Lost Doves

One: Fault of Creation

I knew from the day that I died that happiness could not be attained by the monsters that the world created…

Depending on belief, I was born an innocent into a sinful world, or I was born with sin and therefore doomed from the beginning. I could believe both, though I no longer see sin, nor good nor evil. Religion holds no comfort for me, no salvation, no love, not since I last prayed as a small boy and instead of forgiveness I was given blame and suffering. What then, was I to think about God? There is no God in my story, but if there were, it would not be a God of mercy.

Some might begin their life story with their parents; praise their lineage as if it mattered anymore. Breeding has had no real importance since the death of kings, and to have children now has nothing to do with the survival of the species.

It is an act of selfishness that people now go about spreading their seed. Immortality, they say. Would they want real immortality if they knew what it entailed? No, they would rather give life to some helpless being with which to cast their own shame onto, the same shame which they gained in their own childhoods. That way they can die and know that their precious, meaningless line could be continued.

I cared not for my own line. Being of strict, German breeding perhaps I was expected to be, but my parents, the esteemed Frau Odelia and Herr Alger Guether, were no more reflected on me than I was on them. I was not fair haired or strong featured, neither was I ever beautiful, even as an infant. This was the first disappointment I cast upon my parents. The second was that I was frail, ugly, and deformed. And this caused my father to ignore my existence, and my mother to wish I had never been born.

I was brought into the world on a warm May morning in 1952 in the quaint and quiet town of Bedburg, Germany, and I am sure that all in the delivery room had wished that the twisted, pale-skinned creature that was brought forth had never seen the light of day.

There were rumors even before I was born, that I was a bastard child. My parents had never conceived before, and it was common speculation that my father was sterile. And so the birth of a child, indeed an unplanned child was the cause of much speculation and rising of eyebrows.

It still puzzles my why they kept me in their household, although I heard from the maids that were to raise me, that my mother had once attempted to literally throw me out with the bathwater.

I overheard a servant one night when I was supposed to be in bed and the noises from a downstairs party was keeping me up. I had snuck to the parlor to see if I could sneak something to eat, when I heard voices and I ducked back into the hall.

"And that poor child," the maid was saying to one of the cooks as I hid. "Such an unpleasant thing to look on."

"Oh, don't be unkind Ada." The cook gently scolded. "It is not the babe's fault his mother whored herself to businessmen."

"But it is her fault for letting the creature live. I would think it a mercy to have done off with it, a miserable little child like that…"

"Don't think she didn't try." Interrupted the cook. "Oh, yes. Fraught with a mad depression they said after she gave birth. Tried to drown the baby in it's own bath. Can you believe that? One of the cleaning maids saw it and stopped her."

"If I were her I would have let--"

"Careful what you say, young woman. Maybe it would have been mercy to let it die, but it was pity that drove the cleaning girl to save him…"

And that was when I could hear no more and I ran back for my room.

It was only gossip, but even early on I could tell the ring of truth from the mindless rumors. I wouldn't have been surprised if it was true. I assume it would have been more scandalous to actually get rid of me and admit I was not my father's child than it was to keep me, and so I was kept.

I was often hidden; being something of a Faux Pas to let me be seen in public in front of my parents. It was why the servants kept me and raised me, keeping me from social embarrassment.

My mother was the daughter of a rich family, and she benefited from the wealth. I don't believe she worked a day in her life and I don't remember seeing her much, at least not in a motherly sense. When she spoke to me it was always about what I should or shouldn't be doing. "Don't play outside where the neighbors can see you," or "keep out of the way when the guests come for dinner."

My father, the ex-Nazi General, barely spoke to me at all, and while my mother's words were cold and uncaring, my father's were harsh and reprimanding. If he spoke to me, it was because I had done something wrong. In all other cases, the servants were there to scold me and keep me in line.

I did as I was told in my early years, from my mother, my father, even the servants. I kept to myself. I didn't go out when I wasn't supposed to and I kept my mouth shut. I didn't seek punishment, though sometimes I would receive it anyway. I was as "good" as I possibly could be, as I really had no other choice.

Before I had accepted my parent's neglect, there was a time when I still sought out their attention. My mother's more than my father's since she seemed to at least consider me, if not a son, at least a child of hers.

There was one cold night when I was bed-ridden with a fever while I was at least nine years of age. Most of the servants were gone due to a holiday, but one girl was left to watch me.

I can barely see that night clearly, but fuzzy images drift back to me from time to time.

While I was feeling weak and groggy from medicine I had been fed earlier, I heard the voice of my mother speak from the doorway.

"How is he?" She asked the servant girl. Was she possibly concerned?

"He is still sick with fever, ma'am." Answered the girl as she sat at the side of my bed.

There was a pause of silence, and then I heard my mother closer.

"Leave me with him a moment."

Despite my sickness, I felt a slight giddiness. My mother rarely came to visit me, and for her to see me at this time… Yes, I still had some boyish hope left.

I turned my head slightly, burry vision attempting to focus on the woman as the servant left.

"Mama?" I tried to speak clearly, but my voice was quiet and scared.

She took a seat in the chair at my bed, but she didn't answer. She only looked at me, her expression seeming tired and sad on a face that was becoming lined with age. Her dark, gold hair was tied back tightly, and she had on a dark, elegant dress. She must have just returned from a social event with father and had been told I was ill.

Still no words, and not even a smile, but for her to simply be here was enough to hold me with wonder.

I didn't understand why she would come here and not want to speak to me. Even as I stared at her through my discolored eyes, she never said a thing. She only reached over and tucked the blankets closer around me. It was the only gesture of tenderness I had remembered receiving from her, yet I could hardly appreciate it while the worst of my fever had hit. I was told I cried all night.

My mother may have stayed the whole night and tended to me while I was in my feverish daze, or perhaps she left as soon as I fell asleep. Either way, she was gone when I woke and my head had begun to clear.

"Where is Mama?" I asked the servant girl when she returned to take the moist towel from my forehead.

"Shush now, child." That was all she said to me as she placed a thermometer under my tongue to check my temperature.

I didn't receive any more visits from my mother after that. Later I would realize it must have been pity that she had suddenly felt for me that night. I was her poor, deformed child, unwanted even by her. She must have been asking herself… Why?

It was a strange urge to want attention, when at the same time I didn't want anyone to see me at all. It must have been my shame, combined with the pitiful hopes of an unloved son. What a foolish boy I was.

There were problems with hiding myself from the outside world that I could rarely avoid.

When I was as young as two, my family decided to become adventurers and travel the world. Needless to say, this made settling a difficult thing, with a house being claimed on almost every continent. There were several we would go to during the summer all around Europe. Italy, France, Switzerland, Greece, Spain… I even saw much of the East, with scarce land in China and Hong Kong. In the winter we visited warmer places, sometimes Africa or Australia. Not many lands were avoided, although we scarcely saw the Americas.

I must admit I don't curse the fact that I was often made to travel with them, if only to be drug along and shut away with the servants while my parents traipsed around with foreigners declaring their superiority. It was learning that I found with so much travel, and so I tolerated it.

School was out of the question for me so I was privately tutored. Reading became an addiction, and I sucked in knowledge as fast as I could get it. In all honesty, books were the only way I could find a way to entertain myself.

My first interests were in long-dead tales of feudal times, the myths and legends of King Arthur and his knights. Such stories fascinated me as a boy. People held valor and kinship, and kings kept power over their kingdoms and defeated the forces of evil. But I was always an observer. I could never identify with the characters, as I could never be like any of them. I had no worth, and that was clear to me even then.

Besides those books I had no friends, save for one whose name will be saved for later. To go out and find playmates was a ludicrous idea, though I had tried it before. In every case it was always a mistake.

I can remember a day when I was only six years old… one of my first clear memories. It was winter, a year we were spending Christmas in Germany. One of the servant girls, I don't rightly recall which one, was instructed to watch me while she went on some errands in town and so I was made to go with her. It was cold, but it wasn't snowing and so I would not complain.

I could only hobble along beside the girl while she kept a tight grip on my hand, making me wince and cower at her side.

I caught glances from passers by, sneers and snickers from the occasional mindless townsfolk who delight in judging anything that isn't like them. I had seen it all before, and so I ignored it, lowering my eyes to the street.

I was tugged to the corner shop and then swiftly my hand was leg go and the servant ordered me to stay put while she went inside. I obeyed.

While she was gone, I caught the sound of laughter. Children were playing in the gutter nearby, giggling and running with no attention paid to the adults that only paid half a mind to the youths in turn.

I lifted my eyes if only to watch them. I had played games with myself at times, when the servants were too busy to entertain my boredom, but never with other children. I do not know what I was thinking when I began to approach them, but then I didn't know what I do now… that children can be just as cruel, if not crueler than adults when it came to playing the game of ridicule.

They stopped when they saw me, as if my approaching had interrupted their magic world of play. I stood there in my clean gray suit barely tailored to fit, which did nothing to hide the cursed lump of a back, my hair cut short as to keep my twisted form and pallid face all the more obvious.

I grew timid at their staring and all I could do was stare back.

To my surprise, they didn't run, but instead grew curious and started to gather around me. There were about five of them, three boys and two girls. I judged most of them were probably a few years older than me.

One of the boys approached and looked down at me, his gaze smirking and judging.

I thought I saw one of the girls smile at me, and seeking a reaction, a smiled shyly in return. But the reaction I received wasn't what I had hoped. I quickly realized that the smile was a mocking one.

"Hey look," the first boy standing over me spoke. "It's Igor." He snorted a laugh as the rest giggled along with him. "Where's your Master, Igor?"

I stared wide-eyed at the group, unable to move. "My name's Ormand…" I had whispered in some attempt to stop their laughing. It cut into me like a dull razor, the taunting words that I couldn't understand what I could have possibly done to provoke.

"That's a stupid name." One of the other boys decided to pipe up and join the game. "They should call you Hunchy." More laughing.

I cringed and stepped back, now realizing my folly, I wished to be hidden from them and stop their leering looks.

"Stop…" I pleaded when they followed and refused to leave me be.

"Why? We just want to play." The first boy grinned. I turned my back to escape, but a hand quickly pushed me down into the muddy street.

I felt cold pavement and snow melting into my clothes, my hands scraped where I had tried to catch myself falling. They stung as I tried to pick myself up. Hot tears burned at the edge of my vision but I had long been taught by my father never to let myself cry.

Beyond the blurriness of my vision I could hear they were sniggering again, and something inside snapped. For possibly the first time in my life I felt real anger and hatred, and acted on it.

"Leave me alone!" I cried, shoving the boy back harshly, though I was scarcely strong enough to move him.

This action, I found, was a grave mistake.

"Don't touch me, schleim." He shoved me even harder, sending me into the gutter.

One of the children must have grabbed some rocks, as I felt large pebbles pelt me in the side. The name-calling and curses only increased. One of the larger rocks hit the side of my head, and desperate, I attempted to crawl away from them.

I heard shouting before the boy could send a kick to my side, as the servant girl had finished in the shop and was chasing the children away from me.

"Go on, get!" She was shooing them down the street. "Play your cruel games elsewhere you little ruffians."

My relief wasn't to last long, as the servant girl was soon after snatching up my collar and dragging me to my feet.

"What were you doing? Your parents will be furious at me for letting you get in trouble." I received a small slap to my cheek and then she roughly grabbed my hand and started dragging me back to the house.

I didn't say a thing, allowing myself to be reprimanded and tugged home with my hands and my head aching. When we got home my scrapes were tended to, and I was sent to my room where I was left to be on my own and think on my foolishness.

I always had a small room wherever we traveled. My room in Bedburg was furnished with only a bed, a desk and a dresser, and I had few toys. None of the furniture really matched, as I tended to receive whatever my parents saw unfit to be displayed around the house and be seen by guests. Like me, I had thought.

I at least had a window, and I had a chair set there where I would often sit and stare out at the rest of the town. It wasn't a great view, as I had to see from the side of the house where the streets were often muddy from the passing vehicles. But if we stayed in that house long enough I could observe the change of the seasons and at that moment, I was wishing that winter would melt into spring sooner than usual.

There was a mirror on the dresser, but until then, I had ignored it. That night, I could do nothing but sit and stare at my own reflection. The day's experience was a realization, that I was so different from what was normal, that I was ugly and unwanted. It was my first inkling into the idea that it was my appearance that was so repulsive, that it was my deformity that caused disgust and amusement among my peers.

As I stared into my reflection, my scrawny body, my over-curved spine, my thick black hair that resembled nothing of the blonde of both my parents, I couldn't hold back the tears any longer. Even my eyes didn't match, I observed as I watched the tears streak my blotched cheeks, my right one nearly white compared to the stark blue of my left. I trembled, and I glared at myself, secretly scolding myself for having let myself cry.

I tore my gaze away and I covered the mirror with an old blanket. I didn't uncover it again for years.

The next day is a day I remember as well, because it was the day that I met Elsa. It was because of her that I regained a bit of hope in my youth, and which led to some of the best days of my life... however short they were.

---

Here he paused, as a breeze had crept in from the window that was opened a crack, blowing out the candle on the edge of the table. He breathed an unnecessary breath, set down the pen and found a new match to light the flame anew. He flinched again as the small fire rekindled itself on the wick. Then he stood, and crossed to the window in order to shut it closed.

His hand was at the latch when he thought he caught the glimpse of a white shape drifting over the midnight blue painted snow. Her pure white gold, tossed locks unmistakable to his eyes.

Was it her again, his Angel here to watch over him?

He thought he saw a drifting smile call up to him from the empty street, a comforting gesture that touched him somewhere within his dead, cold heart. For a moment he believed he could feel warmth reaching out to him from places long dead and dark.

Memories called out to him like far-off dreams, recalling days of only months ago, when She was alive, and so was he.

"Forgive me, my Dove." He whispered with bloodless lips, his arm outstretched towards the window, fingers pressing against the glass and leaving no marks. But the figure was gone, leaving only a sullen chill in its place.

He closed the window. Perhaps he had imagined it, but he ceased to debate it. She was his Angel, and he didn't care to believe otherwise.

Coming back to his desk, he sat with his uncomfortable posture over the pages, and drew the pen back into his hand.

It was a sign perhaps, that his Angel had chosen to visit. His story must be continued, even if no one but the spirits of the dead heard it.

Turning a page, the author resumed.