So this is a sorta "what if Johnny's mom actually cared about him?" story. I know the first chapter is short, but I needed to get it out of my head. I still plan to continue my character, Franny's, story in case anyone's interested, but let me know if you find this one interesting enough for me to keep with it.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
He's beautiful, almost painfully so, as the nurses bring him to me wrapped up in that blue blanket. He's got my dark eyes and hair, but his skin is a little darker and he reminds me of my brother, Ben. I push the thought away, though, because I don't wanna use my new son to replace my late sibling. That's probably the only reason the baby doesn't have my brother's name at the moment. He deserves his own.
I try to wrack my brain for an original name, but all I can come up with is one of the most common ones ever, which is John. It does, however, seem to suit him. I just know my boy will be unique enough without a fancy name taking away from his personality. Yes, his name is John, and until he's older, I'll call him Johnny.
"That him?" asks Martin, my reluctant husband who's somehow snuck in past the bustling nurses.
"Yes, this is our Johnny."
He wrinkles his nose. "He don't look like much."
I fake a smile to hide my irritation at his assessment of my child. "Well, he's only a baby, Marty. He'll grow."
"Damn right," he says, "No son of mine will be a pansy ass shit."
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. My husband doesn't take kindly to the disrespectful action, and he has a heavy hand. All in all, though, Martin's not so bad. He don't hit me too often, at least not as much as my pops did, and he married me, the sixteen year old idiot who got knocked up. So Benny had to convince him, so what? He did, and that's what matters, so I can refrain from angering him if it keeps him happy.
Johnny starts fussing, breaking into my thoughts. Martin cringes as my hungry baby begins to wail.
"When he gets older he ain't never gonna cry. I'll make damn sure of that."
I bite my lip as I bring Johnny to suckle on my breast. Marty's words fill me with fear, and I caress Johnny's cheek, feeling protective beyond reason.
"Hopefully he'll never gave a reason to cry," I murmur, "I only ever wanna hear him laugh."
Marty scratches his head and shuffles his feet. "Not exactly what I meant, but sure, whatever."
He steps out for a smoke, and I think on his attitude and comments. Crying, I give Johnny a kiss as I realize that I can't give him a good life, or guarantee him a painless childhood, but I can promise to always love him. Maybe it'll be enough.
XXX
Johnny grows fast. His first word is, much to his daddy's chagrin, "Mama", he starts to walk a week after his first birthday, and he sees me hit for the first time a little before his second birthday.
The day starts normal enough. I keep the house as clean as possible, make dinner, and as always, tell Johnny an evening story before his father gets home. Now my arsenal of stories is limited to fairytales and bible stories, and I don't approve of lying to my boy, so the fairytales are not a good option. Besides, Johnny likes the bible stories.
"So David went to face Goliath without any armor or sword or spear," I say.
Johnny's eyes are wide. "No sword?"
"No, baby, and this really offended Goliath, who made fun of the Israelite army by saying, 'Is this your champion, a mere boy?' and his army laughed."
"They laugh mean?"
"Yes, but David ignored it, took his sling, and placed a stone inside…"
"What the hell is going on here?" Marty demands to know as he stands in the doorway.
"I-I was just telling Johnny a story," I explain, trying to control my fear.
"A church story!" spits Martin. He turns to Johnny. "Think it's true? Well, think again, you mama's boy, they're all lies."
"Martin!"
"Don't you fucking interrupt me!" he shouts with his eyes still on Johnny, who begins to shake. "You scared, you shit? Well I don't know why. You must be David since you're such a runty bitch. C'mon, try and slay me, the giant."
I stare in horror he steps toward my baby. The look on Marty's face says he might kill him, and the smell of whiskey makes it a plausible outcome in my mind.
"Stay away from him!" I shriek, placing myself in front of him.
I don't see the slap coming, but I feel it as it knocks me down to the couch. Johnny screams and I wish he was safe in his room where he doesn't have to see the next blows. Thankfully it's not too bad, just twice more and Marty's done, but the fear and terror remain even after he walks out the door.
Johnny's eyes fill with tears and Marty's words from the hospital come back to me.
"Don't cry, Johnny," I tell him.
Better he hears it as a soft command from me than as a cruel, harsh ultimatum with physical reminders from his father later. Johnny sniffles some, but he's somehow able to obey. The way he quickly picks things up amazes and saddens me at the same time.
I pick him up. "You're such a good boy, Johnny."
"Like David was when he faced Goliath?" he asks in a whisper.
"Better," I declare, although it's probably heresy or whatever. Still, in my biased, motherly eyes, which are most likely covered in rose tinted glasses, my son, John Benjamin Cade, is perfect.