IC journal post
I saw my wife today. She was with our son. Our son is eight now. His hair has grown long, but he is still quite small. He has the same dusky red complexion I once had. My wife is curvier than I remember her, more beautiful. She has a bearing more regal and commanding. She has matured in the years since I saw her last - a time short measured by calendar but vast measured by impact.
My little son will not remember the war at all. He will not remember me. He will not remember how thin and meek his mother once was, a young girl married to a domineering emotional black hole. I ate the light right out of her, I realize, looking at her now, five years free of me.
I wanted to stop them. I wanted to hear their voices, wanted them to know I'm here, what I am... I wanted to prove that even if the thing I've become is monstrous, the man I've become is less monstrous than I once was.
I miss them.
I didn't stop them, though. It would have been selfish.
They're happy.
My little son will not remember the war at all. He will not remember me. He will not remember how thin and meek his mother once was, a young girl married to a domineering emotional black hole. I ate the light right out of her, I realize, looking at her now, five years free of me.
I wanted to stop them. I wanted to hear their voices, wanted them to know I'm here, what I am... I wanted to prove that even if the thing I've become is monstrous, the man I've become is less monstrous than I once was.
I miss them.
I didn't stop them, though. It would have been selfish.
They're happy.