Pideo as a Boy

As a child grows one notices the similarities and differences, ones individuality, that which sets them apart. It was Pideo himself who first noticed his own coloring, the hair growing here and there much different than the other boys, his chest thicker but his face delicate, finer features and a lean workers build. He was only fourteen, his blonde hair drifting across an open landscape of unblemished cheek and a broad forehead, the lakeside breeze nearly toppling his playmates Spartan build.

“Don’t just lay there” the Spartan child’s voice hanging over the shoreline. “Help me with this boat” With one last haul heaving the line inward. Pideo used one hand to shore the boat, and knew he wasn’t like them.

As they sat beneath the dusking sky together in silence Pideo and his peer, then he questioned. “Say Ardi?”

“Yeah”

“Have you ever believed you were meant for a different life?”

“What could be better than this? Your Dad owns half the countryside, your Moms got a rack like two full beehives” Ardius mimes the fullness of the cone for illustration.

“OK..OK!!” swatting the image away.

“And you have the coolest friend in Corinth, your good pal Ari!” points to himself gleefully.

“Yeah but what if I don’t want to just inherit a life? You know?”

“No!” sits up looking at Supideo “Your crazy bud! If you don’t want it leave it to me” laying back in the sunset.

“I might!”

“Good”

Pideo sat longingly for days on this subject, he knew something about him was different, not just his physicality but his mentality. He loved his mother and father, and they had provided well for him and wanted for nothing to make him happy, but his mind was not that of his parents. How? He knew not.

Weeks past with out conclusion, his questions borrowing down into his swollen ankles; he had not felt the pain in years. The injury was primary, years before he could remember. He did however remember a time when his parents, the sovereignty, had mentioned a childhood fall in passing that healed off giving him an inward gate. But it was not the gate that troubled but the scars. He traced the lines on both feet; it began at his ankle and crossed the top of each foot perfectly.

Rubbing seemed to help but only reminded him he was unresolved.

The End

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