Jesse still couldn’t take his happiness for granted.
When a person is condemned to sporadic bursts of severe, suicidal depression, happiness becomes a golden thread that should never be let go. It should be weaved and plaited and coiled and tugged on until there’s so much of it that it could become armour, never to be taken off again. Unfortunately, happiness doesn’t work that way. It’s not eternal. It’s not never-ending. And it should not be taken for granted.
The family had not yet become the cohesive unit that Jesse wanted it to be, but it was better than it ever had been before. The difference, now, was Jesse’s attitude. Before, he took it personally. It was always a personal failing when his progeny did not stick. When they disappeared, he got angry. When they came back, he was bitter. He realised, now, that his level of expectation was probably what had driven them away. Who would want to stick around if they were made to feel like a constant disappointment?
Now, Jesse strove to only do as much as he could to provide; he could hint at what he wanted, or what the family needed, and if the newest additions wanted to become part of the whole, they could. If not – well, it was their loss, and Jesse wasn’t going to chase after them. Eventually, the family would reach its potential, but it was not something that could be pushed.
He flitted in and out of Limbo; if he wasn’t there, he was either working at Serpentine, hunting in the Caverns, hunting prey, or coiled somewhere in Clover’s arms. And yet, he made the attempt to remain within Limbo as often as possible. He liked to tell his progeny and extended bloodline that he was around if they needed him; they knew where to find him, and they knew how to contact him. He almost always had his phone on and nearby, or he hung out in Limbo. They had only to use their tomes and they would find him.
Tonight, he had come home from work and removed his jacket and his shoes, leaving them on and near the rack by the elevator. He took a short trip up to the green room where he checked on his plants; both Jormun and Hel were coiled around one of the lamps, within sight. Jesse couldn’t bear to leave the Mambas where they were, and instead coaxed them around his shoulders. He took his pets with him, back to Limbo. Upon exiting the elevator his toe caught on the handle of a bag that had been left behind by someone within their growing ranks. From out of the half-open zipper slipped a sketch book. At first, Jesse ducked down to pick it up and put it back, but curiosity got the better of him.
He took the sketchbook to one of the large, circular, cushion-laden armchairs. He was careful when he threw himself into the comfort of the cushions, as not to harm either of his snakes – one a vibrant green, and the other an ink black. Jormun – the green – started to explore the chair. Hel stayed where she was. Coiled half around Jesse’s arm, half around his neck. There he stayed, idly flicking through the sketchbook, appraising the artwork inside.
When a person is condemned to sporadic bursts of severe, suicidal depression, happiness becomes a golden thread that should never be let go. It should be weaved and plaited and coiled and tugged on until there’s so much of it that it could become armour, never to be taken off again. Unfortunately, happiness doesn’t work that way. It’s not eternal. It’s not never-ending. And it should not be taken for granted.
The family had not yet become the cohesive unit that Jesse wanted it to be, but it was better than it ever had been before. The difference, now, was Jesse’s attitude. Before, he took it personally. It was always a personal failing when his progeny did not stick. When they disappeared, he got angry. When they came back, he was bitter. He realised, now, that his level of expectation was probably what had driven them away. Who would want to stick around if they were made to feel like a constant disappointment?
Now, Jesse strove to only do as much as he could to provide; he could hint at what he wanted, or what the family needed, and if the newest additions wanted to become part of the whole, they could. If not – well, it was their loss, and Jesse wasn’t going to chase after them. Eventually, the family would reach its potential, but it was not something that could be pushed.
He flitted in and out of Limbo; if he wasn’t there, he was either working at Serpentine, hunting in the Caverns, hunting prey, or coiled somewhere in Clover’s arms. And yet, he made the attempt to remain within Limbo as often as possible. He liked to tell his progeny and extended bloodline that he was around if they needed him; they knew where to find him, and they knew how to contact him. He almost always had his phone on and nearby, or he hung out in Limbo. They had only to use their tomes and they would find him.
Tonight, he had come home from work and removed his jacket and his shoes, leaving them on and near the rack by the elevator. He took a short trip up to the green room where he checked on his plants; both Jormun and Hel were coiled around one of the lamps, within sight. Jesse couldn’t bear to leave the Mambas where they were, and instead coaxed them around his shoulders. He took his pets with him, back to Limbo. Upon exiting the elevator his toe caught on the handle of a bag that had been left behind by someone within their growing ranks. From out of the half-open zipper slipped a sketch book. At first, Jesse ducked down to pick it up and put it back, but curiosity got the better of him.
He took the sketchbook to one of the large, circular, cushion-laden armchairs. He was careful when he threw himself into the comfort of the cushions, as not to harm either of his snakes – one a vibrant green, and the other an ink black. Jormun – the green – started to explore the chair. Hel stayed where she was. Coiled half around Jesse’s arm, half around his neck. There he stayed, idly flicking through the sketchbook, appraising the artwork inside.
[Wearing]
