"You were set to marry my father's heir. My oldest brother," She picks up a cup, "Due to unforeseen circumstances, he has died. As second oldest, it is my duty to fulfill my father's wishes." I'm still utterly confused. She takes a sip, "You will ma...
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Ruth Foster ~ Six months later ~
I once heard a rumor about myself. I don't remember what the day was like, or the date. I don't remember what I was wearing, or what I felt. The one thing I'll never forget is the look on Stevie Macadam's face when he looked me dead in my eyes, laughed, and said that I was an orphan.
I didn't know what he meant by that, and so like any child, I swore on all things holy, that I wasn't. That didn't stop the children on the playground from teasing me about my family life, prying their little noses into business that I didn't even quite understand myself. It wasn't until my thirteenth birthday that I found out that, it wasn't a rumor.
I always wondered why I didn't look like him.
It's fair to say that I didn't talk much to my uncle after finding out about what a pathological liar he was. All my life, I've looked up to him. Looked up to his lie. All my life, he was my father. It was a lie.
I was still underage, and living under his roof. In the eyes of the law, he was my parent, but in my eyes, he was a traitor. A man I could no longer trust, or find the heart to forgive. lifetimes later, and all I wish I could do, is go back, and hug him.
I guess it's really true what they say, we can't call anything our own but death. I believe some writer wrote that, William Shakespeare. In my high school Advanced Placement Literature class, we'd analyze his plays and poems like the Bible. Stanza by stanza, we'd break down every silly word he wrote.
By the time I graduated, I learned the art of analyzation. Looking over things closely, and carefully, but not only things, but people as well.
If she were alive, I'd be able to read my mother. I only know of her through faded words, but I analyze those too, her writing. It's the only way to keep her alive in my mind. The only way to keep her memory in tact, even though I'll never know it.
Not truly anyways. I'll never know the true her, the her she was before she got pregnant, and the her she was, before I eventually killed her during birth.
My mind can't help but wonder about what could've been. What could've been my life if my mother hadn't died giving birth, if my father hadn't went and got himself killed, or if my uncle hadn't taken me in as a baby, and lied about who he was.
All my life, I've called him my father.
Every good memory I remember, he's there. He's there helping me ride a bike, or bake. He's there at my music recitals, and my teacher conferences.
