Forgotten things remembered.
Jun. 28th, 2015 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
misskarin_ebzShe watches him as he naps, curled up on her divan. Alright, I’ll sleep if you promise to wake me once you’re done reading. I really want to know what you think, Karin.
How, she wonders. How can this sweet gentle boy that is her beloved cousin have written this? But then again that is the wrong question. It should be how could she have forgotten?
She leans back in her arm-chair after having put down his manuscript gently on the coffee-table. Lights a cigarette. Frowns. It is entirely to easy to not see beyond his usual display of wide-eyed innocence and endearing naivety. She should know better. She does know better -- but this? The boy is far more brilliant, way more perceptive, too god damn clever and she shouldn’t be surprised -- but she is.
The three short stories he’s written, on the surface seeming almost too adorably sentimental, too harmless, is the stuff of nightmares if one knows what to look for. Granted not many will. Most readers -- those who doesn’t get invested in their reading beyond just wanting a distraction for the moment -- will certainly just be charmed and delighted by the fanciful little stories about a boy and his trusty toy dog engaging in fancifully imagined adventures. It’s cute and fluffy almost to a nauseating level. Unless one digs a little deeper. Reads between the lines. Those who do, and they should be a few seeing who Eskil’s friends are, might marvel at the way Eskil’s managed to hint sublimely at utter darkness in the characters real life. And that alone would be quite a feat for the aspiring young author, to have managed something quite deep and intricate indeed.
But for her, she who knows where the ideas to the stories come from, she who was there for part of it but didn’t understand at the time... it almost makes her sick, almost makes her cry -- fills her with impotent rage at a past she cannot change. At the same time she can be nothing but impressed, in awe of what he’s done with these seemingly simple stories, and the contradictory feelings settles strangely in her chest.
She should wake him. Instead she silently pours herself another shot of whiskey and picks up his work to re-read. He could use another hour of sleep...
How, she wonders. How can this sweet gentle boy that is her beloved cousin have written this? But then again that is the wrong question. It should be how could she have forgotten?
She leans back in her arm-chair after having put down his manuscript gently on the coffee-table. Lights a cigarette. Frowns. It is entirely to easy to not see beyond his usual display of wide-eyed innocence and endearing naivety. She should know better. She does know better -- but this? The boy is far more brilliant, way more perceptive, too god damn clever and she shouldn’t be surprised -- but she is.
The three short stories he’s written, on the surface seeming almost too adorably sentimental, too harmless, is the stuff of nightmares if one knows what to look for. Granted not many will. Most readers -- those who doesn’t get invested in their reading beyond just wanting a distraction for the moment -- will certainly just be charmed and delighted by the fanciful little stories about a boy and his trusty toy dog engaging in fancifully imagined adventures. It’s cute and fluffy almost to a nauseating level. Unless one digs a little deeper. Reads between the lines. Those who do, and they should be a few seeing who Eskil’s friends are, might marvel at the way Eskil’s managed to hint sublimely at utter darkness in the characters real life. And that alone would be quite a feat for the aspiring young author, to have managed something quite deep and intricate indeed.
But for her, she who knows where the ideas to the stories come from, she who was there for part of it but didn’t understand at the time... it almost makes her sick, almost makes her cry -- fills her with impotent rage at a past she cannot change. At the same time she can be nothing but impressed, in awe of what he’s done with these seemingly simple stories, and the contradictory feelings settles strangely in her chest.
She should wake him. Instead she silently pours herself another shot of whiskey and picks up his work to re-read. He could use another hour of sleep...
