A key hung from a
shoestring, and the shoestring hung loosely from the neck of a small boy. He
fiddled with it, struggling to pull it from underneath his shirt and place it
into the front door. He was sniveling; remnants of tears could be seen along
either side of his face, along with a large welt stained across his right
cheek, it would turn dark purple by tomorrow. A school yard fight, with a
school yard bully was the source behind his unusually frantic disposition. He
was usually a happy and joyful child, but this had been his first fight, ever.
He was eight.
He knew his mother would be upset that he had been
fighting, but truthfully it wasn't his fault. Nick Abernathy had followed him
half-way home from school, teasing him about his father. He was dead. But Nick
said he was probably just a “dead beat” who ran out on him and his mother, and
she probably just made up the story about him being dead because it was better
than admitting he and abandoned them. He tried explaining to Nick – along with
the small group that had gathered to watch his persecution – that his father
was a hero who had died bravely as a U.S. soldier. A hero who had died
protecting everyone and everything that he loved. A hero like in his comic
books, a hero like Powerman, or the Olympian. Nick and the other kids laughed
at this explanation, then Nick pushed him… so he punched Nick, and our small
boy fought for the first time, and he lost.
The key served its purpose, there was a catch and a loud
click as the door unlocked, and the sobbing young fighter made his way inside.
“Mom!” he called out, but received no response. The house
was dark, the curtains drawn over the windows, blocking out the afternoon sun.
He darted to the bathroom, making a futile attempt to clean himself up. He
splashed water on his face, ran a cold towel across his eyes and took a deep
breath, all in the hopes the he could wipe away the smell, look and shaky
nerves of a fresh fight. None of it worked, not even in the slightest.
He crept slowly into his mother’s room, opting to get a
jump on explaining himself first, before she found out what happened by some
other ‘unscrupulous’ means. Her room was just as dark as the rest of the house,
perhaps even more so.
“Mom?” he called out again, his voice already prepped for
pity. She still didn’t answer. She lay in her bed, her back to him, apparently
sound asleep. It was odd, she never slept during the middle of the day, and her
room – which usually carried the delicately sweet scent of roses and wildflowers
– filled his small nose with the strong and pungent odor of what he thought to
be rotten eggs, in actuality it was sulfur; specifically it was brimstone. He
stepped forward, and at that moment a bright yellow butterfly fluttered from
his mother’s bed, landed on his open, awaiting hand then floated silently out
of the room. His heart sank and immediately he knew something was wrong. He ran
to his mother’s side.
“Mom? Mom wake up!” she didn’t respond.
“Mom? Mom wake up!” she didn’t respond.
“Mom!” he shook her shoulder. “Mom wake up please!”
Nothing.
“Mom you have to wake up now! Please mom, wake up!” Hot,
wet tears began to streak down his face once again. “Mom please wake up! Don’t
– please I’m sorry, don’t leave me!” by now he was screaming his face wet with
tears, his nose runny and red; he struggled to catch his breath between pleas
of desperation.
“Mom please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m… so, so sorry.” He
buried his face into her chest and neck, she was still warm, she stilled
smelled of roses and wildflowers. He inhaled the sweet aroma, taking in long lungfuls,
desperate to breathe in as much of her as he could before the rotten stench of
sulfur and pain pushed her out of his memories.
“Mom?” he called out again, this time more gently, less
hysterically as if his overactive emotions were what kept her quite. But still
she didn’t reply, she simply lay motionless, lifeless, her beautiful brown face
frozen in the last expression she would ever wear, a peaceful and serene smile,
now stained with his tears and phlegm.
“Nate,” whispered a hushed
little voice from out of the darkness of the room. It sounded slightly like a
small child, probably no older than the boy himself. “Nate
can you hear me?”
“Wh-Who is that, who’s there?” he sobbed.
“It’s ok, I’m a friend.” The voice
replied.
“Why can’t I see you?! Where are you?”
“There’s no need for you to see me, at least
not right now, but I’m here, I’m with you now, that’s all that matter.”
“Well if you’re a friend then help me, my mom is hurt,
o-o-or she’s sick, she needs to go to the hospital.”
“No Nate… she doesn't, I’m sorry but it’s too
late. She’s gone.”
“NO! You’re lying! She’s not gone, she’s not! She wouldn't leave me here, she wouldn't leave alone like this, she wouldn't I
know she wouldn't ..” Nate clenched tightly to his mother, crying frantically
into her shoulder.
“Nate I’m sorry, it’s true. But you don’t have
to be afraid, you’re not alone, you’ll never be alone. I’m here –”
“Shut up! Get away from me! Leave me alone! I don’t need
you! I don’t need anybody… WE don’t need
anybody, get away… get away.” Nate held on, sobbing and panting, determined not
to let anyone pull him away.
“Nate… you have to leave… it’s time – it’s time
for us to go.”
“No!” he sobbed.
“It’s too late, I’m sorry… we’re already gone…
its already over… besides, you have a job interview in 3 hours.”
“What?!”
Nate awoke covered in a cold damp sweat. Sunlight peered
in through his bedroom window. He checked his alarm clock. 6:58 a.m. It was
scheduled to go off in 2 minutes. He had his first job interview since
graduating college at 10 a.m.
“It’s going to be a long f***ing day.” He mumbled to
himself, no one replied.
***
