Journal Entry #1
This is just a little somthing I felt like I wanted to write.
Its a journal entry from an important character in one of the story lines my character Asher is apart of.
Its a little abstract, and it is meant to be because its a journal entry...
So as the audience we don't know exactly what is being referred to right now.
Maybe I'll write what happened later * shrugs*
After a while, you can't help yourself but ask this question. Am I seeing him as he truly is or merely an affliction of the bias, the projection of what I want to see... Every time I question it, after the fact. As if I have been fooled in a large gambit which the only stakes are my pride. I clutch my smiling muzzle with a light hand and widen my eyes in shock, as the feeling washes over me. That canine smile turning crooked into a grimace even as I shake myself trying to forget it. Every time he walks out the door, leaves a room, turns away...
Before that he is smiling back with me, his tone seeming aloof or cold to anyone but those who are consistently in his sphere. We joke, and laugh, that tone always heavy until the moment of levity when his laugh turns boisterous and uncontained, beyond his control. Quickly covered by a paw to stifle the noise and turning more decorous in his reactions, as if putting on a show. I trace his mouth with my eyes at these times, enjoying the moments of pure enjoyment, knowing that I did this. That there is a something beyond the mask the gray canine puts up. Something beyond the scars he hides with a turn of his head, smiling out of the corner of those flickering maroon eyes.
I've been apart of this world a long time. Pleasantries are just that between those of station and those not but with him it does not seem that way. All accepting, encompassing of your skills and thoughts. Appreciation. That is what it feels like to be in his presence, as if finally, someone is looking at more than a cog in the wider scheme. And yet, as I have said, I have been in this world a long time. Longer than this long-lost son...
I have broken my own knuckles and skinned my thin furred fingers along the jaws and teeth of those less fortunate and more deserving. The duality of my position is not lost on me, but I would not think myself a good man no matter how lauded I am for tasks of brutality in protecting the family. I'm younger than half the staff at the graves home but have more scars along my ribs counting unfortunates than all of them.
I seem to have lost track with my bout of self-pity... but this is my only point. If I am as filthy as I am, then why can I feel clean when those deep eyes look at me. Even when I know... that every time they turn away they are empty...
-Jeremiah,
a month after the son returns