KREiN

Chapter One

TACOMA KREiN

His family was never perfect, and he dreams about that. This fact haunts him when he's happy. Whenever he thinks his family is perfect. However, he doesn't lose sleep over it. Every night, when he's cuddle with his wife. He only thinks of his marriage. It's perfect. It's flawless. It's his entire world, although he sees it to be slightly obstructed by some weights that only get heavier as years ease by him. It's maybe just one weight, he thinks. Not two. One weight, he contemplates if he has enough care in the world to carry. His mind wanders off to some time a couple years back.

He stood in the doorway the same way he did when it was just blank space. White carpet and white dry wall. A room that was once bullied by dullness, like a piece of thick bread that tastes like air. He had never thought anything of the room before, and still thought nothing of it then. Light blue painted walls, pink curtains, and white carpet now. A dresser, nightstands, and a desk for when Jamie gets older. It's good to buy useless things now, that'll become useful later on. The desk was placed by the window, so that his daughter would be able stare out at nature like he used to, which primed his thoughts and keep them on track. Maybe even to generate a better thought than the last one. A thought that might make her rich, or just... intellectual. Maybe she'll just become a tree hugger.

Jamie stared at him with her bright blue eyes that asked questions she hadn't been able to speak yet. Eyes that he couldn't ignore. He remembered her eyes when she first came into the world. It was an experience for him witnessing a brand new set of eyes coming into the world, and this, he had never seen before. He thought about what those eyes might see, and what they might remember. Nothing about that day, he knew. He adored those eyes while his experience endured. That is, until his eyes met again with those of his wife. Two delicate, hazel jewels snatched his attention, and he stopped thinking about his newborn daughter.

He thought about how life was when he and his wife, were a family on their own. Just two heartbeats under one roof. He admired how they depended on each other, emotionally, but how he didn't need to be with her when she bought groceries and vice versa. The independence and freedom that came with their relationship. He didn't just see that one perk, and think his relationship turned marriage was perfect, there were other things that he once began to write about in... stanzas, not paragraphs. He loved stanzas.

What he saw in his daughter's eyes reminded him of his life at his best, like an athlete at his or her prime. He smiled at his voiceless little jewel, and she could only stare, as if curious as to why his mouth is shaped the way it was, and why he was staring at her. He dug in his left pocket, which was as empty as Jamie's room used to be. Not even a piece of lint. Then, he dug in his other pocket, stepping over to the desk. He pulled out a bunch of junk and placed it on the center of the desk, and then dug for more. His eyes trailed to the window and his mind wandered, but he knew he had given himself a small task. His concentration hindered his ability to grabbed the other stuff in his pocket, and he became aware of it. That put his focus back on his seemingly abyssal pockets. Finally, he finds a picture of himself and Jamie. The only picture, even to this day, where he is seen within arms reach of either of his children. He places it on the edge of the desk, as if hoping Jamie will one day grab it, and hold on to it.

She was too young to even learn to grab the air in front of her, but he believed that she could learn things fast, and almost expected her to recite poetry, instead of crying at birth. He slid it closer to the edge and stared out the window again. He saw oak trees glazed with sunlight along the street, and the smooth pavement that was replaced a week ago. He glanced over his yard of perfect grass and questioned why his neighbor took so much pride in her grass. One day, he thought, there won't be any grass. Or, there won't be anyone to take pride in grass. It's just grass. But he remembered something. He used to lie in the grass and gaze at the daytime sky when he wrote his poems. The poems he never finished.

He stepped back and turned around, eyeing his daughter again. Her eyes met his, and she gave him the same, innocent look as before. He reminded himself that the bond he created with his wife is the center of his universe, and is the only aspect of his world. This weight he must carry, he wished not to. He desired a life and a home with just two heartbeats, two smiles, and two pairs of eyes. Just two.

"Jamie," he sighed, retrieving the picture and stuffing it back into his pocket. "Forget who I am, love me not, and you'll never hate me for what I might end up doing to you. I..." he freezes, afraid that she might've understood him, that she's already processed and figured out what was to come. Although she knew nothing, and quickly remembered that. Perhaps in her teen years, she'll remember staring her father in the center of his frozen eyes, when he said something to her. Something she'll never quite understand, but won't ever forget. "I won't be in your life for very long. I won't drop you off at prom, or even walk you down the aisle. Just forget me now, and don't get attached to me. Think of me... think of me as just some person for right now, okay?"

He expected an acknowledge of some sort. A mumble, a noise, anything. But Jamie only stared at him.

He sighed again, hating himself for picking up a weight he no longer wished to carry. But he had to remind himself that he accepted the burden to make his wife happy. He remembered, she wanted kids.

"She wanted kids," he remembers. She wanted kids.

Just her.