The archive of the forgotten

A normal childhood

I jog up the stairs to my apartment. My head feels heavy on my shoulders and my legs are numb, my feet echo on the ground like my heart beats in my chest. I wonder if my heart should be on the ground too. My keys jingle as I drop them, I look up for a few seconds. I bite my trembling lip and sharply inhale as I look down and grab the keys. I open my apartment and my black great Dane Gary greets me but I do greet it. I walk towards my room and close the door in front of Gary's face. Put on my record player, it plays the man who sold the world by david bowie. I feel myself swaying as it feels like the way I blink my eyes seems to slow down. I wonder if you can forget how to breathe, or forget how to make your heart beat, I forget I've already done that, make my heart beat.

The answer is probably no, but I do wonder. Simply because no one chose to answer me. I take of my Dr. Martens and throw them across the room. Path I chose not to follow was laying in front of me, the train departing, I can choose between death of starvation or forsaking myself.It was an easy choice back than, everything was logical, everything was fine, I was the only one who understood.

But we all need to be the same eventually, every doctor, every businessman, every baker becomes tired. He becomes unhappy with what he doesn't have, whether that is a simple loaf of bread or a new yacht. This is the beginning of the way of becoming. My hair will be cut, my leather jackets and tweed suits will become grey uniforms, my books will become the same old paper again and again. I will forget how to run a red light. I will forget the lyrics of "too drunk to fuck" I will get a wife and children and they won't believe the stories of their old anarchistic dad, they won't believe the stories of the wicked children. Cause how could that far left wing freak become a slight left leaning proper old man.

Selling out their ideas, because we all succumb to society.

We are holding each other captive, cause no one wants to be the first who speaks.

And so today I need to start with not forgetting myself while moving on. I open the door, my great dane enters and I sit down in front of my typewriter I was gifted by the old professor. It still smells like the dusty walls of the institute. The paper still smells like her perfume and the ink still stains like it did his elegant hand, I remember them running down my chest and the soft kisses in my neck, I digress. I roll in the paper and start to write.

A childhood, something to be remembered fondly, kindly. With the light we no adult sees anymore. My childhood was strange, that I can agree to. Of course every adult tends to deem their own childhood rather strange, even if they are not. But believe me, the childhood of Imogen, Gabriel and me is nothing any of the others could imagine. No, you needed to be there to understand, no one knows our reality, except us: The Wicked.

The church children: Our more friendly name. Begging was nothing for us, we still had pride and none of us was good at swallowing it. Stealing was dishonourable and so we lived through charity, hunting and gathering. It was simple, simple was good. Only three children, no adult, three of us there were.  Three orphans, or runaways, or whatever you might call us. Three wicked ones. Or at least that was what the people of the nearby village called us, or thought of us, perhaps we were wicked to the naked eye. I suppose we did not look as innocent as we are. We lived in the attic of the church of the holy Franciscus, we did not call it that, we called it home. I only know it was called that since the funeral... I digress.

Imogen was the eldest, four years older than the eldest of the younger two, and the only one who had remembered the name she had been given when she first opened her eyes. The boys however, did not have those remains and so she called them by the names she had come to know (Because she did have the ability to read and write (although her writing wasn't without it;s flaws)) She called the first one Micheal, the name plastered over the walls where we would arrive back when we would descend the stairs from the attic upstairs, closer to the cloisters of God. Or I suppose....further away, I do not know.
The second she found she could not find a name for me and so she started to look in the half burned books on the ground of the grand hall where we would lie some nights, looking at the windows as the stars shone through the stained glass. The books later turned out to be the bible, we were not as wicked as they deemed us. And for the little boy who struggled to walk she used the fitting name of the cripple: Aeneas.

A moniker I came to carry as my pride, the only sense of belonging I have in my life, now that I cannot recall the memories without regret.

And this is where our story truly begins. This story begins in three ways: in one church attic, lighted by the warm sun on a beautiful wednesay afternoon. In one attic with noisy neighbours in an old squat building typing on an old typewriter. And last but not least, wherever you might be, my dear reader. This is where the story truly starts......

I take out the paper and look at it, I miss them with every word. But a childhood remains only that, and my childhood is long dead. But someone is to tell our story. The story of our innocence, our grace and the world's wicked ways.

Hi everybody, this is the first taste of a project I put in the waiting room a long time ago. I love the idea of writing it, but I am not certain whether it fits anything really. I am sorry for tha short story but I haven't been writing recently and I am pushing myself to get back because of my passion for it but it's going very slowly. So I apologise if the next few stories are all this short