six days

          When I was a boy, I would sit and watch my father work. Silently, of course, he was never a fan of senseless noise. He would sit there for hours beating away all his disappointment in me, each heavy thumb against metals and stones would sound in my chest. An empty sound, as he had taken my heart long ago, and placed it in a box, collecting dust somewhere, along with my mother's. He would sit for hours, and so would I. Sometimes, the sounds of birds and children, the sounds of the world outside these stone walls, would come through a window I had conveniently left open once upon a time. I would close my eyes, imagining I was one of the kids laughing, running free. Then my father would close the window, he would light another candle, and carry on with his work forgetting about his child.

          I had never gone to a school like the other kids in my city, never had the thought crossed my mind that school outside of these cold stone walls could truly exist outside of tales of fiction. My father, ever prideful, studied the law and found if your occupation was up to par with the scholars at school, you could teach your own children. So, he went and convinced the world he could be my teacher, he could teach me. He was a genius, and my mother was beautiful. I would change the love my mother had painted me with, so my father would stop the pounding of metal and stone.

          I was sixteen when I first slipped my father a drink to drift him to sleep early, so I could drift outside myself, like a spirit trying to find redemption in the world. The sun had set and I felt eyes on me, I looked around the empty street but I find no one. He was already gone, hiding behind the clouds, blushing. I walked around, the only sound for miles it seemed were my footsteps, I walked and walked and walked. I found a cliff and walked to the edge, let the cool air caress my flushed cheeks. I decided to lay down, ignoring the stones that had begun to dig into my back, it was my punishment I remembered thinking. My punishment, for wasting my life like I had, or maybe for sneaking out that night, for all the little lies and all the disappointment I handed my father. I closed my eyes and let the stones continue digging into my back, I let the stars whisper to me that they held a place for me, all the way up there with them. I laughed as the tears fell down my face, past the freckles that resemble undiscovered constellations, and told them maybe one day. I opened my eyes and convinced myself it was a dream. Just like the boy who carried the sun like a burden each day, of the girl who smiled gently at the boy, then who glanced at me. "It was all a dream," I murmured into the dry dirt I had rolled into, and the clouds broke apart then, letting the sun shine down onto my fair skin. A halo of warmth and love, I looked up and smiled. I snuck out a week later, I told myself that time was for good, I had muttered to myself never again as I cradled my sprained wrist and gently touched my bruised cheek. That this time would be the last. Yet I found myself crawling back to the cold stones and colder looks.

          I was seventeen when I snuck out at night and I didn't go back. I wouldn't be there when my father awoke and discovered my absence, a permanent one this time. No, I was not there that night when he cursed my name to the gods and wrote my end in this tragic affair I had with life. No, I was thinking the small bag on my back felt like the world as it rested on my shoulders. I had imagined Atlas and his rough hands passing me the world, "You don't know what it feels like yet, boy." My breath had gotten stuck in my throat and I closed my eyes, the feel of hot air on my neck didn't pass. It was not his breath, not an echo of his harsh voice. It was the sun and its halo of warmth and love. I recall closing my eyes once more and imagined arms wrapped around my waist, my face pressed against the neck of a tan man, breathing in the smell of smoke and ashes. I reminisce about closing my eyes and dreaming of melting and falling into his arms, looking into the freckled face, and the sun bleached blonde hair.

"Gold," is all I will be able to think.

"No, Apollo," he will laugh, his name gently waking me up.