone forever? She'd made him learn to live in fear that he would have to remember her for longer than he'd known her.

A knot was growing in his stomach and tears were prickling his eyes. He fought back the tears, not daring to cry. Nobody was home yet he couldn't help but feel ashamed to show himself weakened. He jumped up and breathed in sharply, leaving no evidence his mother had crossed his mind.

He began raiding his kitchen, growing angrier every time he found a cupboard empty. His father hadn't left even a crumb, only dirty dishes and mess. There wasn't even a berry left behind, and drinking water for breakfast didn't seem rather appealing. Groaning, he made his way to his father's study and prayed he'd find at least a spare coin. Although not a soul was watching, still he crept in as if the walls would call out he wasn't allowed there. Drawer after drawer he searched, but not one showed even a glimpse of gold. He tightened his grip on the handle he held, not realising he was beginning to burn it until the heat reached his fingertips. Scorch marks were left on the wooden surface, a damned problem he'd have to deal with before his father got home.

Leaving the study, the last option he had appeared evident. He rolled his eyes and snatched his ivory cloak and gloves from their hooks, pulling them on with disdain. The huge sleeves hung from his wrists like ivy, perfectly oversized for what he needed. He only wore these robes when he had to, and the shame they provided afterwards always left a sickly taste in his mouth. He stepped into loose boots in case things went wrong and he'd have to run, then locked his front door behind him.