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Our kind
#WritcoStoryPrompt83
Some things in life are meant to be together. In the very least, Abdil wished for it to be true furiously with all his heart. He dared not think about it otherwise - that he had no worth, that his father would just abandon him; the thought itself would kill him.
Please, let it be true. Groggily, Abdil thought as he lay with dilated pupils, wincing from the pain. The pain, unlike the raging fire then, has become almost like strings, tugging and tearing apart the limbs of the marionette, slower but no less toiling.
(slanted: /not enough, never enough/), his father's fists had come raining on him, bruising his scrawny chest and feet. Not that others would see it, with his burnt, sallow skin. Not that others would see Abdil as what he is. Not that others will (slanted: /care/).
He'd seen his father tumbling home from work. He'd seen how his father cracked, succumbing to odd jobs and alcohol. He'd seen how his father weakened, from the time he could easily put him on his shoulders with laughter resounding in his chest, to this ethanol-filled man that jumbled words and could only beat him to reaffirm his strength.
Not one of their kind, while getting pissed, his father told Abdil over and over again, not one of their kind.
We have to stick with our own skin, he'd say spitefully, some things in life are meant to be together.
Perhaps some things in life are meant to be together, like father and son. But Abdil has seen far more than that, and knew better than to take the breadwinner for granted.
Perhaps some things in life are meant to be together, like their own skin. But Abdil has only been persecuted because of it, and knew better than to rely on herds of flock fleeing the same way.
Perhaps some things in life are meant to be together, like people of a kind. But Abdil knew nothing of kinds, his only kind was his father, and he was losing him, bit by bit, sliding down the abyss.
He reached his hand up, the last of light lingering in his fingertips. The words stuck on his tongue with a metallic aftertaste. He rolled it, syllables clinging on and off, and pronounced -
Our kind.
© Elvin
Some things in life are meant to be together. In the very least, Abdil wished for it to be true furiously with all his heart. He dared not think about it otherwise - that he had no worth, that his father would just abandon him; the thought itself would kill him.
Please, let it be true. Groggily, Abdil thought as he lay with dilated pupils, wincing from the pain. The pain, unlike the raging fire then, has become almost like strings, tugging and tearing apart the limbs of the marionette, slower but no less toiling.
(slanted: /not enough, never enough/), his father's fists had come raining on him, bruising his scrawny chest and feet. Not that others would see it, with his burnt, sallow skin. Not that others would see Abdil as what he is. Not that others will (slanted: /care/).
He'd seen his father tumbling home from work. He'd seen how his father cracked, succumbing to odd jobs and alcohol. He'd seen how his father weakened, from the time he could easily put him on his shoulders with laughter resounding in his chest, to this ethanol-filled man that jumbled words and could only beat him to reaffirm his strength.
Not one of their kind, while getting pissed, his father told Abdil over and over again, not one of their kind.
We have to stick with our own skin, he'd say spitefully, some things in life are meant to be together.
Perhaps some things in life are meant to be together, like father and son. But Abdil has seen far more than that, and knew better than to take the breadwinner for granted.
Perhaps some things in life are meant to be together, like their own skin. But Abdil has only been persecuted because of it, and knew better than to rely on herds of flock fleeing the same way.
Perhaps some things in life are meant to be together, like people of a kind. But Abdil knew nothing of kinds, his only kind was his father, and he was losing him, bit by bit, sliding down the abyss.
He reached his hand up, the last of light lingering in his fingertips. The words stuck on his tongue with a metallic aftertaste. He rolled it, syllables clinging on and off, and pronounced -
Our kind.
© Elvin
