foolish youth
| C | Stari Grad 8 years old |
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C | ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴀ: ᴡᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʏᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ, ꜱɪɢʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ; ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏ ᴀᴍ ɪ. |
| C | Marcel’s grandmother used to tell him that, on the day he was born, his mother cried harder than he had. It was difficult to imagine Klara Cvitković crying, on account of her relatively emotionless demeanor and inability to look outside of herself. These traits were quite plain for Marcel to see, not hidden beneath the typical pleasantries any average individual would use to cover up their own apathy. Klara did not seem to mind whether or not others saw her as unemotional. After all, that’s what she was. Klara did not engage with Marcel often. It was quite clear that she did not want to. Marcel knew it was because of his father, even if his mother never admitted it outright. He saw it in the detached, distant look in her eyes every time she met his gaze. So, rather than rely on her for entertainment and care, Marcel found proper ways to occupy himself. The docks below his house were often occupied, enough so that Marcel could slip through the clusters of stressed fishermen and big crates unnoticed. At the edge of the docks, where boats were not, Marcel would grasp the wooden piling and lean down as far as he could over the water’s cool surface. Sometimes he would get so close that his nose would just barely brush the top, salt flooding his nose. He did this often. As often as he could. Hot evenings after class, long sticky Saturdays, the rare Sundays his grandparents would haul off to church and leave Marcel to his own devices. It was freedom as much as it was complete lonesomeness. Marcel had not known a life without it, so he didn’t mind too much. Until, one day, there was company. He had seen the girl a few times, bumped her shoulder in the halls, sat behind her in class. She was Greek, all bronze-skinned and curly-haired. Freckles spread from her cheeks to her shoulders, which were exposed above a frilly white blouse covering a flowered one-piece bathing suit. Marcel had been picking splinters from his fingers on the dock’s edge, the tips of his toes brushing against the water, when she had sat beside him. Her presence startled him, causing a quick jolt. When he saw who it was, though, his surprise was replaced with confusion. He was not used to company. “The water is cold today,” The girl said in quiet, broken Croatian. Her fingers were curled around the hem of her blouse, wrinkling the fabric. Marcel blinked. “Yes. It is because there is no sun.” She laughed at this, a high, unnatural giggle. Frustrated by her strange behavior, Marcel turned his attention back to his hand. One of the splinters had split skin, and a thin red line began forming on his palm. The girl, sensing the shift, stopped and glanced away. “I have seen you a lot.” This sentiment, too, seemed foolish to Marcel. He let out an uninterested sound, squeezing at the wound on his palm and watching it expand. “We have English together. You are very good.” “I know.” The girl shifted awkwardly, the bashful confidence she had carried earlier seeming to whither. Gaze glued to the water, she tried again. “I am Yianna.” Marcel did not care, but his grandmother taught him that it was polite to exchange names with new acquaintances. He allowed a short, “Marcel.” Silence fell over the two, a blanket of discomfort that let in only the dull click of Marcel’s fingernails working away at his splintered hand and the soft rise-and-fall of Yianna’s breaths. This, at least, Marcel could tolerate. He took the silence as a gift, allowing his mind to once again take the reins and reshape his aborted thoughts into long winding paths. He watched the water at his feet, and the water, as always, seemed to look back. That was when the softness came. It was abrupt, quick enough to make his heart pound and tender enough to catch him off guard. Her lips, small and unskilled, pressing a short kiss to his. It was there and gone in seconds, and as soon as the deed was done she stood and rushed away like a frightened fawn. Marcel watched her go, an undesirable flush spreading across his cheeks at the unseen intrusion. Immediately, he knew that the swell in his chest was pride. His grandfather told him that the greatest of men could woo even the stubbornest of women. Yianna did not seem stubborn, any yet she had seemingly been wooed. Marcel ran an awed finger over his lips. Then came a new sensation. Dread. And with the dread, came guilt. Upon a man’s first kiss, there should have been a newfound blossoming of vibrant emotions, passion’s awakening sprung from this great milestone. And yet, he did not feel as though he had accomplished anything. He felt terribly dull. Terribly sick. Clenching in his gut was something undesirable, harsh. His throat closed up. His mouth felt numb. He stared at the surface of the water, and felt suddenly very achingly lonesome. That was the day Marcel determined that he was unfit for proper love. That was also the day that Marcel swore he would learn to love properly. One way or another, he would learn. |
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| CVCV |  |
ɴᴏᴛᴇ: "uhhh" ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ: @Name Name CODE BY CAMILLE DE VARENNE |
CVCV |
iNPC of Charlotte Winfield