Thunder rumbled ominously outside, and a bolt of lightning split the midnight blue sky, casting jagged flashes of pure light against the monochromatic background of my kitchen. The wind screamed more than it howled, and the rain fell like heavy bullets in a relentless rhythm.
Clutching a can of beer, I made my way back to my room through the dark hall, the sound of the news playing on my old TV growing clearer with every step.
"There have been several cases reported recently of brutal killings. Evidence points..."
I reached for the remote to silence the volume, setting the can down on the table before sinking into the couch.
Closing my eyes, memories flooded in, beautiful yet agonizing, slicing through me like shards of glass. The most cherished memories were the most painful, a reminder of what I had lost. Being here filled me with a potent mix of anger and sadness, emotions that seemed to seep deeper into my bones with each passing day. The emptiness of the house, coupled with the storm outside, seemed a perfect reflection of the darkness within me.
Lost in my thoughts, I was jolted by the loud buzz of my phone, the sound echoing through the quiet house, emphasizing its emptiness. I picked up the phone, and my mother's name flashed on the screen,a name I never thought I would ever see as a kid.
"Mom?" I whispered before answering.
"Hey, Mom," I greeted, trying to keep the ache out of my voice.
"How are you, my dear?" her voice, frail and tired, came from the other end.
"I'm good. I was about to call you, but the networks are a bit bad," I lied, trying to shield her from worries that I knew would never burden her.
"Oh, honey, it's fine. I wanted to confirm if you are coming this weekend. It's your uncle Max's birthday, and he misses you," she continued, her voice filled with longing.
I took a deep breath, the weight of guilt settling heavily on my shoulders. It had been two years since Uncle Max died.
"Yeah, I'll try," I reassured, feeling the sting of regret.
"I would love to see you this weekend. I'll cook your favorite dishes," she spoke excitedly, her words like a balm to my wounded soul.
"Okay, mom. It's late now, you should go to bed, and yeah, don't forget to take your meds."
The call ended, and the world fell silent again. In that moment, I was consumed by a whirlwind of emotions. Why now? Why ever? These questions echoed in my mind, fueled by the revelation from my biological mother.
I couldn't say I was happy to find her; no, my entire world crashed again when I learned she was alive. It wasn't relief that flooded me, but a mixture of anger, confusion, and profound hurt. I didn't even want to see her shadow, but something in me also wanted to confront her. Why did she do what she did? Why did she give birth? only to abandon me, and never look back?
Every fiber of my being screamed for answers. Why did that ungrateful excuse of a mother give birth to me? What did I, as a kid, deserve to have a life like this? These thoughts haunted me, gnawing at the edges of my sanity, as I grappled with the pain of rejection and abandonment. The wounds from her absence reopened, raw and bleeding. It was a betrayal I couldn't comprehend, a wound that never fully healed. Her existence brought back a flood of memories and questions I had long buried, forcing me to confront the pain I had tried so hard to forget.
As I sat in the dimly lit room, the silence was deafening, each passing moment filled with the echoes of my shattered trust and shattered dreams. I longed for closure, for some semblance of understanding, but the truth remained elusive, buried beneath layers of resentment and unanswered questions.
Growing up in an orphanage was a daily struggle, something she could never pay for, it was a constant reminder of my loneliness and longing for a family. Watching other kids get adopted, and finally finding the love and stability I craved, filled me with envy. Each time a prospective parent visited, Father the Dean of the orphanage would drill into us the importance of behaving if we wanted to be chosen. But no matter how hard I tried how well I behaved, I was never the one. As I grew older, the chances of being adopted slowly choked to death, leaving me feeling more isolated and abandoned with each passing day.
Father, the man we were supposed to trust, was nothing but a coward. He hid his insecurities behind his authoritative demeanor, thriving on the funds provided by wealthy donors. Whenever something angered him, he unleashed his fury on the weakest among us – me. He would beat me mercilessly until I blacked out, the pain searing through my body, leaving me broken and bruised. And despite the other children witnessing these brutal assaults, no one dared to speak up. It was as if my suffering was invisible, my pain insignificant.
There was nowhere for me to escape, no refuge from the torment. I blamed my mother for abandoning me, for leaving me to endure this nightmare alone. The physical abuse was excruciating, but what hurt the most was the emotional neglect, the constant reminder of my worthlessness. I felt like a punching bag, absorbing blow after blow, with nothing to show for it but scars and a deep-seated resentment.
I grew numb to the pain, both physical and emotional, as it became a part of my daily existence. The ache in my limbs, the limp in my step – they were constant reminders of my suffering, of the injustice of my life. And as the years passed, my anger only grew, fueled by the injustice of it all. I was angry that I wasn't getting anything for enduring such cruelty.
There is a saying that kids who don't get served what they deserve, learn to lick it off the knife and slowly I started grabbing more than anyone could provide.
In the darkness of the orphanage, I learned to survive, to steel myself against the pain. I learned to snatch what I wanted and steal whatever I wanted regardless of the consequences.
They say that you get back what you give and for some, this might seem like karma, a form of revenge, as Alzheimer's was claiming her bit by bit. Not for me.
Sometimes she was there, sometimes not. I knew the road ahead, and it was almost impossible to be stoic. At that moment, my breath caught in my throat as I realized she didn't recognize me, even now.
The sting of realization cut deep, piercing through the layers of resentment and hurt. It was a painful confirmation that I still didn't matter to her, that my existence was inconsequential. She wouldn't have recognized me even if she wasn't suffering from Alzheimer's, and it was foolish of me to use her disease as an excuse for her leaving me. Even though I knew it wasn't true, the truth was bitter and unforgiving, a reminder of the scars left by her absence.
I placed the beer can back on the table as a loud bang echoed at the door. Glancing at the clock, I knew it was too late for any guests.
I didn't bother turning on the lights as I walked down the hallway in the dark; it was now a part of me. Midway through the lobby, I stumbled but managed to make it to the door. Peering through the peephole, I found no one there.
Turning back, I walked toward my room, but another loud clatter of glass breaking made me stop in my tracks. I quickly turned, but all the windows were closed and intact. Cautiously, I made my way to the basement door.
My hand trembled as I placed it on the knob, slowly turning it, hesitant to face what might be waiting behind the door. But before I could open it, a knock at the door stopped me.
Closing the basement door, I made my way to the main door, my heart pounding. This time, instead of peeking, I opened the door straight away.
"Mr. Dearil?"
"Um... yes," I answered, my eyes darting to the two cops standing in front of me, displaying their IDs.
TO BE CONTINUED...