My earliest memories I am just beginning to remember again- but they are of such a wildly different life I wouldn't be surprised if they were actually dreams. I remember my father- or rather, I remember the memory of my father, really. I can't recall his image, but a general impression that I would probably be able to identify from a line-up of average-looking fellows. He had a beard, and he smiled through it quite often; that's about all I can tell you with absolute certainty. I don't remember the color of his eyes, or the exact shape of his face, or even what kind of nose he had, though we've all assumed it looked something like Ariel's.
I distinctly remember going to the beach- probably because I can't recall a time after his death where I visited a public beach, much less wore a swimming costume. But here's the thing- I can't feel the cold water, the sand between my toes, or he warm sun on my back. I can't hear the other children. I can't picture my father in a swim costume, or my mother with a taught, round belly- but I remember that we went, I remember that we played, I remember that my mother was pregnant with Ariel at the time. I might as well have read about myself as a boy, because these memories are mostly factual things. But occasionally, there is something that hits me, like the smell of worn leather, or a note of laughter, and then I feel an alien sensation, as if someone else's experience has been injected into me. I suppose this is when I really remember. It's hard, and I'm not sure if I like it.
After our grandmother died, Ariel passed on to me a box of photos given to her by her guardians, Harold and Emma, who are our Uncle and Aunt, respectively. They are perhaps the only physical documentation I have besides my own existence that my father was a person. They are terribly strange to look at, though. As I stated earlier, I am not unfamiliar with the man in the pictures. I can point him out- that man, there, between his sister and his brother and a few of his cousins- that man is my father. But seeing him physically is to find discrepancies between the lines- differences that aren't so much there in image, but in the fact that these are real and complete pictures, but the image in my head is actually anything but. It is as if she's actually given me a box of pictures of an acquaintance I met once at a party- an acquaintance, perhaps, that said something especially profound to me, or stopped me from tripping down a particularly steep and dangerous flight of stairs- an acquaintance that changed me and then walked away. I know this man, but I don't really know this man. As I said before- if it weren't for these pictures, I would have no proof that my father was anything but a character I imagined to fill the role I so sorely lacked growing up.
And there you have the first seven years of my life, despite the knowledge that the really only common denominator between it and the rest of my life is that I allegedly lived it. My more vivid memories begin once my father is out of the picture, if only because it's much easier to remember things if they don't involve a person you've been told to forget.
The story of Adaman Knaughts
My name is Adaman Owen Knaughts, originally Adaman Owen Kelly. I am 36 years old, and have made no noticeable mark upon the world. Yet something- I must have done something, though hardly the sort of something I intended. You cannot do nothing in life and end up in the Prison of Azkaban.
It is this fact that leads me to a ground I would rather not trod upon. Not Azkaban; I have been fortunate enough to arrive after the reign of the dementors, and though I’ve been told the place still stinks with grief and despair, I have yet to experience it. No, my greatest despair comes not from the environment, but simply from a lack of occupation for my mind. Yet somehow, the agony of lost freedoms and idle thoughts do not suffice as my punishment for- whatever I have done. I feel a guilt, and I am sure it is not birthed from my sentenced crime; I stand firmly on this; I committed crime only in the sense of law.
But if I have done nothing in conflict with my own morals and still I find myself in Azkaban, mustn’t there be something awry? Indeed, I must grown a sin long ago- so long ago I can’t remember having it planted. My punishment? It is also my redemption; I must find it and uproot it.
So it is on my own sentence that I write, and come once again to a pain in order to dispel the ache of my mind, the grit in my heart. Contained herein will be the tale of Adaman Knaughts. I can promise no excitement- in fact, I predict that those eyes who take the time to read this will certainly droop soon under the weight of my boredom. The only solace I can offer you- whoever you are- is that you have now become a rarity. Read further, and you will obtain a story that has all but died in its survival through others. You will become one of the few to ever know Adaman Knaughts.
(OOC: This probably isn't a very good place to start for people who don't know Adaman Knaughts very well. Buuut... it was in my head, so here it goes. Two confrontations kinda awkwardly placed into one event, but really revealing as far as character. There is some language in this one (sorry, the F-bomb is dropped!), and it's generally depressing, as are most things written about Adaman (I think he deserves a Series-of-Unfortunate-Events-esque disclaimer on his pieces). But um, if you love good straight up gritty character interaction, by all means read on. Can you tell I am not used to introducing these things?)
( Knaughts Family Gatherings: Two confrontations at a funeral. Approx. 2001Collapse )