Work Text:
Kind of like an elephant. Kind of not.
Echo upon echo of childlike laughter fluttered through his cramped mind, stealing the already limited space, as the memory took its familiar, welcome spot within his head. Him, 5 years old - barely able to see over the kitchen table-, his mother’s soft, chipper voice pointing out the shape of the birthmark that was firmly planted on to the crook between his neck and his shoulder. Protesting against his wife’s words the sound of his father’s voice followed smoothly after; he claimed that the mark was more of a hippo shape, despite the fact that it was clearly just an amorphous blob. There was chuckling and laughter and even the soft whispers of the wind, swirling through the kitchen window, all attached to the fond, beloved retention. But that time was gone. Replaced by something mundane, soul snatching. Still his fingers found the spot, rubbing up on the partially raised bumps that accompanied the territory of the mark. Over the years it had become a nervous tic, a way to enter that place in his mind that wasn’t consumed by strain and tautness that had plagued him for so, so long. Work had crumpled that childlike joy- the fits of giggles that happened so often had been smothered by the roaring sounds of endless, all encompassing flames that cremated his being to ash. Ash. Ash fell from the cigarette, onto damp pavement, that was locked in between the yellowing, rough skin of his pointer and middle finger; a glaring sign of repetitiveness. The hand that grasped his unfavourable vice, laid exhaustedly limp against the tense muscles wrapped around his thigh bone; enveloped by a grey plaid, suede type material of an expensive, respectable suit. Accompanying it was the jacket, matching in likeness, trapping his arm that was shielding his head, from what? He wasn’t quite sure. Nothingness circled him, creating a dead, silent inner city, like a wasteland recovering from a nuclear explosion. It wasn’t like the scenery that shrouded him was unusual of sorts. The time had to have dipped past the 21st hour of the day by now, the sky reflecting his thoughts by being a dark, hazy shade of blue as if it was made of pure sapphire. Air clung to him, thick and repressing in a way that exacted a subtle wheeze out alongside his preemptively shallow ones.
‘You don’t even know how bad life gets, you know?’
No warmth, nothing. Just gruff, ruggedness that alerted him to the intimidating presence that had snuck up to the bench parallel to him. Erecting like the leaves in the breeze, the hair on the back of his neck pricked and sent his system into overdrive. Heavy set anxiety mixed together with quick twinges of dread as his head whipped up from his resting place. But as soon as the cold panic had spread throughout the veins in his body it stopped, redacting up and back into his mind. The owner of this voice was no threat to him. Deep set lines destroyed the pallid, pasty colour of his skin like tracks in a country side road. Every one was formed from a different memory in the elders life, which had clearly been rough and long as the contrast between the solid frown lines and budding smile lines was wildly different- almost like night and day. Skin sagged slightly, drooping like a willow tree but it wasn’t quite that beautiful. No it was more like they had given up, resigned themselves to years and years of wear and tear and decided that the fight just wasn’t worth it anymore. Despite that, buried beneath the stooping flesh and extensive lines were bones, sharp as blades and eyes as dangerous as one. Jutting cheekbones paved the way for two deep set eyes that rivaled the inky night sky that could only be found deep into the winter night. They were piercing, intense (honestly a little frightening) and yet so very magnetic, as if he were the old man's unwillful prisoner. Every attempt to break free from his chains rendered useless, all bar one and he seized the opportunity for liberation. That’s when he was able to absorb the other details about him, an outfit that would typically be considered formal. A white button down, silky black trousers and some lace up dress shoes. It’s just that everything was wrong. The shirt was wrinkled and fraying at the cuffed edges, the trousers were slightly too small and revealed more ankle then considered work appropriate. Most of all the sole of his shoes were peeling back, flapping aimlessly in the wind like it had no purpose. Maybe that was poetic. Maybe he was just far too tired. Despite all the signs that the outfit was well worn in, clamped neatly the breast pocket of the white cloth was a medal; it wasn’t one recognised, certainly not one that his brother-who was unnaturally obsessed with old army medals- had ever shown him before. Strangely it seemed to be in tip-top shape, unlike the rest of him, with the metal catching the golden beams of the street light in the way that added a halo on top of it. Greens and purples adorned the ribbon that held the weight of gold up and for the life of him the colours rang no bells. However, it did make sense, the callous, void look that had settled in his eyes, the fine line of a smirk and snarl that played out across his lips and the cavernous scars that lined sporadically across his hands and forearm. The skin was spidery when he moved them, molding into weird, sheen patterns when he moved as if it had never healed properly and was just barely holding itself together. Again, maybe that was profound. No. He definitely just needed to get off this bench and go home to his bed.
‘The streets are only this peaceful for so long, son.’
Before he knew his idea of leaving was plagiarised by the old man as he beat him to it. Getting up frightfully steadily, the man rose briskly and started his journey away in the same exact manner. There was no glance back. No address to his disturbing, eerie comments. Not even an acknowledgement that he had even heard his words. Somehow he knew. He knew that the comments had already weaved their way into his pressed mind, temporarily relieving the intense pressure that had been building, and settled deeply into his heart. An insane, irrational - and definitely something that needed to be seen to- wanted to call out to him, relentlessly beg for an explanation even though it didn’t really matter if he got one or not. The guy was probably just some crazy veteran with his head still stuck in the sand of the post- war clarity. And it almost won before the words were forcefully stopped, expired within his throat. There it was, set out in the same exact position his was. Something that he’d never witnessed on anyone else, not even his family. A birthmark.
Kind of like an elephant. Kind of not.