A slice of Life

Ronan

There was a difference between absence and loss; sometimes, the lines between the two blurred into a magnificent wave of nauseating misery.

While Ronan knew the difference between the two, he wasn't entirely sure he understood the difference. Loss was to lose something, to have had it in the first place, and absence was to yearn for something that was never there. Yet, as he sat atop the big hill that was thick with ripe, stringy grass, he couldn't identify which he felt.

They manifested too similarly, he decided, tracing his finger against the inside of his wrist. It trailed against the reddened flesh, against the raised black ink that was now his to bear for eternity, and despite everything, his mouth shaped a smile.

The intricacy, the attention to detail was stunning. It'd hurt like a mudda-fuger, but the end result proved pressure formed diamonds.

A bird. A raven.

Like shadows against his wrist, the wings curled around his flesh in a wide span, a protective embrace, and the detail to the eyes was heart-stopping. It felt more alive than not, more powerful than a simple symbol.

He carried his savior with him, wore it against his skin like a badge of honor — Ronan was convinced it could save him from the inside out.

As he fell back against the grassy banks, breathing in the sweetened air, his eyes slid shut, blotting out the tepid remains of daylight. The world turned black, speckled with specks of light that danced behind his closed lids.

He despised the dark, he'd come to realize. It wasn't so much fear as it was . . . well, he supposed it was fear, but not in the traditional apparition. It wasn't sweaty palms and a racing heart. It wasn't desperate glances behind him, waiting for the darkness to swell into the monsters his mind birthed into existence.

No, this fear . . . it was something different altogether. It sounded a lot like doubt — sad, whimpering breaths that damaged the structure of his stability. Quaky thoughts that chipped away at the seams of his bravery.

The dark was home to all his anxieties and tortured self-esteem, and they lived anywhere the light didn't touch.

But not tonight, he promised himself. He cradled his wrist tightly, clutching it against his chest, humming the comforting tune from his favorite song. He reminded himself why he was here.

It helped.

Light wasn't always bright flashes or grand gestures of illumination.

Sometimes it was much simpler; his babies were his light.

And tonight . . . tonight was all about his babies.

He lay there a while, soaking up the dying embers of the humid day, twirling blades of grass between his fingers when his mind began to wander beyond its limits. Eventually, when he felt enough time had passed, he pushed to his feet, brushing himself down, checking to see if the ground had stained his baby blue shorts.

It hadn't, but there were tiny, grotty paw-prints against his thigh, and they looked suspiciously dino-sized.

There was a brief period of wonder where he debated if he'd have been annoyed by that a few years back. Even after racking his brain, he couldn't find a verdict — clothes were one of his most beloved possessions, and he hated to see them ruined, but he'd always had a soft spot for his most precious friends.

Even still, the person he used to be, it wasn't who he was now, and as he walked laxly across the steep grounds, falling back onto the hiking path, he pondered the question.

By the time he reached their designated camp site, he'd found a conclusion: it didn't matter.

What he did now was what mattered, and as he pulled short of the others, hanging back to observe his clan of mischief, he embraced the light they shed.