Chapter 3- Patience, My Child

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All of the other kids weren't out that night. The street, normally brimming with children from every apartment on the block, was barren. Every December came and went as it always did: the madness of shopping, dingy sidewalk Santas, all the traditional bedlam of everyone's favorite day of the year. It wasn't his, though. Every year that followed Dad's Day, as his mother had christened it, was a poor one. Literally.

The boy's body hung limply as it lay sprawled across the old battered couch in their grossly undersized living room. Everything about the place seemed more fit for elves than human beings. Swinging his skinny little limbs about, he sang with all the ignorant joy so characteristic of his age,

"On the first day of Christmas my mom-ma gave to me…a-nother fuck-ing pair of shooooes!"

He would soon regret his loose tongue. Within seconds, the rapid flapping of sandals slammed into the floor of the hall, resembling the crack of the guns that so often could be heard outside, taking more lives than they saved.

His mother closed the space between them at a demonic pace and wasted no time pummeling him to the floor, brandishing one of her flip-flops. Between slaps, she hissed,

"What did I say about that kinda talk? You wanna end up like your father? Like that no good motherfucker?"

Squirming from her brutish grasp, he backed away like a frightened little dog, knocking into the sad excuse of a tree they had spent less than a few minutes setting up. The lights twinkled haphazardly, like dozens of colorful eyes observing all that took place before them. Completely ignoring the tiny shatter of a beloved ornament, the woman continued her attack, only this time verbally and in rapid fire Spanish.

Standing before her short, pudgy frame, the kid could only stare. Did he really say that big of a deal? Now she was rambling on about how low his father was and how she couldn't believe her own son was going to grow into the same thing, if not worse.

Eyeing the tiny fragments of the porcelain angel, tears glazed her black eyes. Unbelievably black. The circles beneath them warranted pity that he could not give. It surprised him at times how little he felt for the woman.

"Apologize, you little…" she trailed off.

A rage crawled within him like a hideous beast pacing beneath the surface of his sanity. Every day she would run through her routine of sobbing, yelling, and throwing fits. And somehow, the blame always managed to be placed on his shoulders.

"I should've done what he wanted me to do with you, you ungrateful little prick."

Her voice was trembly and weak, fading with every step he took away from her.

"Don't you walk away from me, Mugen!" she called after him.

He never imagined that night would be the very last time he would ever hear that voice again. Stand at the frame of her door and watch her cry 'til the redness of her eyes and face was awful to look at. He had only wanted to see how she was able to "take the edge" off whenever she was too upset to cope on her own. Of course, he wasn't quite sure just what it was he was rolling up into a little white burrito. That's what he called those things he always caught her smoking: Mom's Burritos. In the pitch darkness he sat. The room had a spooky chill to it and smelled of something foreign he couldn't identify. The flicker of flame the lighter produced comforted him in a way. A brief ribbon of light. Sometimes he thought, if he just looked hard enough, he could see Jesus. He smiled mischievously at his own twisted thinking: to see the Son of God in the Devil's medium. He never did pay much attention to her endless nonsense about salvation and temptation and all those other words that ended in "-ation".

The sudden slam of a door was all it took. She was looking for him. He jumped. And just like that, in an instant, the world was snuffed out. She would be too concerned with punishing him to allow the smell of smoke to register. To realize that the windows were barred. Those windows she hated because they reminded her of jail, reminded her of the place her husband was carted away to and the place she was so determined to keep her child away from.

Like the majority of events that made up the fabric of his life, everything happened in one terrific mass. No space, no time. He choked. The blaze blinded him and the heat…it made her scream. Blind and straining to breathe, he moved. Like an animal gone mad, he ran. How fire could grow so quickly he would never understand, but he ran. And then…all was silent. Only the crackle and vicious roar of flames. He was outside. Even the humidity of the night was like a caress of relief. Hot sweat and tears burned his eyes. Maybe someone led him out. Maybe…

Several weeks would pass like murky water under a crumbling bridge. His aunt proved just as harsh as his mother. Apparently, having the courts dump her sister's burden into her lap was anything but amusing.

"All she wanted was to make a better life for you both. Always mouthing off, giving her grief. I'm glad it wasn't me, boy, 'cuz I woulda sent your bony little ass packing a long time ago. Ya came into this world an illegitimate mistake and I'll stake my life that's exactly what you'll die as."

She paused for a long time. A painful silence broken only by the sound of her dry lips parting to speak more poison.

"Maybe you could do us all a favor and make that soon."

He couldn't hear. The only thing that filled his ears was her desperate cries. Cries of sheer anguish as her life met a lonely, blistering end. They had found his mother, what was left of her, clutching a photo. Singed and barely identifiable, a little face peered out from its frozen snapshot in time. It was the one that always caused him to find the nearest available exit from the room whenever she decided to pass it around to visitors like a Show and Tell project. She always seemed to have it with her, ready at a moment's notice to show off his mile-wide, nearly toothless grin that closely resembled a white picket fence with numerous panels missing. It sickened him that they were unable to put the fire out on time to save her but had done so quickly enough to prevent that stupid picture from being consumed for good.

"Where is my son? Where is my baby?"

Those final words would forever leave him with chills.

"Hey, you okay buddy?"

Phones were ringing. The place smelled unnaturally clean.

Unfamiliar faces surrounded him, whispering and staring as if they were observing some fabulous new zoo exhibition. The words "wild" and "stink" popped up occasionally.

Taking several moments to allow himself to process his surroundings, Mugen lay deathly still, not bothering to acknowledge the concerned individuals now watching intently.

"Man, you hit that pavement like a sack a' bricks. Didn't you hear the code red announced on the news today? Heat wave's a killer, kiddo."

He felt cold. Trying to stand proved futile, as his legs quaked beneath him like those of a newborn lamb. This was bullshit.

"Wh-who…who the hell are you?" he managed faintly.

Everyone else had left one by one as he came to. Only one rather bald, stout fellow remained. He had a stupid smile on his thickly bearded face.

"I brought ya here. You're gonna have to stay for a little while, though. The doc says you suffered heat stroke. You know my grandmoth-"

"Shut up."

Forcing himself to his feet, Mugen tossed the ice packs that smothered him to the floor and headed for the nearest exit.

"Hey, you can't do-"

"Watch me."

He swung the emergency doors open and vanished into the whiteness a merciless California sun had created.