Guilt

"I- I always dreamed of having more. I was born in a family of blacksmiths. We could make a living, sure, but if I'm honest, I was very bored. I wanted to make beautifully decorated, interesting looking tools and armor, but they cost too much money to create while barely selling, so when times got tough we were forced to melt them down into their base components. Really, I didn't want to lead a blacksmith's life at all. It was a painful decision, but in the end I chose to run away from home, trusting, praying that I'd find some way to make money. I did odd jobs here and there, nothing particularly interesting or unique nor anything that really sparked passion, but for the first time in my life doing my job felt like a short stop along the road, rather than the entire journey.

After a number of years of wandering around the city like this, I got a job working at a place that made and sold decorated pottery. To say I enjoyed this work was an understatement: it was my new life passion. The shop was owned by a gentle older man named Marsilio. I liked him a lot. He made me feel special, and always encouraged me to work on my ideas even when they didn't sell well. Eventually, my like blossomed into full on love, and given that he was not a married man, I told him so. He accepted in a very polite and formal manner, which I at the time interpreted as a simple quirk of his personality. I now suspect there to be more at play. Regardless, we entered a relationship, in theory at least. He dutifully performed every ritual required of him by the social contract of our love, yet, his eyes always seemed cold and distant, as if he was only motivated by a kind of gentle politeness. He would often go out into the city as well, never telling me the reason or coming up with a flimsy excuse. At first I thought he was seeing other people, but every time he returned home, he was just silent and a little depressed. Either way, I looked past all these things for the sake of pretending to live a happy life. That's when I became pregnant with you, Julia. More than running away from home, more than discovering pottery and even more than finding someone I loved, that fact brought me happiness. I was ecstatic. I was sure I would bring you to this world and give you a perfect life. I was really, truly happy. That's when Marsilio fell ill. He became bedridden in a matter of weeks and, with me being forced to take care of him while being pregnant, the shop quickly fell into disrepair. On his deathbed, only a few days before you were born, Marsilio began to hallucinate. He apologized profusely for everything and everyone, like he was so very good at, but not to me. The person he called out to with his final words was someone named 'Paolo', a name I'd never heard him talk about before. Even after he died, I didn't understand him. I never had. I felt despair coming in, but I knew I couldn't give up hope, since you would be born soon, after all. There was no way I could think of to save the shop, and I didn't have enough money left over to start a new one. I had two options: go back to my family where you would certainly be forced to become a blacksmith, or go back to a life of doing odd jobs, hopefully allowing you to grow up free in life. I chose the latter, and not much later, you were born. It was tough, and I had to work hard, but we managed. As you grew older, something became increasingly clear: you were incredibly gifted. From just five years of age, you were already capable of reading easy texts and solving basic math problems. I became convinced that the thing you needed was someone more intelligent and educated than me to help teach you, so that maybe you could fill your potential and become an Uomo Universale, a tutor in the Municipio. To afford this, I spent my days working as many days as possible, searching for food left-overs that we could eat. I thought- I assumed- that's what you needed. What you wanted. But one day, when you came home, you had changed. You rejected me. You rejected the name I had given you, stopped speaking to me and began acting rebellious. Once again I- I- I lived with someone I didn't understand. I lashed out at you, I just wanted you to go back to normal, like you used to be. And then, one night, you just disappeared. You ran away, and once again, I was all alone."

Gika's mother, tears streaking down across her face, became silent for a moment, then clasped her hands together and held them above her head in a begging motion.

"I was wrong!," she continued, her voice raspy from both her previous, long story as well as her current tearing up, "so, so, so wrong! I should have listened better to what you had to say! I won't force you to take any more lessons just please, go back to normal for me, Julia, I beg you!"

"You don't- you don't- can't understand." Gika said, her Magranpolian clearly shocking her mother, "I'm not Juria- Julia."

She began to tear up as well.

"Julia is dead," she continued, "my ghost… it stole Julia's vessel… I'm sorry I took your daughter, I didn't want to… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

"Please- Please don't apologize so much," Gika's mother said, "you're right, I don't understand what you're saying. You're my daughter, you're not dead! Just… don't apologize… I don't think you've done anything wrong, Julia, so you shouldn't. It also brings back… bad memories…"

The rest of that day was primarily filled with uncomfortable silence.