As I approached the trio of the latest Smith family members to step through the portal, the mix of emotions swirling within me was difficult to untangle. The sight of Paul among them sparked a twinge of relief that he was here, safe and sound—a beacon of familiarity. The thought, Oh good, Paul is here, flitted through my mind almost whimsically, a brief respite from the weight of what had just occurred.
Interrupting their animated conversation, my voice carried a sharper edge than intended, "Where’s Charles?" The urgency behind my question sliced through the air. Their synchronised response, “Seminary!” rang out in perfect harmony, a testament to the ingrained routines and shared experiences that bound them. Despite the seriousness of the moment, their collective turn and the sing-song delivery of their answer coaxed a brief, involuntary smile from me—some things never do change.
However, any semblance of amusement was quickly overshadowed by Mum's reaction. Her scowl was a dark cloud on the horizon, and her voice, sharp as a whip, "Luke! What have you done!?" The accusatory note in her screech, laden with fear and confusion, was a jarring reminder of the finality of my actions.
My response, a nonchalant shrug paired with a light-hearted, "I did what was necessary," was an attempt to diffuse the situation, to offer some semblance of control or justification for the upheaval I had caused. But even as the words left my lips, I knew they did little to address the underlying tumult of emotions and questions.
Paul's incredulous reaction to our parents' attire—a mix of disbelief and concern—brought a moment of comic relief to the surreal situation. "You didn’t think it was necessary to let them change from their pyjamas first?" he asked, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Observing Mum and Dad, standing there in the unfamiliar landscape of the Clivilian dust, dressed in nothing but their nightwear, was an absurd sight. Dad, clutching his dressing gown as if it were a lifeline, and Mum, her pink flannelette pyjamas adorned with happy Jesus faces, seemed out of place and time.
“It didn’t really cross my mind, to be honest,” I admitted, my grin widening despite the seriousness of Paul's question. The humour in the situation was undeniable, a bizarre juxtaposition against the backdrop of their extraordinary journey.
Dad's question, tinged with a mix of hope and uncertainty, "And where’s the New Jerusalem?" echoed the longing and faith that had propelled him here. His unwavering belief in the promise of a new beginning, even in the face of such disorientation, was both heartening and daunting.
As Paul shot me a disapproving look, a silent reprimand for my cavalier attitude, I couldn't help but respond with a nonchalance that belied the complexity of the situation. Gesturing towards the horizon with a casual wave, I offered, "It’s just over the hill." The simplicity of my response, the promise of discovery just beyond their reach, was a leap of faith in itself—a belief in the possibility of finding their New Jerusalem, whatever and wherever that might be.
Paul's reaction was a perfect storm of incredulity and exasperation, his body language screaming disbelief as his hands flew up in a gesture that could only be described as bewildered surrender. The expression on his face, a rich tapestry of confusion and annoyance, spoke volumes more than words ever could. Each furrow on his forehead, each tightening of his jaw muscles, was a silent testament to the chaos I had seemingly thrust upon him.
“Paul will take you there,” I announced, directing my words towards the trio who stood a mix of bewildered and expectant, casting Paul in a role he was clearly unprepared to accept. The simplicity of the statement belied the complexity of the situation, a fact made immediately evident by Paul's vehement reaction.
"What!?" The word burst from Paul like a dam breaking, his disbelief splashing across the conversation and soaking us all in its intensity. His posture, previously one of reluctant acceptance, now radiated a defiance that caught me slightly off guard.
As frustration with Paul bubbled to the surface, my patience began to wear thin, my expression mirroring his as my brow furrowed in irritation. “I don’t know why you’re getting in such a huff. I told you I would bring them here,” I retorted, aiming to cut off any further protests. The words, though true, felt hollow, an inadequate explanation for the whirlwind of events that had unfolded.
Paul's attempt to articulate his thoughts, the laptop clutched in his hands as if it were a lifeline, was abruptly interrupted. “Yeah, but I thought-" he started, the confusion palpable in his voice, his stance one of a man desperately seeking solid ground amidst shifting sands.
"Oh, plans changed," I interjected smoothly, a calm façade masking the underlying tension. "Dad wanted to go to the New Jerusalem instead," I added, my tone laced with a mocking sarcasm that I couldn't quite suppress. The sardonic edge to my words was a defence mechanism, a way to navigate the surreal reality of our situation while also acknowledging the absurdity of it all.
“What is she doing?” Jerome asked, drawing our gazes to the distant figure of a woman navigating the Clivilian dust with a shopping trolley. It was a surreal sight, one that momentarily distracted us from the underlying tensions that simmered beneath the surface of our makeshift gathering.
"Hey, Karen!" My voice broke the silence, carrying across the barren landscape with a mixture of hope and eagerness. The opportunity to shift the focus from our familial discord to something, or rather someone, external was a welcome one.
Karen paused, her posture betraying a moment of hesitation before she turned to face us. The distance did little to mask the evident fatigue that seemed to weigh her down, her shoulders drooping ever so slightly—a testament to the burdens she carried. "I’m busy, Luke!" Her response, though laced with a thread of irritation, couldn't dampen my resolve.
Undeterred, I pressed on, my determination piercing the dusty silence between us. “It’ll only take a few minutes!” I insisted, hoping to convince her of the urgency and brief nature of our interruption.
With a sigh that seemed to carry her resignation across the expanse, Karen capitulated, abandoning her trolley to approach us. Her stride, though reluctant, bridged the gap with a sense of inevitability. “Karen, meet my parents, Noah and Greta. And this is my younger brother, Jerome,” I introduced them, eager to forge a connection, however brief, between my family and this woman who had unwittingly become part of their narrative.
Mum's response was immediate and effusive, her arms enveloping Karen in an embrace that was as surprising to our guest as it was characteristic of Mum's unguarded warmth. “Lovely to meet you, Karen,” she declared, the enthusiasm in her voice wrapping around Karen like the hug she bestowed upon her.
Karen’s reaction was one of polite restraint, her hands remaining at her sides as she navigated the unexpected display of affection. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, found mine, silently conveying a mix of amusement and plea for rescue. The silent exchange, laden with unspoken understanding, brought a chuckle to my lips.
Observing Dad adjust his dressing gown in the background provided a moment of comic relief, a reminder of the absurdity of our current predicament. It was these small, human moments that grounded me, a counterbalance to the weight of the unknown that lay ahead.
“I suppose I’d better get you some clothes to change into,” I mused aloud, finally acknowledging the practical needs that had been overlooked in the rush of our departure.
Jerome's question, voiced with a mix of longing and confusion as he edged closer to the portal's mesmerising display, struck a chord within me. His innocence, juxtaposed with the gravity of our situation, underscored the surreal nature of our predicament. "Can’t we just go home?”
“Well,” said Karen, seizing the moment as her exit cue, and gently extricating herself from Mum's enthusiastic embrace. “I guess that’s my cue to keep moving. These garden supplies won’t move themselves,” she said, gesturing towards the trolleys near the Drop Zone.
As Karen made her departure, Paul redirected the focus to Jerome's question, a gentle reminder of the immediate challenges ahead. "It’s not quite that simple," he offered, his arm around Jerome in a gesture of support and guidance. “How about I explain it on our way to camp?” he suggested.
“Great idea, Paul,” I agreed, encouragingly motioning for Mum and Dad to follow them.
“And Luke,” Paul said, pausing mid-step to address me. “Bring their clothes to camp, would you? Don’t leave them at the Drop Zone this time.”
I nodded in agreement, “Of course.” Although not particularly thrilled about lugging extra items to camp, I acknowledged that it was the least I could do for bringing them into this barren world with only their pyjamas.
“Although we are born with less,” I muttered to myself with a bemused grin. I brought the Portal’s colours to life and returned to the home of my childhood, the familiar surroundings carrying the weight of memories and new responsibilities.
The task of finding two suitable suitcases in the house morphed into an impromptu odyssey through the labyrinth of my past. Each corner turned, every closet opened, seemed to pulse with the residue of bygone days, as if the very walls were imbued with the essence of my family's history. This was more than a mere search; it was a pilgrimage through the sacred halls of my childhood, each room a shrine to different chapters of our collective story.
As I sifted through the rooms, stumbling upon old board games and faded photographs, memories cascaded through my mind with the vividness of a waking dream. I could almost hear the laughter and playful arguments that accompanied our family pizza and game nights, the air rich with the scent of tomato sauce and melted cheese. These were the moments when happiness felt as tangible as the dough we kneaded with our own hands, a blissful simplicity that now seemed as distant as the stars.
A chuckle escaped me as I unearthed an old pair of bright yellow socks, a relic from the days of our indoor sliding escapades. Paul's antics, his laughter echoing down the hallway as he glided with reckless abandon, came flooding back. The memory was bittersweet, tainted by the aftermath of Lisa's accident. The imposed ban on our slippery pursuits, while a necessary measure, had felt like the end of an era, a stark reminder of the delicate balance between joy and the potential for sorrow that underpinned our lives.
However, not all recollections were swathed in the soft glow of nostalgia. The darker undercurrents of my youth, the nightmares that once seemed as real as the daylight, also made their presence felt. The shadowy figure that haunted my dreams stood as a metaphor for the fears I faced, both real and imagined. More tangible, though, was the memory of the turmoil that had engulfed my final year at home. The struggle to reconcile my personal beliefs with the doctrines of our faith had driven a wedge between me and my family, a chasm deepened by Mum's silence in those last, tense weeks.
That silence had been a heavy cloak, smothering and impenetrable, marking my departure with a solemnity that had remained unchallenged until now. The weight of those days, the unsaid words, and the unresolved tensions, lingered in the air, a silent testament to the journey I had embarked upon since. As I continued my search for the suitcases, the task at hand felt imbued with a greater purpose, each step a tentative bridge over the gulf of years and silence, a chance to reconcile the past with the hope of a new beginning.
Extracting two suitcases from the shadowy recesses of the food storage room cupboard felt like unearthing relics from a bygone era. Dust motes danced in the sliver of light that invaded their long-standing sanctuary, swirling around me as I disturbed their rest. Coughing, I waved away the cloud of particles that had settled on these objects of transit. Dragging the suitcases behind me, their wheels stuttering against the threshold, I felt a poignant mix of nostalgia and reluctance with each step.
Placing them upon the expanse of my parents' king-sized bed, I approached the task of unzipping each case with a reverence usually reserved for rituals of significant personal meaning. The sound of the zippers parting the fabric was almost ceremonial, echoing softly in the room filled with shadows and memories.
The discovery of daddy-long-legs spiders scuttling away from the light, seeking refuge in the corners of the suitcases, grounded the moment in an everyday reality. Yet, even this small, mundane occurrence seemed laced with symbolism, a reminder of the normalcy that life outside this task continued to hold.
Filling the suitcases, each garment and personal item selected became a piece of the mosaic that comprised my family's history. The act of packing socks, mundane in its nature, became laden with meaning as my gaze inadvertently drifted to the dresser drawer I had been consciously avoiding. The hesitation that gripped me was palpable, a tangible expression of the internal debate that raged within. The unspoken question lingered—should I pack them?
Voicing my thoughts aloud, I wrestled with the decision. “They don't really need them in Clivilius,” I mused, attempting to rationalise my reluctance. The counterargument, that these items might offer a semblance of familiarity, at least initially, felt equally valid. It was a moment of indecision, where logic and emotion collided.
Opening the drawer and adding the sacred underclothes to the suitcase felt like capitulating to a part of myself I had long since battled and subdued. The act was swift, almost automatic, but the flood of memories it unleashed was neither. Memories of rejection, of the pain that came from stepping away from the church and the life I had known, washed over me with a bitterness that was hard to swallow.
The sharpness of my own declaration cut through the haze of reminiscence. “No,” I stated, a surge of clarity and resolve propelling my actions. The garments were returned to their drawer, a symbolic rejection of the past and its hold over me and, by extension, my family. As I closed the drawer, the finality of the gesture was not just a physical act but an emotional closure.
“Clivilius is a new world, a world without their god. They'll need to grow up and adapt, just as I had to,” I affirmed, my voice carrying a mix of defiance and determination. It was a declaration of independence, not just from the tangible symbols of a faith left behind but from the weight of expectations and the legacy of conformity. In that moment, packing the suitcases became more than a mere preparation for a journey; it was a rite of passage into a future unencumbered by the shadows of the past.
The act of dragging each heavy suitcase from the room felt like a physical manifestation of the emotional baggage I was attempting to leave behind. Yet, as I stood in the bedroom doorway, I was met with a new, unexpected confrontation. The scent of freshly washed clothes wafted towards me, carrying with it a flood of memories so potent, so intimately tied to a past I had struggled to distance myself from. It was a distinct aroma, one that time had been powerless to dilute or erase, etched deeply within the recesses of my memory.
Reflecting on those earlier years, I couldn't help but acknowledge the innocence that once permeated my existence. At ten, innocence wasn't just a trait; it was my reality, a shield against the complexities and contradictions that would later seep into my life. The peculiar practices of my youth, once sporadic moments of curiosity and exploration, had gradually morphed into sources of deep internal conflict as I grew. What had felt natural and right became entangled with the stringent teachings that had been rigorously ingrained in me, creating a chasm between my inner experiences and the outer doctrines I was expected to adhere to.
With each step towards the dresser, I endeavoured to push those burgeoning memories to the back of my mind. "Now isn't the time for such indulgence," I chastised myself, attempting to erect a mental barrier against the onslaught of reminiscence. Yet, my efforts proved futile, as the concept of the "one true way" haunted my thoughts, a reminder of the only method I had known to navigate the complex web of emotions and beliefs that had ensnared me.
The question of whether he still possessed any of those forbidden items tugged at me with an irresistible allure, pulling me towards the dresser with a force that felt beyond my control. Resistance, it seemed, had crumbled beneath the weight of curiosity and unresolved feelings.
Kneeling before the drawer, the physical reaction of my body was undeniable. My heart raced, a testament to the anticipation and trepidation that coursed through me, sending warmth spreading through my limbs. My fingertips grazed the wooden knob, the anticipation of uncovering what lay within sending a shiver of excitement mixed with apprehension down my spine.
"This is ridiculous," I found myself muttering, a laughable attempt to dismiss the intensity of the moment. Standing up, I was acutely aware of my body's response to the mere thought of crossing a boundary I had long since erected between my past and present. The realisation of my reaction, the physical embodiment of a myriad of forbidden thoughts and desires, left me standing in a moment of profound reflection, questioning the very nature of the barriers we construct and the secrets we keep hidden, even from ourselves.
The impulse that drove me back to my knees was as unexpected as it was compelling. With a swift motion, I yanked the drawer open once more, my actions fuelled by a mix of desperation and hope. The white garments I had previously dismissed lay forgotten as my hands delved deeper, searching through the fabric sea for something—something quite specific—that might offer the solace or connection I was so desperately seeking. Yet, as my fingers grazed the familiar textures, none of the items within provided the refuge I yearned for, leaving a faint shadow of disappointment to cloud my resolve.
"It's probably just as well," I found myself whispering into the quiet of the room, a self-soothing mantra meant to temper the rising tide of unmet expectations. With a sigh, I closed the drawer, the finality of the gesture marking the end of my search.
With no small amount of sexual energy now pulsing through my veins, I rubbed my hand across my bulging jeans. “It’s such a shame,” I softly told my dick, closing my eyes as I released a soft moan of anticipated pleasure that I feared would never again be actualised.
Standing up, I was momentarily caught in the web of contemplation regarding my next steps. The pressing matter of Charles's return from school loomed large in my thoughts. The idea of him coming home to an empty house, the absence of our parents a silent, gaping chasm, sent an involuntary shiver coursing through me. The potential for misunderstanding, for fear, or even the bureaucratic nightmare of another missing persons report, was a scenario I was keen to avoid at all costs. "Not now," I admonished myself, attempting to quell the rising anxiety with a dose of pragmatism. Yet, a part of me couldn't help but wonder, with a hint of dark humour, if Charles might find some solace in the unexpected solitude, a brief respite from the drama of family life.
It was then that a sudden spark of memory illuminated a previously overlooked possibility. "The second set of drawers!" The words burst from me with the force of revelation, echoing off the walls of the now silent house. I remembered the drawers in the built-in robes, a place where Dad stored his oldest clothes. These were ones that had long since ceased to fit, yet he clung to them with a sentimentality that had always baffled me. Perhaps, within those drawers, lay the piece of the past I was unconsciously seeking—a tangible link to the emotions and memories that had propelled me to leave home.
As I approached the wardrobe, a palpable sense of anticipation coursed through me, a sharp contrast to the tumult of emotions I had experienced moments before. The act of sliding open the mirrored door felt like an invitation to a hidden world, one that held the potential for revelation or disappointment.
My heart raced, beating a frenetic rhythm against my chest as I reached for the drawer, a silent prayer whispered to the void for something, anything, that might connect me to a simpler time. The drawer creaked open, revealing its contents like a time capsule of my father's fashion missteps. Familiar grey trackpants and garishly striped polo shirts lay in wait, relics of a bygone era. "I can't believe he still has these," I muttered, my voice tinged with disbelief and a hint of disdain, as I held up a particularly egregious t-shirt, its ugliness transcending time.
Yet, even as I voiced my distaste, a part of me dared to hope for more, to believe that this search could yield something truly meaningful. My actions became more frantic, a frenzied discard of each unwanted piece, as if the very act of searching could summon the item I so desperately sought. And then, my fingers encountered something different—an anomaly amidst the mundane—a touch of silk that sent a jolt of recognition through me.
"The onesie," I whispered to myself, a mixture of awe and incredulity in my voice as I unfolded the garment. It was more than just fabric; it was a vestige of innocence, a remnant of a past self untouched by the complexities and disappointments of adult life. The sensation of saliva pooling in my mouth was reflexive, a physical response to the anticipation and longing that the onesie evoked.
Compelled by a ritualistic reverence, I quickly shed my current attire, each movement deliberate, an unspoken homage to the transformation I was about to undergo. Slipping into the onesie felt like stepping into a new yet familiar skin, a seamless fusion of past and present. My hands traced the contours of my body, the silk clinging to my flesh, amplifying every sensation. The act of lying down on the bed, the fabric tightening around me, was not just a physical experience but an emotional journey—a reconnection with a part of myself that I thought lost to time.
Closing my eyes, I surrendered to the moment, my breath finding a deep, rhythmic cadence that seemed to resonate with the silence of the room. My hands moved with a gentleness born of reverence, tracing the lines and contours of my form encased in the silk garment. Each touch, each caress, was a deliberate act, a silent homage to moments of pure, unadulterated joy that had become all too rare in the complexities of adulthood.
The exposed head of my penis rubbed against the silken material, the sensation sending my brain intense pulses of satisfaction, which merely encouraged a stronger physical response. It was an endless cycle that aptly reflected the situation I found myself - a sensitive adult now returning full-circle to the sensual innocence of childhood.
Unlike earlier times where, to maintain my sacred secrets, I had to take care where and how I culminated, this time, thanks to the miracle of my parents in Clivilius, such restrictions did not exist. Nor did I care. Now, I was free to explore, to experience without the weight of judgment or expectation. My breathing deepened, a natural response to the increasing intensity of my experience, my hands moving with a purpose that was both personal and profound.
As I neared a state of complete immersion in the sensation, the silk garment became more than just a piece of clothing; it was a cocoon, a protective barrier that held me safe within its embrace. The fine material, now damp with sweat and the first emergences of my life-force, seemed to fuse with me, an extension of myself that offered both comfort and exhilaration.
In that moment of absolute surrender, for the first time in my life, I ejaculated my seed beneath the pure whiteness that enveloped me like a shield. The world beyond the confines of the garment, the room, even Clivilius itself, ceased to exist. There was only the here and now, the purity of experience that carried me to the edge of consciousness.
The garment clung to me as though we were one entity, the resulting combination of sweat and semen. And then, with a final, deep breath, I allowed the waves of intoxicating pleasure to wash over me, leading me into a state of restful slumber, a blissful escape from the complexities of the world.
Waking with a startle, it took me a few moments to remember where I was - laying practically naked on my parents bed, and growing rapidly cold.
Unable to control the lingering urge, my cool hand moved across my dick, and massaged it firmly into the soaked, silky garment. As arousal began to manifest itself again, my breathing deepened momentarily before being interrupted by a heavy sigh.
“Duty awaits,” I murmured, rolling myself from the bed. The sensual feel of the silky white sent shudders down my spine as I removed the initiated garment, and without much thought, left it in a scrunched heap on the bed. They’re all in Clivilius anyway, I reasoned with myself as I began to dress into my own clothing. It’s not like I run the risk of anybody finding them. Even if months from now, somebody happened to stumble across them, they’d have no clue nor reason to believe that it was covered in my spunk.
Once more fully clothed and standing in the doorway of my parents bedroom, I cast a glance back at the object of my childhood’s fantastical infatuation. Besides, I told myself with a wide grin and a teasing pleasurable moan, I may need to return for a reprisal.
With the suitcases now meticulously prepared and stationed in the study, a testament to the imminent journey ahead, I turned my attention to the solitary bag that had been momentarily cast aside during my earlier indulgence in nostalgia and personal reflection. The task at hand was clear, a straightforward collection of items for Jerome, yet it held a weight of responsibility that I couldn't ignore.
As I emptied Jerome's schoolbag onto his bed, the contents sprawling in a disorganised array, I couldn't help but overlook the mound of what appeared to be dirty laundry accumulating on the floor. My actions were swift, lacking the meticulous care one might expect, as I selected the basic necessities and shoved them into the backpack. The precision of the packing seemed inconsequential in the grand scheme of things; after all, the entirety of the household would eventually make the transition to Clivilius. The exception, of course, was Dad's drawer of old clothes, a thought that brought a fleeting, cheeky smirk to my lips, a private joke shared with no one but myself.
With Jerome's backpack now secured and resting heavily upon my shoulders, a testament to the physical and metaphorical load I carried, I returned to the study. There, before the grandeur of the Portal, I stood—a lone figure caught between two worlds, a suitcase clutched in each hand. As I stepped forward, a sense of déjà vu enveloped me, a reminder of the previous occasions I had undertaken this very task for Paul and Jamie. The familiarity of the action, juxtaposed with the strangeness of its context, sent an involuntary shiver coursing through me, a physical manifestation of the internal conflict I faced.
The contemplation of how many more times this ritual would be repeated lingered in my mind, a haunting question that seemed to echo in the silence that surrounded me. How many more lives would I disrupt, only to reestablish them within the unfamiliar confines of Clivilius? The magnitude of the undertaking was not lost on me, yet it was a path I had chosen, a path I believed in.
With a shrug that belied the depth of my thoughts, I reconciled myself to the uncertainty of the future. "Who knows, but it'll all be worth it in the end," I concluded, a whisper of resolve amidst the cacophony of doubts.
The journey through the Clivilius dust felt like an odyssey, each step laden with the physical weight of my family's belongings and the metaphysical weight of our collective hopes and apprehensions about this new chapter.
Paul's impatient inquiry, sharp and piercing in the stillness of our new world, jarred me from my contemplative reverie. "What's taken you so long!?" His words, laced with urgency, served as a reminder of the practical realities we faced. "We've been waiting ages for you!"
"Sorry," I offered quietly, my gaze anchored to the dust beneath my feet, half-searching for an excuse, half-pondering the enormity of the step I had taken. Despite the tension, a mischievous smirk found its way to my lips, a private revolt against the seriousness of the moment.
My attention was abruptly drawn to Mum, her appearance sparking curiosity and concern. “Who’s clothes-” The question hung in the air, unfinished, as Karen's voice interjected with a practicality that was both welcome and surprising.
“I’ve lent her some of mine, since you were taking so long,” Karen’s voice, emanating from somewhere behind me, carried a mix of reproach and helpfulness. Her intervention, stepping in where I had faltered, was a testament to her character.
"Thanks, Karen. That's very kind of you," I responded, striving for a tone of gratitude amidst the whirlwind of emotions. My voice, however, betrayed the effort it took to maintain composure under the circumstances.
Karen’s stern retort hinted at an underlying tension I hadn’t anticipated. "I'm not sure that your mother agrees that it was a suitable compromise," she observed, her seriousness a stark counterpoint to my internal amusement.
The thought of Karen and Mum, two distinctly strong personalities, navigating this unexpected situation was both amusing and slightly alarming. Suppressing the urge to laugh, I couldn't help but consider the dynamics at play. Karen's blunt candour seemed destined to clash with Mum’s sensibilities. The idea of them forming an alliance, however temporary, was fascinating. Karen's straightforwardness, a trait I admired, was likely to ruffle Mum’s feathers.
Paul's words sliced through the air, redirecting our collective focus towards the practical matters at hand. The suitcases, momentarily forgotten in the wake of our interactions, were swiftly reclaimed and redistributed under his watchful eye. "We're expecting the first of the sheds to be completed today, so why don't you bring us some of the food storage at home?" His directive, while simple, stirred a mixture of emotions within me. The thought of contributing something tangible to our new community in Clivilius brought a fleeting sense of purpose, a momentary reprieve from the complexities of our familial dynamics.
"Food storage?" Karen's inquiry into one of our family’s many religious practices caught me off guard, her curiosity piercing the bubble of familiarity that surrounded our family's preparations.
Mum, basking in pride, responded, "Our church leaders have always taught the diligent Saints to have twelve months of food storage." The way her gaze softened as she looked at Dad, her voice a mixture of pride and reverence, spoke volumes about the shared values that had guided their decisions. "It's always been Noah's pride and joy. We've been ever so obedient."
Karen's skepticism lingered, contrasting with Jerome's matter-of-fact confirmation. "She's not lying. There's literally an entire room dedicated just to food storage."
Dad, ever the patriarch, took evident pride in detailing the contents of their storeroom. "Tins of vegetables, pasta varieties of almost every kind, containers of flour and sugar, and-" His listing of their supplies, a testament to years of careful planning and provision, was interrupted by Karen's interjection.
"Well, it looks as though that obedience of yours is about to actually pay off," she said, her skepticism giving way to a grudging acknowledgment of the value of their preparations. Her glance towards me, accompanied by a sideways smirk, sparked an involuntary chuckle. The interaction, though brief, highlighted the unique dynamic at play – Karen's candidness, juxtaposed with my family's steadfast adherence to their beliefs, promised to add an intriguing layer to our shared experience in Clivilius.
Paul's initiative to pivot our attention to the more immediate, tangible tasks at hand was a welcome shift. "Karen's been busy emptying a lot of shopping trolleys from last night's shopping raid. Could you take them back to Earth and fill them with the food stuff?"
"Yeah," I found myself responding, a spark of enthusiasm igniting within me at the thought of such a straightforward, actionable plan. "That should work."
"Jerome and I will collect the empty trolleys and bring them to the Portal for you," Karen offered.
Jerome's loud sigh echoed his reluctance.
"Go and make yourself useful," Mum commanded, her directive leaving no room for argument. The efficiency of her dismissal, while not unexpected, was a reminder of the roles she expected each of us to play within the family dynamic—a dynamic that I was grateful to have distanced myself from.
The temptation to challenge Mum's concept of "usefulness," to push back against the expectations placed upon us, lingered on the periphery of my thoughts. Yet, recognising the futility of such contemplations in the moment, I chose to let it go. With a nascent plan beginning to take shape, I signalled to Karen and Jerome to follow me, a silent leader shepherding my flock towards the Portal.
