𝐉𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐍𝐎. 𝟐 / 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐚. ( 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓. )

He taught me to paint... there were good times, though rare — I remember them vividly. I find myself wondering what could have been different had good times not been so scarce, had my papa treated me more as his son rather than distancing himself from me, from my mama... from everyone who could offer love and comfort — I loved my papa, do not ever doubt that. a cruel man he was... but when he loved, even though it lasted a mere moment, he loved — he had a smile like the sun... perhaps I should compare it more to the eclipse... rare, yet beautifully mesmerizing, I’d like to think that is where mine comes from.

𝐉𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐍𝐎. 𝟑 / 𝐦𝐚𝐦𝐚.

My mama was an actress — though she may not look it…well, not anymore… she was a shining star upon the stage, she took all the focus whenever she stepped into a room, perhaps that’s where I got it from? — I watched her home videos… I watched them with her, it was as though she was constantly reliving her glory days, which I, according to her, stole from her. She never spoke this to me, but mama wrote a lot, and I, being a lonely and to confess, nosey child, read every single thing she wrote when she wasn’t aware — for shame, I know… but, at least I was not blissfully ignorant to my mama abhorrence for my entirety. She did attempt to love me, wild and unruly as I was, it was nearly impossible, though… she took time from her busy schedule, which consisted of tasting new wines, or whatever alcohol she could get her hands on, oh and staring blankly at the wall…that filthy wall… she wasn’t much for hobbies my mama, how terribly sad for her. Where was I? Yes ! …  she would play with me, take me for walks, I was an active child and my mama tried her best to be good — she wasn’t, too often she cried because of me, or left me unoccupied… fending for myself while my father worked himself to the bone — mama and papa were equally trying their hardest, I do wonder if maybe it was me who was wrong — and if true, perhaps they are happier now that I am gone.

𝐉𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐍𝐎. 𝟒 / 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.

I wouldn’t describe my childhood as sad… more as what I have survived to get to where I am now, and though to most it doesn’t seem like much… it was far enough and even more so for a child to handle. Do you remember what it was like being young? There was little happiness to be found, but it was cherished, even after I abandoned that which made me.

𝐉𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐍𝐎. 𝟓 / 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧.

Where would I even begin with my hometown — I have such vague memories of it as I left to escape them when I was but a boy, I suppose if I were to start with anything of importance that brought about me… it would have to be the people in my small town. They were quite kind when they weren’t whispering spiteful things about my family… their children, however, thought it fun to pick on children who were, in their eyes, abnormal — I was considered abnormal, though I’d like to think I was simply too creative and unique for them to comprehend, they were simple-minded and I was not — though that is quite simple, is it not? 

𝐉𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐍𝐎. 𝟔 / 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠.

My papa reminded me nearly every day, the bitter man, that I was weak… weak and would be nothing of significance in this world, I would never be like him or my mama, he was right about that much, and I’d never want to be anything like him or my mama, as they are both trapped in that house that reeks of booze, anger, and jealousy,  and I am now free… or as free as a soldier can be, with them, with ShinRA, I have the freedom to do whatever I want… I don’t care about ShinRa… I don’t care for anyone here, I do what I must do to keep myself entertained. I left my home and soon after joined SOLDIER when I was around 11 or 13, I can’t seem to recall — but I didn’t leave my home just join ShinRa, there’s more to it than that, I could speak of the argument I had with my mama and father the night I left, but how could I? There were so many words that should have gone unsaid… on both ends, the “I hate you”s  amongst them. I didn’t hate them…I loved them…  my childhood friend told me more than once that my heart was too big — but is it not meant to carry love rather than hate? I would rather not become bitter and filled with scorn.

The night I left the argument was started over something small —  a spilled bottle of paint on a poorly painted portrait. My father had been deteriorating fast, his mind was leaving him quicker and quicker… it made him even angrier than he was early on… I apologised over and over again, but he kept screaming about how I ruined it, ruined his life… the life that was ruined far before I was born, I didn’t cripple my father. I sat and let him scream at me… my mama overheard the commotion, she made a sorry attempt at calming my father down, in her defense, she was already drunk. A word to the wise, do not attempt to stop my mama, no matter what she is doing, drunk or not. I attempted to help steady her as she pleaded with my father — I must have done something wrong because the next moment she was also screaming and crying in my face… I was “weak” — and yet here they were at their weakest, baring their tormented souls to my innocent ears… ah, who am I attempting to fool?… I was not innocent of their feelings, I only pretended to be for the sake of sparing my own childish heart.