My first memory was my mother holding a plan for my entire life in her hands. She placed the thick stack of sheets on my desk clinging to the hope that I would be her saviour. That her baby boy would take her straight to the capitol, to the echelons of High Society. I wanted to vomit, to scream, to gouge my eyes out like I had never seen them.
In reality I turned to my mother and smiled.
It was easier to follow what my mother wanted. Who really wanted to think for themselves anyway? Wasn't it easier to just follow a plan that someone else decided for you. No thinking required just marching to the beat of someone else's drum.
"I was five years old and already learning that compliance was its own kind of survival."
My mother had a habit of correcting my posture at dinner. Spine straight, she'd say. "Gods don't slouch". When we were together it was like a vivid nightmare. If anything I did was not too her liking, she would beat the habit out of me.
It was definitely effective. There were two different types of enforcement. Positive and negative. I guess she thought one was more effective.
11 years later I was still marching, still trying to follow the dream that I thought was my life's purpose. The picture painted so clear in my mind. The plan like an iron clad contract I had made with myself. Chains around my neck, hands and feet kept me bound to this dream. I kept walking. I remembered eating dinner with my mother one night. We laughed and joked for the first time in what seemed like years. I thought that things may start to change. That together we would move forward. That we could snap our chains together.
Then my mother died.
I could never forget where I was, I found her body in the kitchen with her life drained completely – it was like her heart had given up on her.
I cried. Though tears weren't enough to show how I felt. How do you cope when you lose not just your mother but your identity. Your whole sense of purpose snapped away in the blink of an eye.
Walking back from the funeral I wished my father was here. I needed someone; anyone would do. Looking around I wanted someone to take me. To tell me exactly what to do.
People looked back. Then looked away. I understood, who wants to carry someone else's chains.
I kept walking. What else could I do. My feet drummed against the pavement. By this time, I had passed my house a long time ago. I did not know where I was going. I did not know where I wanted to go.
I was a blessed child.
I stumbled into a village. As I passed some people froze in place. Others screamed. Some collapsed in my presence. Others stood their ground. It had always been this way. I had stopped wondering why. I wanted to stop in this village. I was tired, my bones ached like they had aged years in days. How I kept going I couldn't understand. My only guess was my gift.
From birth something else had lived behind my eyes. My mother called it sacred. I called it company I never asked for. My mother said my birth was the light of her life. To me my light was taken the moment I was born. A possession disguised as kindness.
My chains kept me bound. My chains kept me free. Without them the weight of the world would crush me
Looking around I was in the middle of an unmarked field. I don't know how I got there. Hours must have passed, I hadn't noticed. The field was empty, barren, seemingly void of hope. Some would see potential. Others would see value. All I saw was myself.
I didn't stop.
I came upon a new village. The potential of new beginnings, new ways to explore the field. I started to walk towards it.
The sign of the village appeared.
Welcome to Froja
I hadn't chosen Froja. I'd simply walked until the roads stopped giving me options.
Life begins and ends here.
My name is Nero.