「Previously titled as - 'Parallel Scars'」
Aria Bradford thinks it's best to keep one's problems to oneself because talking about it to other people won't solve them. That is why she never talks to her friends about her past and the occasional nightm...
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I was his most cherished.
Every day he would shower me with so much love, care and affection, making me feel like a princess even though I didn't live in a castle. I never had an extravagant opulent lifestyle, living in a cottage in the suburbs. But I was perfectly fine with it. Because the love he showered on me was the greatest luxury above all.
He was my first love.
He was not much of a conversationalist, but he didn't need the help of words when his actions were so exceptionally weighted. He was always beside me when I wanted support. When I'd have a frown latched on my face, he'd kiss the area between my brows and the frown would magically disappear. He'd patiently wait for me to be done with my childish squabbles before educating me on the actual right and wrong. On days his Zen life lessons wouldn't work, he'd bribe me into character development with chocolate ice cream.
Mom would silently worry about my teeth because of how often I'd be seen with an ice-cream cone.
At nights, he would lift me up on his lap and take my little hands on his big ones, and proceed to tell me stories about the reign of terror of medieval kings and queens, about a Scottish noble man who stole the throne, a tale of trickery, madness and magic set over the course of one night. About a society that bred cold blooded murderers, a prisoner strapped under descending pendulum blade and a suppressed genius overshadowed by her own blood.
Perhaps the stories were a bit beyond my understanding's reach, but seven year old me would still listen in awe, as if he were narrating the most enthralling fairytale of all time, where the princes weren't the only saviors and magic wasn't only limited to fairies and witches.
I fell in love with literature because of him.
I'd watch him spend hours on his study, flipping through pages of leather bound books, with eyes as focused as that of a hawk. I'd always wondered how his brain could sustain so much information when he'd fluently tell me stories that he had read from books as thick as dictionaries. It was fascinating to me how his head was like an encyclopedia. An encyclopedia of literature. I adored him. I looked up to him so much, loved him so much, wanted to be like him so much.
But you know what they say – first love never succeeds.
They said right.
Time grew, we grew. Apart. Distant. Slowly. He would no longer shower me with love and affection, no longer kiss my frowns away, no longer share stories with me. The material world started to slowly devour a part of him every day, eventually consuming him whole. All I could do was watch him, who was a benignant angel, slowly turn into a perfidious monster.
His words were no longer kind, pleasant and truthful. They turned into harsh, distasteful lies. He was no longer honest and guileless. He'd turned cunning and deceptive.
I was no longer his most cherished.
It's scary how change is so powerful. How someone you know inside and out can become someone you don't recognize one bit. How someone can be an epitome of goodwill to the outside world, but turn malicious the moment he steps inside the hardwood doors of his own house. Charming. Repulsive. Cordial. Hostile. Warm. Cold. Two-faced.
I became afraid of change.
Every passing day, my mother and I would die a little. He'd slash our hearts and drain our wounds dry, only to create more gnashes. He would bore deep wounds into our hearts with his words, and in our bodies with his actions.
I'd cry, and cry, and cry. Everyday his angelic face with the same gentle expression would flash over my eyes and I'd hope that it was all just a bad dream. That I'd wake up from the nightmare in just a few seconds and find myself perched on his lap, with his large but gentle hands intertwined with my smaller, softer ones.
Eventually, I had realized that my nightmare was the reality, and that there was no waking up from it. The tears on my cheeks dried and my lachrimal glands stopped producing tears for him. My heart stopped beating for him. My vision was no longer blurry, my eyes were no longer wet. They were red, red and red.
The man that I loved so dearly, turned into the man I despise with all my being.
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Welcome to the unofficial first chapter aka the Prologue of Scars Don't Fade !
Be honest - Did I make a good first impression? Or have I failed miserably?
Regardless of what your answer to the previous question(s) is, I'm very happy and grateful that you chose to read my story. Hopefully, I'll see you in the next chapter aka the official first chapter.
Also, what was your first love like? Share your stories with me, I'd love to hear them!
