The Knights of Time and the Forgotten Book

Chapter 15: Opening Up

“It’s always the same one,” he said, his eyes looking down with exhaustion. “It has been haunting my dreams everyday for the past few weeks; a man, beating me to pulp. He keeps going and going, telling me I'm filthy and worthless.”

“Who’s the person who beats you?” I asked, shivering from what I just heard.

“I've got no idea, but he's always wearing a soldier’s uniform, and whipping me hard. So much that I feel my skin peeling off and I feel the blood flowing out even though it’s a dream.”

“No wonder,” I muttered.

“What?”

“No wonder it drives you in this state.” I waved my arms at him.

“I've had worse. Besides, I need to deal with it. Perks of having the job of a Quart. I can’t let it get to me.”

“Oh my God...” I said, staring at him, astonished to know he’s had dreams even worse than that.

“I used to get one which showed my mum getting murdered, but then I was still very young. But she’s obviously still alive...”

“Where is your mum nowadays? Does she ever visit?”

“No... I haven’t seen her in six years. The last time I saw her was some time before I went to Edward Walz. She didn’t even contact us since then...” He stated that like there wasn’t anything he could ever do about it, like he lost something he knew he’d never get back.

I wrapped my hand around his. He looked up and turned red.

“Of course... it’s nothing compared to what you’ve been through.”

“Don't start again...”

“Do you ever dream about your mum?”

I paused and remembered. I've had every type of dream concerning my mother. Night after night I saw her dead, or alive; I saw her being murdered different ways; I saw her loving me... the variations never ended. And it hurt.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “I’m sorry, Jeremy... about your mum.”

“There’s nothing I can do. At least I go to a good school, and I don’t get bullied as much as I did before. At least I have an excuse to stay away from my dad, so I don’t have to look at him and feel sad about his reluctance in fixing his life. At least... they’re both alive.” He looked at me in awe. Not in grief towards his experiences, as he should have been, but towards mine.

“How do you do it?” I asked suddenly.

“Do what?”

“How do you manage to forgive and forget and move on. You seem to be doing it so well... and I can’t. I don’t know how to move from the memory of my dead mother.”

“I don’t know. It’s not like it was easy for me anyway... dealing with grief can never be easy. I guess it’s because I decided I’d rather not use up my precious short life getting worked up on things people did to me.”

His words touched me deeper than I’d ever let anything else affect me. I spent my whole life unable to find peace within myself, caused by lack of discussion from the side of my father (who although was the kindest man to ever be in my life, had no understanding in what I needed as a young girl who’d just lost a mother). The emotions in me grew and got more out of control. My dad never talked about her, and I could only ever look at her as if she was a distant memory, not as my mother. I shut in myself, felt like I was being strangled, suffocated in my own prison of confined emotions.

“I just decided,” he continued. “That I didn’t want to fill myself with regret and hate. I didn’t want to be bitter towards life, even though it never exactly treated me well. I knew I’d eventually get over the dark periods of my life. And here I am.”