Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ Tᴏ Cʜᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ
Welcome to Charming. This was what Abel read as he drove his truck past the sign and into Charming. A small town he had supposedly lived in when he was only a child. Memories of this place were better off described as a blank page in a half-written story. Uncertain as to what he was looking for, all he knew, was that he had to find somewhere to begin. Abel needed answers, he needed a piece of his story that was left unscripted and covered by pages left unassembled by the masses of papers left for the future to fill. Like a blackout, it was like Abel knew nothing of his past and wouldn’t be able to remember ever, not until the curtains were drawn and the light finally seeped in. Even if he forced himself, nothing came to him and nothing would ever come. Holding onto the only thing he could, it was his future and the name of the place where he’d probably find what he was looking for. A map was what he held in his clutches. No longer in need of the map after the long journey he took to get to Charming, he kept his eyes on the road and continued driving his truck down unfamiliar roads. When driving his truck, Abel always felt safe and yet, there was something that lingered in his soul. Despite driving a truck, he’d rode a motorcycle back in Afghanistan and during his teenage years. Yes, Afghanistan. He’d fought a war that he’d keep with him forever. The memories. The horrors. The forever night terrors of being back in the middle of that raging war, it would forever haunt him in his dreams. Abel was more broken than he believed he ever could be and there was still more to come for him in the future. The war, his past, all of it just made his head a jumble of nothingness and fractured with snippets or detailed memories. It was always one or the other, there was no inbetween. While he’d ride that motorcycle, there was a thrill, like he’d always wanted to do that and the truth was, the experience made him feel rebellious. Something that made him feel even more confused, was that he felt like he’d done it before or knew someone who enjoyed riding a motorcycle. Everything in Abel’s mind was broken, a blurred collage and uncertain. All he knew, was he was a Teller and that his mother is Wendy Case. He grew up on a farm, moved away when he was 18 and joined the army shortly after. Now, at the age of 24, he had to come back home to a dying family member, but he also had his own agenda to his return from the war. A purpose he felt like he had to fulfill, one that he knew he wouldn’t rest until he knew the truth and nothing but. All his life, he’d only known his name, but he never knew the history behind his name. Abel Teller. The son of a man, who he only knew as Teller. No one ever uttered his father’s full name. He knew nothing about himself. When he grew older, during his teenage years, he’d asked numerous amount of times and continued to pester his mom about his past, about his father. Questioned what his father was like, demanding for her to give him the answers he was looking for, but everything was always left unsaid and left unanswered. What Wendy did, was block out all memory or mention of his father, of Jax Teller, to both the Teller boys, Jax was only a very far memory that wasn’t even there, but rather just a blurred image, like a ghost that haunted their easily forgotten dreams. There was nothing Abel could have done, nothing to convince Wendy to tell him the truth about his father. Eventually, this caused a tear between the two, which only made Thomas feel wedged between a divide and Nero worry for the eldest son of his old friend. Without knowing his heritage, his history, his father, he had never felt more nameless but was always labelled as a ‘Teller’. Whenever he had done something as a child or a teenager, there were many times he’d hear the name being used as an expression. “He is a Teller,” he’d remember hearing Wendy or Nero call him or Thomas, especially when they’d done something, something he could never pick out would cause them to be described as such. Described and labelled as a ‘Teller’.
Climbing out of his worn down truck, the sun was warm, seeping into his skin and feeding him with an energy that felt familiar to him, the whole place felt like a faded dream. The humidity was one that could have choked him if it really wanted to, and there was a brisk wind that picked up, causing the hairs on Abel’s skin to stand on end. Like a thrust from a ghost, it caused him to clutch onto his truck sides and look over his shoulder. The busy sounds of drilling, the chuckles of men and the familiar banter of work men, he felt like he should have known the place. Deep in his soul, he felt like he somehow did, but couldn’t figure it out. Glancing down at his knuckles, he read the word ‘son’ on a ring that was resting on one of his slim fingers. The gold words in contrast to the darkness that surrounded it, something in him told him he was exactly where he had to be and that he needed to stay if he was going to get what he wanted. Another part of him wondered if he was doing the right thing, by coming back to a place he didn’t even remember and in search of answers he didn’t know the questions to. “Pardon me Mr, but can I help ye’ with somethin’?” a deep Scottish accent called out to Abel, pulling him out of his thoughts and causing him to straighten up. Removing his ring quickly, he cleared his throat, shoved the ring in his front pocket and went to face the man that pulled him out of his troubling thoughts.
Turning to face the man, he looked much older than what Abel had seen in the pictures, his hair a darker shade of grey, with splashes of faded white in his hair, the corner of his eyes held more wrinkles and he sensed that this man would somehow know him once he saw him. Yet, when his light eyes met the elder man’s, there was no recognition in his face but there was a slight curiosity in them. It was like the Scott was trying to figure out who Abel reminded him of. “Yeah, I think you can help me,” Abel began, moving to the flap of his truck, pulling it down so he’d have better access to his belongings, grabbing his big rucksack and hoisting it to rest on one of his shoulders. Forgetting the box that laid beside him on the car seat and wondered if the men that were in the photographs would remember him at all, or even remotely recognize him. There was no way Abel would remember them, but he had to be sure that without the box, without the pictures within them, if they’d somehow notice he was his father’s son and his mother’s child. This, was where Abel’s story would truly begin.
