First, he was Svlad.
Svlad was a good name, at first. It was his mothers warm embrace. It was toothy smiles and sweet naivety. It was hand holding and a familiar sense of safety. It was bright colours and the laughter of a happy family. But it was also laughter of a different kind. Mocking laughter of other children as he told them about the push in his brain, the nudges that told him where he needed to go, what he needed to do. The nervous laughter of teachers as they invited his parents in to discuss things in hushed voiced. The faked laughter of his mother as he asked if she was worried. Svlad was fleeting memories and irreversible decisions, it was new people he despised and new places that trapped him in their depths. It was being dragged away as his family watched. Svlad was saying goodbye to everything he’d ever known.
Svlad was bittersweet.
Next, he was Icarus.
Icarus was loneliness. It was monotone, a blur of dull greys and sterile whites. It was flashes of others in the hallways. It was expressionless armed guards that did nothing but push him back down when he asked them how they could just stand by when this was happening, how they could watch him suffer and be content. It was those days. The days where things weren’t okay when he heard the lock click behind him. The days that were vague messes of pain and begging and “theoretical” scenarios and nausea and god please don’t and questions he couldn’t answer. The days where he emerged blank faced and empty and wanting to collapse and never get up. The days when he started out wondering what they would do to a kid and ending up wondering what they wouldn’t. It was also games. Mind games. It was a man with a moustache who was nice to him. It was kindness in a place where his happiness was just a bargaining chip. It was forced smiles and learning when to speak and when to play it safe. It was blame and tactics and things he didn’t want to deal with. It was a father figure, one that manipulated and played with his emotions and wasn’t really a father at all. It was learning how to fight, fight so he could survive when the only weapon he had was information.
There was nothing good about Icarus.
Now, he’s Dirk.
Dirk is making up for lost time. It’s movies and music and bright colours and choices. It’s an explosive mess of mistakes. It’s hurting and not knowing how to heal, it’s carrying on when giving up is the most sensible option. It’s faking happiness and optimism until he actually feels it. It’s learning how to live. It’s friends and people and love and heartbreak, it’s amazing and terrible and he’d never have it any other way. It’s tears and blood and screaming and laughter, it’s relationships and good people and bad people and people in between. It’s absolutely crazy and he’s at the whims of the universe most of the time, but standing with his loved ones he’s absolutely in control. Dirk is utterly and entirely his own. It was not given to him, not by some CIA scientist nor a family that abandoned him. He chose it. He gave people permission to use it.
Dirk is life, and it is his.