I was sitting in math and I suddenly remembered a story I'd read on givesmehope , so I whipped out the notebook and began to scribble down a few ideas. It later developed into this.
I don't own any of the characters ( well except for the narrator and anybody else who has a crappy and non recognizable name ) they are the creation of Hiromu Arakawa
Once again, I stand to gain nothing but my own amusement by writing this...
I was born deaf, and when the doctors told my mother she decided it would be best if I weren't sent to school. She didn't want to cause any unnecessary stress for me, my father agreed that the best thing to do would be to have me home schooled.
I lived the first four years of my life without knowing what sound really was, as no one had ever tried to explain it to me. I didn't hear my sister laughing when my father pulled a face at breakfast, or hear my mother chastising him for being late for work. I didn't hear my aunts telling me how much I'd grown since the last time they'd seen me, or hear my cousins inviting me into their games, most of which I did not even try to understand.
I didn't hear my mother and father arguing over the man in the pictures, or hear my sister asking who he was. I didn't hear my mother's explanation, but I certainly saw her tears.
I didn't hear what my mother said when she put us into the car that day, but I saw her whispering something to my father, and him nodding his head after a moment.
I didn't hear my sister repeatedly asking where we were going, but I did see the slight shift in my father's face when she asked about the pictures.
She had found it in one of the old photo albums, filled with memories made long before my father and mother had met. There were my aunts, of course, and my grandparents, but there was one album that we had never seen before. My mother did not think much of it when my sister asked to look, so she pulled it from the shelf and wiped away the thick layer of dust that it had accumulated. She was momentarily distracted by aunt Frannie asking for tea.
My sister and I sat on the armchair nearest the window, and I traced the golden patterns that were etched into the leather cover while my sister greeted aunt Fran.
We opened the book and were met with a strange face. The picture was one of my mother and her three sisters, Ruth, Emma and Francheska, all four of them significantly younger looking. It was taken in one of the rooms in my grandparents house, and they were gathered on the floor. Ruth, the oldest, was sitting on her knees with her head held high, every bit as proud then as now. Beside her sat my mother and Emma, arms around each other, smiling. In front of them sat the youngest of the sisters, Francheska, or Frannie as she preferred to be known.
However, in her lap sat a young boy we'd never seen before. He had thick black hair like them and large dark eyes that matched those of the girls gathered around him. He seemed uncomfortable, and was obviously trying to escape from Frannie's arms when the picture was taken.
We turned the page and found the same boy, older this time. He was standing next to my mother with one arm slung round her shoulder and the other one held near his head and above hers, clearly indicating the height difference. The next few pages provided us with no more clues as to who this young man was, other than that he had obviously grown up with my mother and aunts. At first I thought a friend of the family, but then again the strong resemblance couldn't be ignored.
As we watched those in the pictures grow older, and the young man become more and more alike my mother and her sisters, we ventured to ask my mother about him. My sister brought her the album and pointed him out. I didn't hear the sound of Frannie dropping her mug on the tiled floor.
I didn't hear my father shouting at my mother, demanding to know why he was there. I didn't hear my mother telling him that she was sick of having to pretend like he didn't exist, or hear her telling him that whether he liked or not, he was going to apologize.
Which led to us sitting in the car, with my sister and I having no idea where we were going.
After some time my mother stopped the car and motioned for us to get out. We were standing in front of an impressive white house, most of which was obscured by ivy.
My mother knocked on the door and when it opened she threw her arms around the woman standing there. She had blonde hair pulled into a tight clip at the back of her head, rather severe in my opinion, but that did not distract one from how pretty she was. With wide brown eyes and soft pouting lips that were currently stretched into a dazzling smile, it seemed odd that she should be standing there in a military issued uniform, with a gun holstered at he waist. She moved forward and opened her arms to embrace my father, an action that he returned with an awkward one armed hug.
She turned to my sister and I, and pulled us both close to her. I didn't hear what she said, but I followed as she opened the door wider for us to enter. We were led into a rather untidy study, and there we waited whilst she moved to the other end of the room, and alerted the man sitting there to our presence. He looked up and I realized that he was identical to the young man from the photo album, minus his left eye.
My mother obviously noticed this as well, for she rounded on him, waving her arms and pointing to the dark patch that covered half his face. He smiled sheepishly and pulled her into a hug before she could protest. She returned it and when they separated I could tell that she was smiling, and so was he.
His smile faded as his eye came to rest on my father. Nevertheless he approached him and held his hand out. Thankfully, though not after a moments hesitation, my father took his hand and launched into what was later explained to me as 'a long and rather pointless apology'. Pointless in that the man he was apologizing to had already forgiven him.
The woman from before came back and smiled when my father was speaking, and nodded appreciatively the man pulled my father close and clapped him on the back. She moved to stand behind the stranger touched the palm of his hand with her thumb. He then removed the gloves he was wearing and invited us to sit with him.
This was the day that I learned of my uncle, Roy Mustang. I didn't hear him welcoming me to his home, or hear him telling us how happy he was to finally see us. I didn't hear my mother telling him that I could not hear, but I saw the worried expression that crossed his face for a matter of seconds, before he regained his composure and his frown broke into a brilliant smile.
I didn't hear him declare that he would teach me, but I saw my sisters face light up at the prospect of coming to see him in the summer...
When I was born and the doctors told my mother that I was deaf, she decided not to send me to school, my father agreed. For this I am grateful.
When I was four years old and I first met my uncle, it took him a few mere seconds to decide that he would teach himself to sign, and teach me in the summer, and it was then that I began to lipread, to 'hear' things. For this I am grateful.
When I was six years old my father died in a collision with a drunk driver. The man was sentenced to 10 years, and my uncle was there to hold my mother and sister as they cried and screamed that it was not enough. For this I am grateful.
When I was nine years old, my mother remarried, and my uncle held my hand and share my thoughts as I condemned the man who had stolen my mother from me. For this I am grateful.
When I was ten years old, my mother and stepfather died whilst celebrating their first anniversary. They were driven off a cliff by a larger vehicle that did not see them coming round the corner. Despite being unmarried and having barely any time as it was, my uncle took my sister and I in. For this I am grateful.
Throughout my life, he was there to give me hope, to help me in any way he could. But there is one thing I can never bring myself to be grateful for, no matter how selfish I seem. As I stood by his grave, holding my sisters hand and with Riza's arm around me, surrounded by his subordinates and superiors, I will never be grateful for the fact that I was able to hear my sister crying.
So, what do you think?
R&R pretty please