In the Shadows of the Past | Levi Ackerman

1

As the first light of dawn creeps over the horizon, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards of our small home, I stir from my restless slumber, the weight of another day's burdens heavy upon my shoulders.Five long years have passed since the darkness of my world was shattered, since I was thrust into a life of turmoil and hardship beyond my tender years.(She's almost twelve)

Each morning begins the same-a relentless routine of training and toil that stretches from the predawn hours until the sun sinks below the horizon once more. Before the world awakens, before the birds begin their song, I am already awake, steeling myself for the trials that lie ahead.

With each passing day, I have grown stronger, my muscles honed to a razor's edge by the ceaseless training at the hands of my stepfather. I have learned to fight-to defend myself and those I love-with a ferocity born of desperation, my hands wielding weapons with a skill that belies my youth.

But with strength comes sacrifice, and the scars that mark my skin bear testament to the price I have paid. Each mark tells a story-a tale of hardship and endurance, of suffering endured and battles fought. And yet, with each new scar, I find a measure of solace, for they are proof of my resilience, of my ability to endure even the darkest of days.

And so, as the sun climbs higher in the sky, casting its warm rays upon the world below, I set out into the bustling marketplace, a basket of vegetables balanced precariously on my hip. It is a task I have grown accustomed to, a duty I perform with a sense of quiet determination.

But amidst the hustle and bustle of the marketplace, there is little time for reflection, for my days are filled with endless tasks and responsibilities. From cooking and cleaning to caring for my ailing mother, the weight of my duties presses down upon me like a heavy cloak, threatening to crush me beneath its burden.

As I walk through the bustling marketplace, lost in the rhythm of my daily routine, my gaze is suddenly drawn to a scene that brings me to a halt. There, amidst the throng of people, stands a family of three-a beautiful mother with a young boy, perhaps four or five years old, and a man whose features bear a striking resemblance to my biological father the father who is supposed to love me and carry my burden the one they talk about in fary tales. All he did was leave me and my mother to suffer.

Frozen in place, I feel a lump form in my throat as I whisper, "Dad?" My voice is barely audible above the din of the crowd, but I cannot suppress the desperate longing that surges within me. Summoning all the courage I possess, I call out again, louder this time, "DAD!"

The man turns, his eyes meeting mine with a mixture of surprise and confusion. Beside him, the woman holding the child looks on with curiosity, while the boy clings tightly to his father's hand.

"Dad," I repeat, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. The woman's voice breaks through the silence, her question hanging in the air like a heavy cloud.
"Do you know her?"

His response is swift and decisive, a lie wrapped in a veneer of false sincerity. "No, I don't," he says, his eyes flickering with guilt as they meet mine once more.

But it's the boy who captures my attention-a small, innocent soul with eyes the same shade of green as mine. In his gaze, I see a reflection of the father I once knew, a ghost of the man who walked away from me without a second glance.

As they turn to leave, my heart aches with a pain that cuts deeper than any blade. He is happy, surrounded by love and laughter, while I am left to languish in the shadows of his abandonment. Anger simmers beneath the surface, a wildfire threatening to consume me whole.

Tears spill from my eyes, unchecked and unbidden, as I watch them disappear into the crowd. For him, life goes on-a storybook existence filled with all the things I yearn for but can never have.As I stand alone in the midst of the bustling marketplace, I am left to wrestle with the bitter truth of his betrayal, and the painful reality of my own suffering.