Chapter Text
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Life is not a beauty that always smiles on you. With all the bad things you have faced, you might think that it is a hell of a place, that it is just a hell that keeps burning and burning. Most believe that people have come here for a purpose, to find something good that is worth the pain. They see the seeds that rise from the dirt, facing the heavy weight of the ground to make a crack and finally sprout. The others, however, would only see the harsh truth. For them, nature darkens, people suffer, and your loved ones gradually fade away. They only see the bodies that rot in the dirt, leaves that turn into an ugly brown.
It is only one in a million for someone to see both sides, good and evil, acknowledging them as they are. After all, life can end in a second, death won't arrive before its time comes.
Though that uncertainty of life and death keeps every person who has lived on this planet on edge.
The Flying Graysons, however, have always lived on that edge. They jumped and juggled. Their ropes which were thinner than a pencil, kept them balanced while they held dead weights in their arms. Death wasn't a reality; it was an impossible type of mistake for them to make.
And mistakes had penalties without a safety rope that held you secure on the ceiling of the circus tent.
He had always thought of that night, when his parents made fun of death, and paid the price. Their son would sit in front of their graves, staring at the dirt and just thinking: Why wasn't he the one to fall down with them?
What was his purpose in this world to survive, while seeing his mother lying motionless on the ground? Neck bent in a way that can never be placed back?
He was a kid back then, the small child who would water his parents’ graves until it slowly painted green.
He would pick at the mushrooms and moss until his nails were coated in brown, angry that those decomposers would dare try to flower near their bodies.
The boy had tried too hard before he gave up, just sitting down and waiting for the mushrooms to coat their gravestones. He would stay and let his wonder drift like a boat in the sea, sailing and wandering, but never really making it to the shore.
He had been a petty kid, he tells himself all the time. Remembering his mother’s warm arms and his father’s gentle smile makes him feel as if his heart has halted, never to beat again. But in the end, it’s just a muscle; it keeps on pumping, compelled by the instinct to survive–a rhythm all its own. It doesn’t know the pain, the suffering.
His amused and carefree laugh becomes strained with each moment that passes. The circus stops shining that bright. He feels like he is about to puke whenever his hands land on any ladder. It becomes a nightmare that he desperately wants to forget ever seeing, thinking that if he dares to climb up, his legs will give out and inevitably lead to his own demise.
Like a broken bird, injured and irreparable.