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The Force Of Keeping Strong

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He didn't want to leave.

Anger had settled somewhere deep within him, laid its blackened and blue face against the pit of his stomach and somewhere beneath his ribs.
It had rattled him to his core, had gripped and clawed its way from his center and to the surface, made teeth grit together and nails dig into palms.
It had made everything worse and better at the same time.
But no matter how he raged, the chairs and curses he threw were as effective as if they were small puffs of air.
Nothing changed.

His parents had never listened to him - that they choose even now not to - should not have come as a surprise. It shouldn't have shaken him, made him angry and hurt like so many times before. It shouldn't have made breathing hard and something inside of him feel broken and hollow. As if he were nothing but a broken toy from his childhood, doomed to be cried over as it was tossed away into oblivion.
Still, it did.

Many times before had he declared and called to them what he thought was real and true, only to have his fathers mouth set into a thin line, his brown gaze turning cold and disappointed before he'd turn around and walk away, leaving a child far too young to understand, hurt behind.
His mother would react differently. Most of the time he would see the glistening fear in her eyes, one which reminded him of the dampness of tears. Other times, other times she would stare. She would turn to him, looking defeated and sad, the corners of her mouth dropping low as she shakily took steadying breaths before gently, voice broken by barely held back sobs, told him to go to his room.
He never knew what the problem was. Never understood what he had done. He tried, had tried for such a long time to make everything right, to be a good son but nothing seemed to work, nothing was ever enough.

He recalled the short period of time they had in fact been proud, the few occasions he'd seen his father smile his way, praising him loudly and clasping a big and strong hand over his shoulder. Calling him his son and telling him how good he did. That hadn't happened in a while now.

Their praise had rarely and close to never had anything to do with his gift. It had been that one time he caught a fish on a planet he no longer recalled the name of. Or that one time when his weak toddler legs had him chasing Chewie until he had tackled the giant hairy wookie to the ground, laughing happily even though he on some level knew Chewie had played along, let him win just for the sake of it.
Then, then there were the times where they weren't proud. Parts of his childhood which seemed to consist of nothing else.

The first time he had used The Force, moving one of his favorite toys to him when his mother had told him no, and to eat his food.
His father had stopped in the middle of reaching for a plate of something he no longer could remember. His arm had been left hanging halfway across the table while he stared at his son of only 2 years before slowly turning to look back at his wife whose expressions had her face twisted and turned.
It was the first time he had seen his mother afraid.
Her very core had turned cold and shaking and he had had no idea as to how he knew, how he could feel her terror for him.
It had ended in tears, the first of many times.

His parents frightened looks and shaking emotions had had him crying loudly, knowing not what he had done so completely and terrifyingly wrong. Only knowing that is was him.
His mother had shook her head, leaving meat to burn on the stove as she quickly strode over to him, gathering him in her arms. Her warmth comforting, as her heartbeat.
After that they tried to learn him the way of his powers, only it was a process much to slow.
They started with moving and bending spoons, feeling around for the presence of another being and find injury or hurt. And nothing ever beyond that.

It had turned frustrating as his power grew and talk of his great and powerful uncle had scared him to submission, to silence.
He did not dare leave his family, the mere thought made him uncomfortable and scared, a feeling he found he didn't hold much for.
His uncle being so powerful and strong had him quivering in his boots, the very thought of having to abandon the carefree relationship he shared with the man for that of a professional and cold one made his stomach turn with unease and a sense of dread, and the thought of disappointing further, of not being good enough. It had him sick, mouth open and wide over a toilet, far too often.

He did not want to make either part of his family disappointed, but by mastering his powers and becoming strong, living up to that which had seemed to become his family's inheritance, he would fail his parents miserably and the look of fear would never leave his mother's tender gaze.
But by not doing this, by not mastering and controlling himself and his powers which somehow had managed to fit inside of him with every bit of anger that was him, he would fail his uncle.
Neither would do, therefore his best option was to keep silent, pretend as if the training his mother offered was enough and good and perfect.
It had worked, for a time.

Before that, and now this.

Now his mother would not stop looking at him as if though he was to destroy the world and all in it as if he had it in himself to hurt her and everyone else close by.
She acted as if though he was a bomb, close to exploding and obliterating everything.
And his father. The though laid heavy in his mind, a weight over his chest which made angry sobs close to echoing through him.

His father had not looked at him since the incident, had not rested beneath the same roof and not eaten by the same table. He had not even looked at him except for the few time he had fixed him with a glare so cold and harsh it had made everything burn cold and bright and angry red. It hurt.

It hurt that his father wouldn’t look at him and that his mother couldn't. That everything had become so wrong when all he had tried to do was right. Be good.

And now he was to leave, he had no choice.

He had tried, he really had, besides the whole "being good" and still, his parents constantly acted so cautious and careful with him, as if he were to burn their hands with the simplest of touch, as if he was a giant beast filled with a red and dripping intent to hurt them, he really had. But nothing was ever right and his parents feared him.
Feared him like he fears the monsters which lurked beneath his bed. Like one fears death of sickness. They feared him as if he weren't their son, but an enemy.

He had heard of the war, the great one which had made his family into saints and heroes. Legends. He had also heard of the darkness and their power and the magic one dark man had used, a magic-like power his mother and uncle shared, and one he too had. But for her to fear him because of this, because of something he had later learned he could not control nor dispose of, fearing him because he too could become dark. It made his gaze turn blurry. That his own mother would think so little of him, would think of him as something with such evil, with the capability to do such damage and hurt.

And it made him angry. Made him fill with dark, red furry.

How dare they. How dare they think of him as nothing but cold and dark and bad. He had done nothing, nothing with intent to hurt, ever.
He never wanted to create hurt of fear or pain. He wanted nothing of it, wanted only his mother's warm embrace and fathers proud smile as a heavy hand settled over his shoulder, squeezing lightly.
He wanted to be normal and good, he wanted to be their son. But nothing was ever enough.

And somewhere along the line, he had stopped trying. His father had left, turned his back on him when he found all of it a lost cause, his mother constantly in fear, eyes always glowing with it.
What good did it do to try when trying was not and never had been good enough?
So he stopped, love so little and fragile he turned to what he had, and what he had was anger burning so hot and heavy he could barely breathe.

Since his tears had never worked on them, he fought with rage. He screamed, voiced thoughts and names at his parents he would never have thought of before, things he never really thought of them, to begin with, but had now realized were quite accurate.
It was the only time his father talked to him now. Their tempers both running hot and wild as they screamed and screamed and screamed until his mother had to Force them of off each other.
But he was still to leave, to be shipped far, far away from a family who had never wanted him and only ever kept him out of fear.

When the day came, when his uncle landed outside of their home on brown soil, Ben grabbed the few belongings he found he wanted to keep behind him, the sentimental value making him unable to leave them behind nor throw away. He had them stuffed and hidden at the very bottom of his bag, his parents not needing to know how this hurt, how much of a betrayal it tasted like to know how their affection for him had dried out. Turned to a crusted dust of nothing.

His mother hugged him tentatively, tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. His father only stared, given a short nod and turned to leave before Ben had even boarded the ship.
His uncle smiled, but it seemed strained as if he too thought of Ben as his parents did. And he could feel it, their fright for him and his mother's overwhelming sadness.

And so,
They had sent him away.