Draft #12 - Loneliness and Why It Is Awful
The torrent of loneliness started early, awfully early. This may come as a surprise to the passive onlooker, but those who know me, the real me, should not be surprised. Despite my hatching alongside my sister, nothing could pierce the oppressive, awful isolation.
It was my mother's fault.
Note to self: Tear this up. Stop being so dramatic.
Draft #13
She never cared about me or Rukka, no matter the false promises she gave my sister. I always wondered why she went through with having an egg if she knew she'd never even lov
Draft #14
Vokkra is a lonely position. All the simpering and groveling gets old after the first year. It certainly made things worse when I constantly needed to emphasize that I am capable of leading. That I am not weak. I am not weak. I am not w
***
Rulshkka's first bitter taste of unjust solitude happened when he was just 37 years old, barely walking on his own two feet.
Like everything, it involved Rukka. They were close, now, but as hatchlings, hardly able to see beyond their mother's web of logic, they had been enemies. Rulshkka did not look upon those days with fondness.
They had been at his childhood home - some rundown little house on the outskirts of the cities. If he walked in one direction, away from the city, he would reach the wastelands in an hour.
The house hadn't all been terrible, he supposed; there had been its better moments, yes, such as when the water pipes in the wall had trembled and shrieked, unholy, interrupting Korrashkka's tirade against him. Rulshkka, at the age of 54, had definitely thought he was psychic. He had been thinking of a way to get her to stop.
Small claws scraped against the wooden floor as he scrambled to get to the kitchen. The mornings were always his oasis when it was just him and his sire.
"Good morning, my little Rulshkka," his father said fondly, back still turned to the room. Rulshkka beamed. His mother rarely, if ever, called him 'my little' anything. My little annoyance, maybe.
"How you always know it me?" Rulshkka asked. His father had looked over his shoulder and given him a secret look.
Rulshkka barely had any memories of his father. Korrashkka had driven him into illness, something so deep in the Vokkrus's heart that he couldn't recover. She was a blight to anything she touched. His sire had been no exception. He had died when Rulshkka had been merely 45 years old.
"Stick up for yourself," had been his dying words. "Don't let her take you down. Never back down from a challenge." He took the words to heart.
That morning, however, Korrashkka had woken early. His father wasn't weak, even if his mother had yelled until her voice had given out that yes, he was. Tryiak had been the strongest Vokkrus Rulshkka had ever met. Who else, he had thought, naive at the age of 37, could stand up to his mother like that? He never could. He never did. Not until he had become Vokkra.
"Why are you up?" his mother asked him, pinning him to the floor with her hateful stare. Rulshkka hadn't known what he did to earn her wrath, but he had become quite adept at avoiding it. His eyes lowered to the floor.
"Come now, my love," his father returned easily, though Rulshkka could hear a faint shimmer of wariness in his words. "Rulshkka's always been an early riser. Tackling the day early, right, Rul?"
YOU ARE READING
The Autobiography Of An Alien
Science Fiction!! Sequel to In Search of Home. If you haven't read that, you'll be a little confused! !! After the humans invaded - somewhat; it was his fault, really - his planet, they left a gaping hole in his heart. It took the form of one Kohgrash. Rulshkka ha...
