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You arise from your bed, its simple design hiding its comfort from stupid eyes. You are young, around ten maybe twelve. You are such a forgetful kid, reminding yourself you look at your calendar. You are eleven and today is....... chore day.
You groan as you drag yourself to your wardrobe, or as your mother calls it "Armoire", and pull out your favourite outfit. After popping on your shirt and trousers, you grin with bliss, as you slip on your cloak, as you grandmother said when seeing it,
"It brings the whole outfit together, along with that hat of yours."
Speaking of said hat, where is it? You begin to exhume your messy room, taking a long half an hour to realise that it was on your bed frame. Thankful that no one saw that, you remove the hat from the bed frame and donning the hat feel ready to face..... chore day.
"Time for breakfast, Siffrin!"
This confused you. What was that name your mother called you? Whatever it was, it was not your name, your name is. . .. . .... .. You must've misheard her. As you trudge down the stairs, you get a gnawing feeling, one of deep, visceral dread. Hardly surprising today's....... chore day.
As you turn into the kitchen you see your mother, she is tall, a giantess to yourself, she wears a simple black blouse, atop what she called a "pantsuit", it just looked like a onesie to you. Facing the kitchen counter top she has her arms around a wooden bowl mixing something, her apron somehow deflecting every spill she makes, which are a rare few.
As she turns to face you, her face is absent, but that's not right, you know your own mothers face, right? Averting your gaze with a grumpy look she sighs. "Darling, while I understand your grumpy mood, even you need food. Take your seat." There was no negotiation in her tone, with haste you clamber onto a chair and wait patiently. While, mum was lenient about, you inwardly groan, chore day, she was not at all lenient in regards to meal time. If she serves you food, you eat it. Only afterwards would she accept criticism, if one was foolhardy enough to give it.
Dad always was a bit stupid, but you think that's why mum loved him so. Dad. A hardworking, loving, kindly, patient, incredibly (as your mum calls him) buff and incredibly short man, even now at the age of eleven you match his height.
"Where's dad?" Engrossed in the act of making breakfast (how??? its like three things?????) a sigh escapes her "Your Father is outside working on that boat of his," she grumbles "I have no idea why he cares about that old wreck."
You mumble an agreement as you tuck into breakfast. After finishing your meal, you dash out the front door before your mum could begin the list of chores to be done.
The beachside is, like always, a wonder. It’s pitch black sand bordering that of a grey expanse, the occasional but distant fish leaping out of the waves. A wee distance from your home is your dad, he is sitting down right next to his boat or (when he was teasing you) "his Pride and Joy".
Mum never did let him live it down.
You slow to a sneak as you approach him, a grin spreads across your face as you imagine the look on his... face? What did he look like, surely you would remember your dad's own face. You try as hard as you can to remember him but soon you lose concentration and trip onto your dads back.
"Oh, is that shortie I hear?" his gruff voice teases.
"Dad, we are nearly the same height." I point out. At this a loud guffawing came from dad as he stood up. "Whatever, made you think that? I'm over three times taller than you." And he's right, but that isn't correct he is so short why is he this tall.
While I sit in the sand dazed, dad leans down to pick me up and put me on my feet. "You ok kid?" he ventured, "you seem upset." My face must've been more distraught then I thought. "I'm fine just... chore day you know." He stares at me. He doesn't believe me, but he chuckles and decides "You better get on with it then."
I moan at him, "I don't wanna, its gonna be garbage." he snickered "Fine then I will do the bins then, you two bit comedian." As the two of you make your way back to the house, you don't notice the piece of seaweed under your foot until you slip.
You bolt awake at the sound of a crack.
That was your parents. Your parents. They were wonderful, but even so you start to feel the memory getting hazy and as you dash into Dormont, ignoring all your allies, in search of somewhere suitable to write the dream down by the time you find a piece of paper, you can only remember the boat.
The boat that carried you away from the island just before th-.
You wake up again. The trees surround you, you feel like you want to cry but you don't know why.