I'm terrible. I really am. I should be uploading my other two stories, but here I am, writing another one. I hope you enjoy it!
I watched Ritcherd Parker. I'd been doing that all night, just watching him. My stomach would gnaw at me, and my skin would boil, but I would keep watching. And he would just stare. He would flick his tail every once and a while, and his ears would twitch, but he would keep staring. He'd been doing that all night, staring to the horizon.
By now, I guess you could say I was staring too.
But questions stirred me. What is he looking at? Is it land? A ship? Or is he hearing a pod of fish swim through the water, miles away? Is he hungry like I am? Is his skin boiling, like mine?
Is he also thinking these thoughts about me?
I couldn't take it anymore, I had to ask.
"What are you looking at Ritcherd Parker?" I say, and then flinch at the sound of my voice. I know I am weak and tired and . . . and dying, but is it as bad that my voice sounds as it does now?
Disregarding my thoughts, I repeat the question.
"What are you looking at?"
Ritcherd Parker continues staring; only a twitch of his ear shows that he heard me. In the moonlight, his fur glistening beautifully. Orange as vibrant as the sun, and black as dark as space. Even in death and despair, Ritcherd Parker somehow always looks amazing, astonishing, and elegant. Not like humans, not like me.
I have dirty brown skin, brown like grime on the streets and the floor of the hippos' habitat. Not only that, but now it is oily, scabbed, scarred, gashed, cut, bruised, and burned. I have no luxurious coat to hide my pain.
Is Ritcherd Parker in pain? Under all the covers, is there an oily, scabbed, scarred, gashed, cut, bruised, and burned brown skinned being, that looks at his peer with envy of their amazing, astonishing, and elegant ways?
"He is an animal! Not your playmate!" My mind yells at me, and I close my eyes.
"Do not haunt me, let me choose myself which path I will take," I say to my mind.
No response comes. I continue asking Ritcherd Parker my questions.
"Tell me," I say, voice calm. I have been with Ritcherd Parker, on the ocean, at the zoo, in my home, with him forever.
I have faith in him.
Ritcherd Parker turns, his eyes glance at me, then at the water. He shifts so he can look down in the water. His yellow eyes narrow, like he is concentrating. But on what?
I crawl closer to him, not minding about how it stung when my knees rubbed against the tarp. My curly black hair pulls closer to my face. I study him, tilting my head. It asks, 'what'?
He returns my staring. His pupils are a pool of oil, surrounded by radioactive plains. Plains were small, skinny, green snakes slither, and golden soil is their ground.
His head turns back to the water, as if to gesture to it.
"Look into it," It says.
"I want to show you what is there,"
I nod, hypnotized. I also turn my head to the water, staring into it. I shift my body so I can lean towards the sea. I arch my back, and lock my sore bones to keep myself from falling onto my stomach.
My jaw drops, and my eyes widen.
There, staring back at me is a skinny faced Indian boy with long, curly black hair. He has cuts across his face. He looks as though he hasn't eaten for weeks. Or had any water either, by the way his lips are cracked and puffy. His face shines in the moonlight, oily. His teeth are yellow and have food particles stuck in between them. The only way I know that is because his mouth is open. But his eyes, his eyes are chocolate brown, warm and inviting. They remind me of the cocoa farmers that would come every once in a while to the market. They would have their cooking pots in the back, roasting the plants down to syrup to attract customers with the aroma. And the only reason I know this is because his eyes are wide open.
I stare down at the boy, the boy who is my reflection. I reach up to touch particular gruesome looking wound under my eye, and the reflection does the same. I trace its edges, and wince at how it stings. Putting my arm back down, I look back at Ritcherd Parker. He continues staring at the water, ignoring his own, beautiful, reflection.
I turn my face back to the water, and try to look past the reflection, into the water. Suddenly, my vision zooms past the surface, and into the depths.
Everything is blurry for a few moments, a collage of black and navy. Then, bubbles. Nothing but bubbles. The bubbles cover the colors of the ocean, and make me feel light. They tickle my skin as they pass, and I let out a laugh of glee. At the sound, the bubbles stop. They float around me, like a bubble bath where the children giggle and hide from their parents in, only for the parents to pick them out of the suds, saying,
"There you are. What a naughty boy you are Pi, for hiding from me," Mama said, rubbing her nose against mine.
"Mama! Stop, Mama, it tickles!" I would say, and she would laugh with me.
"Mama," I whisper, glee disappearing at the remembrance. My head whips up, to find only white, no bubbles. No glee. The white starts to shine, blinding
"Ah!" I exclaim, and shut my eyes tightly as the white speeds past me. I lift my arms to my face to block it out.
All is still. No noise.
XxX
"Pi, breakfast is ready," a warm, man's voice says.
My eyes shoot open, and I jerk into a sitting position, scrambling away from the source of the voice. My hands brush past soft cloth, and I fall. I hit hard floor, and groan at the feeling of the impact.
"Whoa, calm down boy. Your wounds will reopen if you move too much," the voice says again.
"Ugh, où suis-je?" I ask, bringing my hand up to my face to wipe sand out of my eyes.
"À la maison," the voice replies. I hear footsteps approach me.
"Here, let me help you up," it says again, now in English I realize, and I open my eyes.
Smiling down at me, a man with bronze skin holds out his hand. He has long, gray hair that reaches past his shoulders and a beard to match. Wrinkles line his skin and face. He is wearing a white and red polo shirt with tan dress pants, with shiny black dress shoes to match.
"Thank you, Sir," I say to the man, and his smile grows. I take his hand, and he lifts me up with surprising strength. Now standing, I test my legs out. They seem better. Much better.
"No problem kiddo. I made some breakfast for you," the old man says, and he gestures to the doorway. I look at it, and let my brain process.
Wait, I'm in a house.
My eyes grow wide, and I swivel my head to see the room. Light yellow walls, a bed, a yellow green rug, and a painting that took up one entire wall. It shows a picture of Christ, made out of hundreds of tiny photos of other people. Behind me, a window lets in sunlight. I squint to see past it. Outside there's houses facing each other, with a bright green lawn between them. On the lawn, some children play games. Tag, Football, American Football, baseball, and others I didn't recognize.
"Oh, don't mind the children. There's a lot of young families here starting a new life," the man said, and I turn back to him.
"But, I was in the ocean, and," I stop. How is this possible? I was in the middle of the Pacific, how could I be here? Where is Ritcherd Parker? There were bubbles, and then nothing but white.
"Do not worry, Pi. You are safe now," the man says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I prepare for it to hurt, but no pain comes. It feels normal.
The man smiles at me.
"Come, you have guests waiting for you," he says, and walks toward the door. I follow him.
In the hall, hundreds of pictures hang. I resist the urge to stop and stare at all of them, and keep following the man down the long hallway. I look at the pictures as I walk by them. They're all pictures of families.
A family with one parent and seven children. A family with two men and a little girl. An African family wearing very traditional clothing. A family whose picture is black and white. A family with teenaged parents and a baby. I hesitate at one.
There's a teen, maybe two years younger than I, standing next to an old woman. They both smile, and the woman has a hand on his shoulder. But next to the woman, there's an outline of a person. Like someone cut it out of the photo. Or the person hasn't been added in yet.
"Ah, Aaron Wyche. I remember when I met him, he was crying at my doorstep. But I made sure he was given a home, and he would be cared for. He's about your age now, I think," the man's voice says from behind me. I spin around, eyes still wide.
"Oh, I didn't mean to scare you Pi," he says, smiling. His light blue eyes sparkle. I look back at the picture. This is getting creepy, pictures missing people, perfect neighborhood, only smiles. And where am I? Surly this place can't be home, home is in India at the zoo. Home is with Mama, Papa, and Ravi. This is not my home.
We continue walking. More photos with missing people come and go. One even filled in with an elderly man as I walked past it.
"I need to tell you, you may call me Gaverston, or Gavy for short," the man says from ahead of me. I nod in understanding.
"Ah! Here we are, the dining room," the man, Gavy, says, stopping in front of a white door. He enters.
"Come now Pi, you do have guests," Gavy calls to me. I walk into the dining room.
Inside it's a quite ordinary dining room, nothing special. A long table to seat eight people, a white table cloth, more pictures of families, and . . .
"Pi!" a voice screams, and a body runs up and hugs me. It squeezes me, and I panic.
"Ah!" I yell, and push the body away from me. I back up and reach for the holster of my knife, and pull it out quickly. My breathing is heavy, and my mind is running only on instincts. Whatever tried to . . . to tackle me is not going to hurt me.
My head hangs down, and I start to feel dizzy. It throbs in my head, pounding. I take the pain. Pain, I've been living with it for so long now, it doesn't bother me. But even though I'm staying as strong as I can, I stumble.
"Pi?" the same voice sounds, and my head whips up. My vision is slow to focus, and I stare at the person in front of me.
An Indian woman, sleep clothes, and her face, her face seems so familiar . . .
"Pi?" the woman asks again, her voice more shaky this time. Her voice, where have I heard that voice . . .
"Mama?" I say, and the woman nods. No, no, she . . . it can't be. Mama, the ship, it sunk. But . . .
I drop my knife. I try to walk towards her, but I stumble.
"Mama, Mama, Mama!" I yell, tears forming in my as I run towards her. She opens her arms wide, and I fall into them. I touch her, hugging her and not letting go in case this is a dream, and she does evaporate in my arms. I cry into her shoulder, and she cries into mine.
We spend minutes like that.
I can't believe it. Why should I? God, Allah, Vishnu, even Yahweh brought her back from the dead to have this moment with me. Please, God, do not let it end soon.
Mama holds me, and then moves her hands to my face. Her eyes are red and puffy, but it still warms me to see the warm brown eyes she has. She smiles, gasping for breath.
"Ravi said you had left to, to watch the storm. We all thought you had been washed overboard!" she cried.
I said, "When I heard the alarms, I tried to make it back to you. But the hallway was already filled with water."
She stared at me, smiling for the joy of seeing me, as I am also doing to her.
"The only thing that matters now, is you are alive and here with us," Mama continued, joyous tears ending.
I grin. Now, everything is perfect. I have my mama, I'm out of danger, and Ritcherd Parker . . .
"Where is Ritcherd Parker?" I ask, backing away from the embrace. Her smile fades ever so slightly.
"I – I'm sure he's in a better place now Pi. He probably drowned on the ship," mama says uncertainly, not sure how to answer my question.
"No, no he was on the lifeboat with me. He didn't drown," I say, now thinking.
If I'm here at this refuge, then what would have happened to Ritcherd Parker? I did not see any animals on the grass, or in the photos. There isn't even a drawing that I've seen of an animal in this place, only humans so far.
"Did he, did he get sent somewhere else? Like, and animal heaven?" I ask her. She raises an eyebrow.
"Has Mr. Gaverston not explained the prophecy to you yet?" she asks me in surprise. I send her a questioning look.
"What prophecy?" I ask. She stares at the floor quickly, and then looks at Gavy. His face his now stoic, serious. Much different than his happy attitude he displayed a few minutes ago. He walks towards us, and he clasps his hands together.
"We have much to talk about, Pi,"
I think that went well. Maybe a little too formal, but it still went well. Pi just seems like a semi-formal person when with other people (Gavy, for example). And can anyone guess where I got Gavy's name from? It's in there; you just have to look for it. Aaron Wyche was an American boy from Atlanta, Georgia and was only ten when he was added to the list of the murder victims of the Atlanta murders form 1978 dates are most likely wrong.
Rest in peace Aaron, hope you're having fun listening to blame it on the boogie on records.
Translations for the french;
Ugh, où suis-je Ugh, where am
I À la maison Home
See IkeDanger, I got it up today! So proud of myself!