ORIGINS: The echidna in the original series had pretty claws and we got nostalgic. Our ghouls also had lovely claws. We could have included the dove tails or the bells, but we went with the graves, because that is what nostalgia does to hearts. It turns them into graves for things that are long gone.
Don’t worry, my love, I am too lazy to claw out your eyes. Your dreams are safe. You are an open book, and you can rest assured that I won’t even leaf through you. A glimpse was more than enough. There was no call, and I won’t use my claws as a birdcage to try and force a song out of you. Why do you look so sad? Wasn’t that the right thing to say? I never meant to hurt you, my love. Of course there was a call. Your dreams sang beautifully. And they will always have an answering call in my laziness.
If I could scratch my own eyes, I would. I would scrape all the sadness and the horrors, all the disappointment. I would bleed, until only raw hope was left. But something tells me that it wouldn’t last, that I would still see too much for comfort. So, I have decided to forget everything I know, even my own name. I have decided to pay the price. The good and the bad will always bleed into each other. That’s life. And I don’t know how to scratch my eyes to keep only what doesn’t hurt. So, I will close my eyes. I will bleed out, until I deplete all my memories. And then I will claw out your eyes, and I will use them to start living again. This time I will be as ignorant as you. Because I can’t untangle beauty from ugliness, but I can make sure that the one that doesn’t hurt so much outnumbers the other.
You don’t know the feeling, do you? I have spent my whole life rooting through the remains of what others have broken, of what others have spoiled and discarded. I have spent my whole life looking for hope. For a place I could call home. There is blood on my claws. But it dried a while ago. Nothing sticks anymore, not even the lies I kept telling myself, and I am about to give up. But you don’t know that feeling, do you? I can see the tearstains under your eyes, a lifetime of them, just like mine. But yours aren’t dry. You are still willing and eager to cry. You haven’t given in to this disappointment. And I am doing my best not to break you, not to spoil you and discard you. I am doing my best not to root my claws in your eyes and steal your hope for myself.
It’s just a name someone else gave me. I am not a monster, I would never turn my child into one. But you refuse to believe me. No matter how many times I tell you that my claws are not the bars of a crib, you refuse to believe that I would let any child I cradled in my arms dream his own dreams. That I wouldn’t imprison him in mine. You seem to have made up your mind, and clawing out your eyes would only prove your point. So, I will let my nameless child speak for himself. Maybe you will see the truth if you look in his eyes. That I never even imprisoned him in my hopes.
I know that you are a sloth, but I deserved better than this half-hearted grave. If you were done with me, if you had no use for the dreams written in my eyes, the least you could have done was bury me deeper than this. Somewhere dark. Where my dreams could have taken root, and someday grown taller than trees, to light up someone else’s world, in lieu of the stars. You could have at the very least shown me that courtesy. A little bit of darkness. Where I could have lied to myself. And pretended that people care, and hunger isn’t the only driving force in this life.
It’s not a bouquet of flowers, but I will take that star-shaped leaf. Thank you for remembering where I was buried. I know that you won’t cry, that you have seen too much to still have any tears left in your eyes, but it’s the thought that counts. I will pretend that your lips are the tail of a shooting star. You don’t have to smile. I am a practiced liar, and I don’t need your help. You are giving me one last wish, and that is more than enough. I can pretend that it will come true. You have seen more than I have, and I would never hurt you by forcing you to lie to me.
Is that leaf your treasure? Your hope. Your dream. Your heart. Regardless of what you call it, you can entrust it to me. I will take good care of it. There is more than enough room in my grave for the two of us. And I promise you that you won’t have to watch it rot away. I will keep it out of your sight. And I will never let you root through it, like you root through everything else in this life. I promise you that I won’t let anything or anyone change your treasure’s name.
You can turn your back on me. I don’t care. You can destroy my life’s work. Everything I have done. Everything I have become. You can pull all my leaves off, until I am nothing more than 206 bare bones buried in the ground. But the truth won’t change. I became myself in spite of you, not thanks to you. And even if you were to pull up 94 of your quills to bury them right beside me in this grave, that truth still wouldn’t change. You can’t turn back time. But, who knows, maybe destroying me will be enough for you. I didn’t turn out like you wanted, but maybe rearranging my bones will finally give you something to be proud of.