2018 Writing Scrapbook

The Motherless Boy

 "Do you miss her?" the girl's words echoed in his mind like a broken record.

"Who?" he'd replied.

She narrowed her eyes. "Your mother. Don't you wonder what she was like?"

"I don't have time for this nonsense."

He'd stalked off in a hurry, leaving the girl under the shadow of the oak behind the schoolhouse. He'd only dared to look back after he was almost to the edge of the field in the village, to which he saw her stationary, still looking up at him. Her mouth had formed a perfect 'o', and she seemed breathless. The leaves overhead had dropped behind her like golden blossoms falling to the ground.
She didn't dare to follow him, instead sitting on the bench unmoving. With a hiss, he'd stomped off and returned to his home with his bag slung over his shoulder. Foolish girl. He regretted telling her about this to begin with. What silly floozy would dare to ask such a question? He'd avoided talking about his mother, avoided any mention of her since he'd arrived, and it was only because of an argument she'd spurred that he'd even admitted the whole ordeal to her in a fit of anger.

But when he'd arrived home, he contemplated her words. Marie had developed sentiment towards him, and that was quite clear, but her questions became deeper and deeper, and he did not feel compelled to answer them. She was a pretty girl of sixteen, he of seventeen, and they shared the same wheat gold glow in their hair, the same pale complexion, although their builds were of the complete opposite. His impression was that she was a bit too bossy compared to his carefree attitude- she possibly cared too much, and he disliked this. Her feelings would not be reciprocated.

Yet she chased after him in an odd sort of friendship that could only be found between the two of them. It was a new brand of friendship that could not be described by many. So he found himself shocked that these words stuck, that they were implanted in his mind as he laid down on his bed, staring at the plastered ceiling.

Don't you wonder what she was like? Hadn't he thought the same thing, day after day? Marie had spoken these words that he had forgotten due to repetition. She'd tried to peer into his mind, and he wouldn't allow it! But there was a certain truth to the things she'd spoken.

He recalled a time when they were out in the meadow, and she'd snuck a moment alone with him, lollygagging after him as he walked back towards the school.

"Why do you act like such an awful person? James, you have so much potential to be a great guy? Why waste it?"

He'd said nothing.

"I have a theory about you."

"Alright. It will probably be wrong, but go ahead."

"I... I believe that there is something you've been hiding, something you've been wondering but never being able to tell the world. And I think you want to let it out."

He shook his head. "That's ridiculous. What would I even be hiding?"

"I think there's something going on at home."

James hadn't told Marie about his mother on that day, nor had he acted like what she said had even mattered, though he could see her whispering and gossiping with her friends the next day, each of them shooting him a suspicious glance. But she was absolutely correct.

There was a story behind him, a story he hardly understood himself. A story he'd known his whole life, that he wished he could forget, for it was torturing him every waking moment of the day. At times the pain dimmed, but when that occurred, he'd dedicated a totem to the cause for him to wear every day in remembrance: a cross.

James was not religious, nor did he know of the man behind this cross. But it symbolized the horrible crime he'd committed before he knew of crime or sin or of guilt- he'd unknowingly killed his own mother. A murderer before his fingers could even pull a trigger. It symbolized how he yearned to ask a being for forgiveness, to take away this excruciating pain he felt.

He clutched the cross. He hadn't answered her questions, not a single one, but there was no denial in the fact that he had spent so long keeping it hidden away, locked under a key, that he hadn't dared to answer even his own ponderings. Did he miss his mother? Well, yes. Did he wonder what she was like? Every day. Every waking moment, he wondered if his life wouldn't contain an abusive father, a family that deserted him when he was in times of need, friends who acted out of spite and not compassion if she would've just been present.

So yes, there was something going on at home. Many things. But this was not it. His mother... that was more of something that wasn't going on, something missing, like when you can't find the last piece to a puzzle. When you're so close, but you can't quite complete the picture. He'd tried. James had most certainly tried to make up for her loss, but what was there to do? He knew nothing of this mysterious woman, nothing that his father would tell him, for he pretended that his late wife never existed and that James had simply spawned from an egg and not from the womb.

As soon as James allowed himself to think about this topic, he felt himself beginning to blot it back out again. If he were to think for too long, allow himself to feel empathy, then... the warm liquid began leaking down his cheeks.

No! No, he couldn't! He couldn't allow for this to happen! Marie was not supposed to have such power and control over him! Not the four words that she'd spoken! But he couldn't block out the thoughts. They swarmed in his brain like flies drawn to honey. And not only that, but the flush of blonde in her hair, the glint of sunlight. How saddened she'd looked, as if she were grieving for him, for the monstrosity that had overcome his life.

He eventually let go, let the tears roll down his face. They evolved into sobbing, and he flipped over to lay with his face pressed into his pillow. He gripped it and pulled it close so that nobody could hear him cry, so that he could suffer in peace.

Once the initial grief dialed back a bit, he thought of his coping mechanisms. Or maybe that wasn't a good term for it. It was more of his curiosity mechanisms, rather. How he overcame not having a mother, and the wonderings that were spurred by it. Ever since he was little, he'd sneak out in the dead of night, and look up into the cloudless sky. He wished on a dream, a dream buried in his heart, that he could find his mother's star. That he could find one shining brighter than any other, and reach out to it. That his feet would be lifted off of the ground, and that he could fly up and touch her, just once, and just say the two words he wanted to.

The sky was not dark yet, so he couldn't proceed with such things quite yet. But thinking of Marie, of the cross he wore to honor his dead mother, he decided to say a prayer- his very first real discussion with God.

"Please, if there is any heaven and any being that is listening to me right now, please, pass this along to my mother- I wish every day that I could know you, that I wouldn't have been the one to ignite your doom. May I be a better man so that I can never disappoint you from wherever you're watching me from. But most of all, I'm so sorry. I love you."