Timeline/World: Atheria 3rd Generation
Characters: Roslyn Freeborn
Race: Human
Age: 42, physically about 28
Final Word Count: 553 words
In a way, I guess this makes me crazy but I wish my parents would have gotten on my case after I really screwed up. When I tried to do shit I shouldn’t have even tried before, shit that backfired, landed me in a coma for I can’t remember how many months and just, I learned my lesson, I did, but I still wish at least mom, since this is her heritage, would have at least gotten angry, even just a little. Told me to never do it again, to be more careful, to—I don’t know.
I mean, I understand this whole relieved thing that I woke up from the coma bit, I do but at the same time, I feel like they overlooked the biggest issue.
I also learned my lesson, which I suppose makes this whole wanting them to be mad at me for this whole thing moot, but I just can’t explain it. It crosses my mind now and again and I’ve brought it up to mom a few years ago, she sort of shrugged and told me that I had learned my lesson, so why get angry about it when it wouldn’t really change the outcome?
I should let it go, I rightfully should. It did teach me to better learn things before I put them in practice. It taught me to slow down and ‘smell the roses’ as that old statement goes. I mean, I still love a lot of the things I did while I was growing up but I guess that, in a way, I’m not really going to rush headlong into any of it without really being sure that this is absolutely what I want to try.
There are some things I still do without really spending much time thinking on. Things that I know I absolutely want after a single look at them. Like that one tattoo I got just before I was bonded to Aaric. It’s a small little thing and it only shows in certain conditions but I still love it to this day and it means the world to me. I didn’t spend days debating whether or not to get it. I saw the design in a dream, I scribbled it down carefully after I woke up and I just knew that this was it. The one thing that would be with me forever, just like our bond will last forever and then some.
So I guess, in a way, it’s time to move on from that one belief that they should have been mad at me, no matter that I’d pulled my ass out of a coma, no matter that I’d almost died, that there was now a permanent white streak in my hair to remind me of my failure. Looking at it from that angle, maybe that streak is enough. I can’t do anything about it. I’ve tried to dye it but the dyes don’t stick. I’ve cut it to the scalp—I actually had a short undercut style for about six months before I moved on—but it still grew back right where it was, exactly the size it had been before and just, it’s there to stay, never getting any bigger or any smaller. Okay, fine. I can accept that this is a good enough reminder.
Works of JD Beckett 