It Gets Better
The old man groans as he awakens. Everything hurts, the muscles, his forearms, his toes. He rolls his shoulders and there's definitely a crack from somewhere, but too many places make such noises and he's loss track of what's broken and what's kinda broken and what may be broken or fractured or the like. He's a rather old man, with wrinkles upon wrinkles that bend and shape his face. His hair is grey, but just barely. It still holds a bit of the old raven that it used to be. What had once been an unruly mop, had been trimmed, shaved, and once it had begun growing again shaved again, for he had been balding and would rather have none of it all, then some of it and huge patch of skin smack in the middle. It made him feel old and he refused to think of himself as that way. He knew he was way beyond his years and that death should've come decades ago. And though there were many old wounds that still were on the verge of healing and they stung of course if he cared to reopen them a little, but he'd grown from what he had been. He'd learned, over time, how to wrap every little emotion into a little box, which he could then shove in the farthest corners of his mind where it couldn't hurt him. At first, yes, he'd cried at the funerals. He'd crumbled in other's arms wailing and screaming, "why me, why wasn't it me?" But as he threw in the dirt and patted the coffins of each of his friends, including the smallest one who he'd held so dear and whose pokeball sat on the edge of his fireplace like an urn, the pain had begun to ebb, until it barely hurt anymore. He caught the feelings when he could feel them coming on, and buised his mind until he forgotten the cold corpses of his most treasure companions and was numb again.
"Papa, would you like a drink?"
The old man stirs and blinks his eyes. He's been day-dreaming again and he hadn't even known it. The man cracks another joint, his fingers this time, and gives a yawn, "That would be fantastic, Mew. Thank you."
He watches as the young woman with the long ashen-colored hair and blue eyes, tottles into the kitchen. Her belly is bloated, full of what he hopes, is multiple children. They would be his greats, he thought, as the young girl was his granddaughter. "I never thought I'd make it to see them," he thinks. He knows they'll be beautiful you like their mother, their grandmother and their great-grandmother before them. He watches as she stumbles back in, a small glass filled to the top with his drink. He feels bad making her have to move like that, but he'd long since lost the ability to really move, and the last time he'd refused her aid he'd ended up in the hospital for dehydration and starvation.
"I wish you'd relax," he sighs. It wasn't her fault she was the youngest grandchild. "Papa duties" as his other grandchildren had come to call it, were passed down every couple of years. Most of the children had only dealt with him for two, possibly three, but Mew, oh she'd had him much more than her fair share. Five years as of tomorrow morning. Though she'd never say boo about it.
"I'm fine Papa, really," she replied handing him the glass, "How are you feeling?"
"Like a burden."
"Papa."
He reaches a wrinkled hand and touches it to her belly. Through the thin fabric of her t-shirt he can feel the warmth of her skin beneath. There's a movement, a soft kick and he smiles, because he remembers the feeling of Mew doing the same and her mother before her.
"I miss her," he says without thinking.
"Grandma?"
"Yes. But your mother too."
Mew nods but doesn't say another word. Her mother was a tough topic for the both of them. They're quiet for what feels like hours to the old man, but he refuses to be the first to break the silence. He was the one who'd brought it up in the first place and he was kicking himself for it now. His daughter, Mew's mother, had taken quite a toll on her. It had depressed the young woman for quite sometime, keeping her locked away in her room, quiet and unmoving. It reminded him too much of his own depressed state, when he was very young and his father had left him, promising his return but never coming back. Though battling was his savior, it was the pregnancy that had returned her to life, and for that the old man would be internally grateful, though he still wasn't fond of her husband with his nose piercing and spiked collar.
"There's some children outside," Mew says, pulling him from his thoughts. Her lips are perked in a small smile.
"But the oldest one's birthday's not until next week. He's early." The children of the small town of Pallet tended to come to the old man for advice the night before their journeys. It was an old tradition, dating back to when the old man first retired from his position as Pokemon Master.
"Well you know Gary and his grandson. They've both taken a real liking to you."
"I can't believe the old loser's still kicking."
Mew snorted, "Hey, who can blame him? It's always a contest between you too. If you got the Pokemon aspect covered, he probably thinks he can out live you."
Mew, along with most of her family and anyone in ear range had heard the stories of Gary and his constant belittling when they were younger.
"Nah, he hasn't got anything on me."
"You say that every time Papa."
He feels her take the handles of his wheelchair and slowly move him towards the outside porch. Together they pull open the sliding glass door and descend onto the wooden steps. The old man gives a pleasant sigh as the warm summer air hits him. He'd forgotten how nice it was to be outside. Due to his current physical position, he was constantly cooped up, and though his legs no longer moved under his command, he still got that constant need to run he'd had as a child.
"It's beautiful."
"Mmhm," Mew replies.
Before them is a long strip of grass. About a number of acres wide. Pokemon from all over the regions happily fly, and run, and bray, and squawk to one another. There's a handful of young people out there as well, tending to their Pokemon, taking pictures, and just enjoying the day. The old man owns the land, but he shares it. Few of the Pokemon out there belong to him, but there still there. A Ratatta here or his Ponyta there.
"Okay, he's all yours!"
From a small patch of field father back near the land's small pond (used for drinking by the more equine animals) three heads popped up. Two young boys and girl, each stand and race one another to him, Pokemon still in hand.
As they reach the two elders, each child give a small nod and then sits themselves Indian style before the old man.
"You've brought company?" the old man asks, focusing on the eldest of the group. He's a little boy with a sprout of dark brown hair.
He nods, "That's okay right?"
"Of course. The more the merrier." Mew reaches a hand and pats her grandfather's shoulder, "I'll be inside if you need me." It's as she's closing the door that the female of the group pops her hand into the air. She's squirming in her seat, but she patiently waits for her turn. The old man tries not to laugh, remembering the pose of the child's grandfather. Apparently he'd tried to distill some of his proper etiquette into his granddaughter, before he'd passed last May.
"Mister Ash? Will you please tell the one again about the Wheedle and your friend with the orange hair?"
"Nah. He's told that one too many times already," replied the brunette, "It's my journey tomorrow and I wanna hear how Mister Ash picked his Pikachu."
The third child is quiet as he usually is. His skin is dark and his eyes are rather small, but he smiles up at the older man as if encouraging him to tell the story of his friend, a rather stoic man whose behavior was like the boy's.
"Why not all three?" Ash suggests, tousling the hair of the two young boys.
The little girl nods, causing her unruly, curly lime hair to pop from it's elastic. She sighs, and tries to regroup into the three ponytails she'd always had them in. Ash laughed at her little debacle. He lifted her and placed her on his lap, "You remind me so much of your Grandmother Iris."
"She did her hair like this right? That's what mama says".
"I miss them," Ash continues, "But life goes on. Hmm. But now those stories right? Let's start with Blue's. Now Pikachu wasn't originally a starter…"