Velati: The Lost Chronicles of War

Prologue

 

Prologue:

 

 

“You always loved how the skies wept,” My mother would tell me, “You use to say all the time, ‘look, look mommy, the sky! It cries!’ As you would, excitedly, pull me to the window to gaze across the humid air.”

She looked over to me as I sat down in the middle of the room, next to the blazing furnace. The flames flickered and danced as it illuminated the brick room that was littered with dust. Cobwebs manifested the walls as portraits of our family hung aloft in the room. The paintings were made of oil and took a big percentage of our money.

She was sitting down in a comforter chair made of old cloth and hand-picked cotton that was located next to the fire while she had her black spectacles on and a book in her hands.  My mother put down the book as she saw my weeping face and said, “So why cry?” she was referring to the storm blazing outside as storms usually always cheer me up.

                I managed to stutter,” Th-the boys, they hurt me again.”

                She got up while placing her book on top of the cushioned seat and walked over to crouch beside me. I looked down; looking as if I were sad puppy and began snuffling. She took her hand and lifted up my chin. My tears slid down my face as I saw my mother’s beautiful blue eyes that sparkled like a star, staring into the void that swelled within my soul.

                Then she asked, “Son, what did they do this time?”

                I stuttered,” The-they told me that I was a freak.”

                “They did?”

                “Yes and-and they told me that I could be in a circus full of freaks, just like you.”

                She embraced me and said,”Oh, oh, hush now. Those boys don’t know what they’re talking about.” She then lifted my face out of her embracing hug that blanketed me with warmth. I missed her embracing arms and felt sad all over again. She lifted my head up to eye-level and I could feel the warmth of her soul as she stood beside me; blanketing my soul with a new profound type of comfort. I stood there blissfully unaware of the crackling storm behind as I stared into her sea-like eyes that pitted my every fiber with hope.

She said,” They don’t mean what they are saying.”

I heard the booming of the storm as I sat there, full of annoyance, crying.  I hated crying – it always made me feel like a baby that was in need of nurturing.  It annoyed me and made me feel like dying. Those boys hurt me all over again and I wanted revenge. I wanted to scalp them or even have the god of storms and thunder, Raw, strike them with his mighty blade. I hated them; they always tortured me, even on my birthdays. One time they decided to strike me in cold blood just because I didn’t want to drink a bit of gin. I fought back and ended up bloodied up and left for dead in an old abandoned house.

                “Yes they do! They mean every word that they say! They even cry about how I tortured the Olson’s! Remember?” The Olson incident; it was a horrid memory of me standing over the scared little boys from the Olson family. I supposedly shot them with a blue and black energy that I somehow never knew that I harnessed. People investigated the weird incident because of how magic was gone after the gods had their war. They came out empty and decided to isolate me amongst the rest of the kids; knowing that I was different than the rest. Two more years down the line, I was finally able to get out of the house after they decided that it was all in Mary’s head.

                “Son, that was a long time ago,” My mom said trying to comfort me.

                “It was five years ago mom!”

                She sighed and cupped her hands onto my cheeks, “It doesn’t matter anymore. On that day the sky wept and now, it has finally cleared. Even though it may still be remembered, which no matter what, people remember, it still cleared up in the end.” She kissed my forehead. I looked around the room and sighed.

                The fire in the furnace crackled while I stood there embracing my mother. I then asked after she let go of my fragile being,” Then why do they hurt me so much?”

                She said what every other mother would say to their child when he or she would get bullied at schools,” They don’t have a mother like me, so they are jealous.” I shook my head in agreement. I understood what my mother said but it felt as if it wasn’t enough of an answer.

                My mind killed the thought as the situation of our poverty came in to manifest my 15-year-old thought process. The thought was more important than thinking about whether my mom told me the truth or not. The fact is, is that we were so poor and my mom tries everything in her power to change it all. It made my heart ache when I would see my mom working her tail off in the fields. She would come home with scrapes and bruises as I just watch her wipe the sweat off of her face with a small rag. She is the hardest worker in the world and yet she barely makes any money. I hated seeing her so hurt and so worried about our bills. I loved my mother and I hated seeing her in so much pain. I wanted to help her out so badly with everything, but I am never able to due to my mother hating child labor. She wants me to go to school and learn rather than make money and help pay bills. I loved my mom but I tried helping out with everything with the best of my ability and I still feel like I’m letting her down.

I asked out of curiosity of our situation,” Mom?”

                “Yes son?”

                “When will our storm disappear?” Our storm is our poverty and it has always been our storm. It hasn’t changed one bit ever since my father left us when I was barely a baby. My mother never said anything bad about him even though he disappeared from the face of the planet. Instead she always had something positive to say about my father and she said that my father left because he had to a long time ago.

                My mom stood up and started heading towards the living room candlelight. She looked back and before she even turned out the light, she said,” That son, is a storm that we may never know when it will end and in life we never do know when the rain stops falling. But when it does, we always thank those who calm our storms, and that son, is our adventure; to live a life full of storms.” She looked at me one time before she left the room. I saw the sorrow in her eyes as a tear ran down her cheek.  She got the tips of her fingers and squeezed the life out of the flame. A cloud of smoke was left and it fluttered through the sky like a soul and there I was left in the dark; all alone.

 

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