Anakin was sure he was dreaming , but no matter how much he tried, he was unable to escape its confines. The amount of time he'd already spent trapped eluded him, but it felt like an eternity. A dreary, disconcerting eternity.
His dimmed eyes drifted downward to observe the most recent memory his psychological quagmire had presented him. It was a familiar-faced young boy in a dark room, kneeling on its musty wooden floor and rummaging through what looked like a cardboard box as if searching for something.
The boy was visibly emaciated, his hair, eyes, and skin giving the impression that he belonged in a Hollywood zombie apocalypse flick that probably flopped at box office. His arms were like thin sticks, and his fingers looked so brittle that Anakin would've feared them snapping at any moment if he didn't recognize that they were once his.
His garments— too tattered to be called clothes— hung loosely on his frame, and his collarbones jutted out so prominently that they looked like they might puncture his skin. Really, the only mildly positive thing about his appearance were the intense flames faintly flickering behind his hollow brown eyes.
The boy, it seemed, was a stubborn tyke. Spirit was possibly the only thing keeping him alive.
He kept searching, periodically tossing out items varying from stationary to old magazines, before finally stopping, eyes gleaming, with a small dusty colored book firmly clasped between his palms.
Without looking, Anakin already knew what it was, and he subconsciously smiled realizing it. It was his savior, the one thing that gave him hope during those grim years. Without it, he admitted to himself, his psychological trauma from the abuse he experienced would have probably been ten times worse.
Anakin soon found himself crouching beside the boy, joining him in admiring the colored books cover. It read,
[Star Wars]
Anakin couldn't stop the laugh that complimented his brightening eyes. Looking back, he found it a bit amusing that the very thing that helped him through those years was also the source of his name. It was almost…prophetic.
He glanced back at the youth, who by now was already seated on the floor, reading the comic book so intensely that his eyes seemed like they'd pop out their sockets before he got through the first ten pages.
He laughed again. This was the moment he'd discovered the entire franchise. What had initially been a quest to search for a tool to escape the accursed shed he'd spent so long imprisoned in had turned out to be one of the most important moments of his life.
He sat down beside the boy, smiling. The Star Wars franchise had dramatically strengthened his will to live. Like any boy, he was charmed by its tale of a hero's journey: overcoming adversity after adversity, growing in all aspects, and eventually becoming enlightened about their identity and purpose.
It was Luke Skywalker that gave him hope, but retrospecting, Anakin realized the character that had the most impact on him was instead, Anakin Skywalker— his namesake and probably his old parents' favorite character.
Anakin Skywalker taught him the dangers of succumbing to negative emotions, and the importance of self-control. He was the root of the infectious optimism he'd developed over the years and the core of his resilience.
Anakin's face dulled momentarily, remembering the sequence of events that were to come next. They were probably the darkest moments of his entire life, and honestly he didn't want to relive them. Not again. Never again.
Not long after discovering the Star Wars franchise, the fiend was going to start beating him more intensely, cutting up his body, and feeding him sedatives that should be a million miles away from the mouth of an eight year old.
A shudder ran through his body and Anakin instinctively closed his eyes, trying his best not to remember the rest, but opening them a second later realizing there was no use.
The sedatives would keep him constantly dazed throughout the day, and soon after that he'd contracted the disease that left him bereft of the ability to walk—Polio. How he'd gotten it still confounded him, but somehow he'd gotten it.
And had the fiend not checked on him when she did, he probably would've left planet Earth sooner than he originally did. Perhaps the disease, Anakin considered, was a blessing in disguise as it ultimately served as his ticket out of that hellhole. The fiend was incarcerated soon after that.
Anakin inhaled sharply, balling his fist, and resisting the urge to yell in frustration. The bitch ruined his life, leaving him with severe emotional, physical, and psychological trauma, yet all she got was a couple of years behind bars. Anakin tried not to think of the injustice of it all.
If he had his way—which she should be thankful he didn't— she would have shared the same fate as Billy Reed: tortured and butchered in ways that would petrify even the devil.
Anakin was bracing himself for the dread of the next few memories when the world around him morphed, wiping away the boy and his comic, and transforming into a familiar room with a man, woman, boy and girl gathered on the bed at its center.
Anakin drifted towards them, his brows relaxing as if he hadn't been in tango with anger half a minute ago. He watched as the quartet laughed and bickered amongst themselves, the girl being the most lively out of the bunch.
"Lottie was always energetic during storytime." he whispered to himself, eyes lingering on her for a moment before falling on himself, "And I always found it amusing. Father and Mother did too."
Anakin reached out to poke his sister's light-olive skinned cheek, when the world suddenly changed again, bringing a new memory to focus. He found himself watching a white-vested boy sweating profusely on his knees, and using a wooden sword for support. Opposite him was a frowning man pointing another wooden sword at his head.
"I never really saw the point of learning swordsmanship," Anakin shook his head, cocking his head slightly. " But Father insisted. Something about developing discipline, focus, and grace." he tapped his chin. "I still suck at it."
Out of everything included in his education, it was the thing he spent the least time practicing. Its utility couldn't compare to economics, politics, foreign languages, history, and geography. And he didn't see himself using it in any battles—if he ever got into one. He had magic and guns for that.
Again—as he was contemplating—the world changed, and Anakin was starting to wonder why it was starting to change so erratically. It had been slow just a handful of minutes ago.
This time he found himself standing on the deck of a yacht behind a boy and man dressed in nothing but light trousers. He smiled again, recalling the details of this memory. It was one of the first times he'd journeyed beyond the walls of the Aldritch estate to see the world beyond.
His father had taken him yachting—a favorite pastime of his— and they'd circled Canterswell Sea, a little off the coast of Northeastern Pruvia. They'd taken in the picturesque seascape scenery and spent some father-son bonding time, where he'd learned a substantial bit about his mysterious grandfather.
It had been, Anakin suddenly realized, one of the few times word of him was ever mentioned. It seemed that, for whatever reason, mentioning the man was taboo at the manor.
Anakin guessed that it might have something to do with the fact that he'd been killed staging a military coup to depose the last Pruvian monarch—Emperor Tadeas III of the Truman royal dynasty. Perhaps Father had conflicting emotions about it.
The world continued to change, forcing several more memories to resurface. And as they came and went, a flurry of emotions swooshed past Anakin, causing him to really understand how much his new life trampled his old one quality-wise.
Truthfully, there was no comparison, and reliving all these memories made him realize that he was ready to move on, to fully immerse himself into his new reality. It felt like the right time.
And igniting his Spark felt like he'd taken the first real step towards that. It made it sink in that this wasn't Earth anymore. Anakin Ross was no more. The thought of letting go didn't seem all that scary any longer.
Anakin stuffed all the memories of his life on Earth into a tiny little marble, forcefully sealing it with his willpower alone, and tossed it into a dark, secluded corner of his mind.
"My name…" He inhaled sharply, eyes gleaming with a new light, "...is Arlo Aldritch."