At thirteen, Roxas was seemingly both beyond and behind his peers. He was sheltered to the point he'd never be able to relate to the television programming his classmates talked about, but aware enough that he understood the tragedy of mental illness and the horror of child abuse. Prior to the incident, his teachers had been chatting about the mysterious bruises that appeared on his skin. The way the carefree and bright child who could've been a candidate for ADHD, had slowly reverted inwards and spent classes staring out the window. They knew something had to be said, but no one was brave enough to face the woman he called mother. If they had, maybe he'd be saved in more ways than one
On October 23rd, Roxas came home to find his home void of gospel music. No preacher on the dusty old radio leading the dammed to the road of salvation. No hushed mumblings of prayer. Nothing. Still, he navigated his home as if it were a minefield, searching without a sound for his mother. He lingered in the entrance of the kitchen. As his eyes adjusted to the poor lighting from the candles, he recognized fragments of furniture limbs nailed to windows. The glow of the candles radiated off the religious icons his mother hoarded in every room, turning heir house into an altar. No matter how many times he read stories of the saints and angels, he couldn't help but feel their faces contorted in disdain at his very presence. Too frightened by the silence of the house, he didn't notice his mother behind him until it was too late.
When he finally awoke, he was heavily sedated and struggled with the simple action of curling his fingers. He could tell he was still in the kitchen, laying on the cold tiles and being illuminated with candles. So many thoughts were swirling in his head, but each turn down his short-life lead him back to the thought of; could he have avoided this? If he'd stayed late to read the note that'd been tucked in his locker, to be consumed in what he'd later discover to be a love letter, would he have missed the bus and left his mother with no choice but to pick him up and forgo her plan? If he hadn't stopped whispering in the middle of math class when asked, would he have landed himself in detention? In the end, he reasoned it wouldn't have made a difference, but the possibilities continued to weigh on his mind as he laid there.
Even sedated and slipping in and out of consciousness, he felt the heated liquid of his blood pooling on the fabric of his sweater. His fingers continued flexing, fighting to reach up and find the source of the wound. Only a dull throb of pain, but he felt cold and his body writhed. His lips moved, but produced no sounds and his eye-lids felt heavy. His vision faded, tunneling and unable to focus on anyone particular. The police would later report his mother had acted alone, but he would never believe them. He felt their eyes and he heard their voices. Were they praying, or chanting? He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.
"It'll be over soon, my precious child. You'll be returned to heaven, a angel once more. Safe and sound."
He felt hands brushing back his hair, but he couldn'tdo anything more. The next time he awoke, it was in the hospital. The doctor's marveled at how the jagged six-inch blade had managed to miss his vital organs. The police marveled at how alert the neighbors had been. The neighbors marveled at the monster living in their cozy community. The jurors marveled at the middle-aged woman who swore God told her to do it. The thirteen year old marveled at his loneliness.
- Ten Years Later -
September 10th 2014
"I think that's about enough for today."
The voice came from a plump middle-aged man with a thick Irish-accent. The kind of accent that, after nine years, still made Roxas arch his brow in misunderstanding. As the man removed his glasses, he folded them on his notepad, and pinched the bridge of his nose for a brief second before smiling warmly at the blond, "You haven't mentioned your nightmares in awhile. Are you still having them?"
"Not really, no. Dr. Singh has me trying out a new medication and it's been good so far."
Roxas' voice is much smaller than his therapists. In fact, the first time he'd met his therapist, he'd been startled by the force of it. In comparison, he squeaked like a mouse where the man roared like a lion.
"That's good. So next week then?" Another smile and Roxas nods, already standing to wrap his scarf around his neck. A quick exchange of co-pay and receipt, he's out the door, and jogging down the two flights of stairs to avoid being caught on the narrow stair case with another human. Outside, the snow, which is more like slush, squishes beneath his leather boots and for the first time, he realizes his boots are worn down as frozen snow soaks his socks. Still, there's no time to worry about frost-bite when you have no reliable form of transportation and have the burden of making a thirty-minute walk across town in ten minutes.
He manages to do it in twenty minutes, a feat the surprises even himself as he steps into the worn-down and completely out of place book store. He's late for work once again, but the owner never seems to make a gesture of displeasure. The old lady, most popularly known as Mimi, merely pats the man on the cheek and speaks in french at him. When he first started working here, he'd secretly study the french-phrase hand-books to decipher the mysterious ramblings, but after a few months he'd given up. After all, the only time she spoke to him in French, was when he was late or day-dreaming.
The bookstore is older than Mimi. While the entire town has expanded and modernized, the tiny bookstore stands out like a sore-thumb. A paradox. The elderly adore it and the trying to be too hip hipsters, flock to it. The small-town business tycoons, hate it. If anyone dared to tear it down and build over it, though Mimi would chase them out with a broom. Still, it was a job and Roxas enjoyed the quiet atmosphere.
"Why aren't you in college?"
"Can't afford it."
That's how their conversation goes. The entire day, Mimi points out all the things a twenty-three year old should be doing. She nags, pulling at heart-strings and making the blond frown. Still, he answers each question. Not because he's far too polite for his own good, but because he imagines it's the closest he has now to a mother or father. The old woman means well, but has a strange way of approaching it. By the end of the shift, she's trying to hook him up on a date with her granddaughter, but he kindly declines.
At his apartment complex, he picks up his mail and narrowly avoids running into his landlord. Two months behind rent, he dreads the conversation with his creepy landlord that stares much too long at children in the halls. In his apartment, he nukes leftover chinese food and thumbs through his mail. When he sees it, he swallows hard and his heart-beat overpowers the buzz of the microwave. A letter from the Mental Institution of Redford. He hasn't received a letter from her in years. Most of what she sent him, were letters written upon letters. She'd fit so much until a single page, that it all would jumble together and become illegible. As harmless as it was, it frightened him.
This time, however, the envelope held a typed letter.
His mother was dead.
