I Still Miss You, Mama

He stood in the wild grasses, studying the grave. A bouquet of navy blue roses lay in his arms, withered by a violent rain. He would allow these flowers to be damaged no more; he held them close, as if in embrace. Once he had a mother. She had navy blue hair.

The grave lacked a headstone. Rather, the ground was lined in a circle of rocks. The woman never had a funeral, for she was obscure to the world, despised by all – except her son. He loved her, and while he continued to stare at the rocks, remembering when he made it as a small child. Tenderly, he placed the bouquet in the center.

"I still miss you, Mama," spoke a soft whisper. He continued, adding, "After you… passed away… I became administrator of Team Rocket. It was your pride, honor. No way would I allow it to fall into a fool's hands." The man choked on his words, "But why was I never your pride and honor?" Tears left his eyes, filtering the soil beneath him. "Why did you hit me? Why did you scream? Why was I a bad boy? I never meant to be childish. I'm sorry for whatever I did…" By now he was sobbing. He fell to his knees, hiding his face in his hands. Beside him, his lifelong friend, Persian, softly whimpered.

"I remember that time… that time when she hurled the wine bottle in a fit of rage," he recited to his companion. "She aimed it at me, but missed. It hit the cabinet. Do you remember that, too?"

The feline nodded.

"I do the same as she had done. But why? Why do I torture Pokémon? Is it that I only feel stable when I inflict pain upon others?"

Persian nodded once more. Then, he turned his head away, reflecting on a time when this man, his friend, had beat him.

As for the man, he proceeded with memories of his mother. He knew she beat him. As for the reason, that was a mystery. However, he knew for sure it was not out of hate. She had no hate for him, just as he has no hate for her. Out of all the times she mistreated him, he recalled one moment of love:

A child with brown hair and brown eyes giggled as his mother ran through the field with him. She was beautiful, both externally and internally. The child always treasured the color of her eyes. They were the shade of a deep crimson, the same shade as that in embers.

Playfully, she tackled her son to the ground. They broke into laughter. The afternoon sun had covered them in a quilt of golden rays.

She looked up at her three-year-old boy, smiling. Then, ever so slowly, her arms wrapped him warmly, showing her love – a love so powerful that only mothers could feel.

That was the end of his precious memory. He took a final gaze at the grave, his Persian by his side.

Then, he walked away.