The door closed with solid thud. The house was quiet. Even the baby was quiet. Asleep, actually. He had fallen asleep on the way home from the hospital. He set him down gently on the couch, and began walking to the kitchen. He hadn't eaten all day. He crossed the door way into the kitchen to see all the baked goods his mother made still there, as if waiting for her to return. The pain of losing his mother caught back up to him. Leaning back against the wall, he let out soft, quiet sobs.
Food no longer seemed important. He wanted to be anywhere but the kitchen right now. He walked back over to the baby, to see how he was doing. Still sleeping soundly. He got a blanket out and wrapped him up, and tucked him into the couch. He wasn't really sure why he decided to take the child in. He had no idea how to raise a kid. He didn't have any of the necessities. He didn't even have a name for him.
It had been a long day. He needed sleep. Walking the seemingly endless staircase to the upper level, he felt like he was forgetting something. He passed by his mother's room, door still open. Despite knowing it would solve nothing, and against all reason, he went in. Everything was just as she left it. Every little thing screamed at him, reminding him she was gone. He couldn't escape it. The reminders were everywhere. Feeling his sadness begin to rise again, he quickly retreated to his own room.
As soon as he closed the door,he collapsed on to the floor, and began sobbing uncontrollably. He still was reeling, trying to grasp that she was gone, but he just couldn't. Why did things happen how they did? Why was she gone? Why did they have to go to the shop so early? Why didn't he just take the book down for her? He shouldn't have left the store. Why did he leave the store? Why did he let her try and get that book by herself? That was stupid of him. He should have stayed and helped his mother like a good son! Not gone trotting after some woman like a selfish brat! Why did he have to have been so selfish?!
The room began to feel hot, and everything seemed to be laughing at his pain, at his torment. He could here the laughter and jeering in his head. He turned to the wall, hoping to avoid seeing anything. When he opened his eyes, he saw the last thing he wanted to see. His own face, mocking his sorrow. Taunting him. Letting out a shout of rage, he grabbed the full body mirror, and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall, raining shards down,reflecting a world as broken as the one he felt himself to be in. The mirror still retained enough surface to continue leering at him. Feeling his anger swell, he strode over, and kicked the rest out. Seeing hundreds of him staring up at him only served to fuel the red haze he was seeing through. He started crushing glass shards under his feet, and then screamed, and flipped his entire bed over. As he did so, his night stand fell down, its contents spilling in to the puddle of glass.
His eye caught got the glimmer of a reflection. Expecting more mirror, he turned to crush it, and was met with a familiar bespectacled face. He stopped and stared at her face. All the anger drained from him. Would she be proud of this? Is this the son she raised? He fell to his hands and knees, uncaring of the glass and pain. Picking up the picture, he took it out of its now broken frame, and held it. What did he have to do to change what happened? He would give any thing to have her back. It was his fault. He always wanted a child. This was his punishment for taking his mother for granted like he did. she should have been enough. But he had to be selfish, and he had to want a child. Maybe, if he wished for what ever hand of fate which gave him the baby to take it back, she'd be returned to him? He didn't want a child anymore. Not if it meant losing his mother.
"Please, bring her back to me. Please."
He began to plead, cradling the picture. His face was a river of tears, and knees covered in glass and blood. The feeling of anger gone, emptiness took its place. All good in his life had gone. What good was he to that infant below, sleeping peacefully? He could never give him the love and care he'd deserve. He'd only remind him of all he had lost. The empty feeling had grown too all consuming, and again collapsed. Glass pierced him all over. The pain they caused was so distant, though, and his body so numb. The blood that began to flow didn't feel like his own.
As he lay in his self made sea of red, his thoughts again turned angry, and increasingly violent. He killed her. His decisions are what led to his mother's death. It was his fault. He began to pound his fists into the glass. cuts and blood soaked his hands. his white carpet was stained red. Tears mixed with the blood, sobs with cries of pain and anguish. He stopped suddenly. No. It wasn't his fault. He wasn't responsible for his mother's death.
The child was. He is why she died. He knew, deep down, that wasn't true. But his mind had already latched on, and his anger was louder then reason. He needed to get revenge for his mother. He would kill her murderer. He was sleeping just downstairs. The black and violent thoughts took hold, and his body began to listen. He grabbed a large piece of mirror, and and stood up. The room was in a haze. Everything was wavering, the floor tilted from side to side. But he held his balance, and turned around to face to door. He stepped through the glass, and pushed the over turned bed to the side. He walked through the bedding, trailing blood through the linens. Just before he reached the door, though, he tripped over something large and heavy.
Falling down face first into the ground, the glass in his hand shattered, leaving deep cuts in his hand, and across his face. The sudden pain shocked him out of his anger. He couldn't believe what he was about to do! He was about to kill an innocent child, because he felt it was his fault his mother died. He was a disgrace to his mother's memory. And now he was bleeding out on the floor of his room. And he deserved to. He let his anger endanger the life and safety of a child. This was coming to him. This was his punishment.
A thought briefly flashed through his mind.
"What did I trip on?"
Looking back, he saw the two large joke books. That's what he forgot! The hospital crew had taken some of his personal belongings back to his house while he was there! They must have left them on his bed! How ironic that the book that lead to his mother's death saved him from doing something he would have deeply regretted. He laid back down, to let the numbness take him. The pain would be gone soon, and he'd be with his mother again.
Again.
Again...
That word kept nagging him. Why? Why did if feel important? Be with his mother again? Why was it nagging him. He couldn't die until he knew why now. What was it? He forced himself to sit up, and thought for a moment why it was important. Why were these random words starting to crop up in his mind?
Again. John. Heir. Breath. Father.
He felt he'd read them somewhere. Perhaps it was the blood loss getting to him. Perhaps he was starting to die. He didn't know how it felt to die of blood loss. It'd never happened to him before! He decided to just lay back down and forget about them. instead of returning to where he was, he just fell back wards, away from the door. And onto the book.
The nagging returned. Was it in the book? He sat back up, and turned to face the books. The feelings of emptiness and anger were gone. Everything was just numb now. He felt nothing looking at the books. He opened the clean one. He wasn't sure why he mother was so keen on getting it. She just was so instant. Then he opened the dirty and charred one, that was with the baby. His heart skipped a beat. Her writing. With the swirls and all. The feeling all came back as he read it.
"Dear John,"
He read the passage written in it again and again. Denizens. Heir of Breath. Exiles. Kernelsprites. None of it made sense to him. Except near the end.
"John, if only you knew how important you were! I regret my passing came so early in your life. And yet I feel in my heart we have already met. But what I know for sure is that we will meet again!
Until then, John, I do hope your Father keeps you well fed! "
Meet again. John. Father.
This book came with the baby. It said something else... what as it...something about a journey? Yes. This book made a journey that ended on her final day. So that means his mother had to die. Nothing could change it. But she'll return! She'll come back! He wasn't sure how she would, but he didn't care! She had written this! He checked the other book, to see if it was written in there as well. It was clean, and clear of any messages for future decedents.
He read the last line again.
"Until then, John, I do hope your Father keeps you well fed!"
That's right. He was a father now. He had a responsibility. Responsibility to his son. No, to his John. He couldn't die now. That child- John, needed him. He closed the book, and placed both of them on his dresser. He then walked out of his room, into his bathroom, and began to clean his cuts.
While he was dressing the cuts on his face, he heard a wail grow from downstairs. John! He had slept through all that rage and emotion! Quickly finished the dressing, he made his way down to John. He still had no idea how to care for a baby. He picked John up. His hands screamed in pain, but he held on, and brought John close to him.
"Shhh, what's the matter John. What's wrong? Are you hungry? No? Do you need changed? or are you just lonely? Yeah, that's it, isn't it? Me too, John. Me too. How about we go bake together John? It's a special day, you know. The most special of days."
John had already stopped crying, and was quietly staring. Smiling, the gentleman took the baby into the kitchen. It really was the most special of days today.
It was 11 P.M. on Saturday, April 13th, 1996. And today was his son's birthday.
