Chapter II: Immersion

*Sorry for the delay. Between moving, applying for jobs, working, being horribly sick, and an emergency root canal, writing was the last thing on my mind. Here's the second chapter of Awake, His Soul. By the way, if this chapter isn't good, I'm going to blame it on the fact that I was/am in excruciating pain while writing a lot of it. That certainly has the capability to lower one's mental capacity.*

I sat for a little while longer, reflecting on my beautiful, tormented son. I listened to hear where he was, wondering what he was doing at this very moment. Something to distract himself from the awful thoughts that haunted his mind?

I often wished I could read the minds of my children. I thought that maybe if I could hear their thoughts, I could know exactly how to mother them. But my youngest son told me that I would not want to be able to see what went on in my middle son's head. I was told that dark things went on in his mind, so dark that my heart would break from seeing them. I supposed he was right. After all, my heart was breaking just seeing the way he suffered every day. Still, I wanted to know.

I listened once more, zoning in on the sound of his quiet breath coming from upstairs. He was in the library, as usual. He often spent hours reading, immersing himself in unreality just to make reality more bearable. However, I didn't hear the rustle of pages turning. This could only mean one thing—he was in so much pain that even burying himself in a book didn't help.

That happened often. On his bad days, he locked himself in whichever room he happened to be in. He sat alone, silently reliving his pain over and over. As though isolation could help him cure the feeling of always being alone.

I hated it when he locked himself away. The poor thing needed someone, anyone, to help him through. I resolved to try to communicate with him, to try to make a successful attempt at breaking down his walls. If I could reach him, if only just for a moment…

When I turned and faced the inside of the house, I noticed the family photos. I had many of them hanging on the wall, but very few contained him. I wasn't purposely excluding him from the family, and I felt so terrible that I did not display him as much as I did my other children. But he always looked so sad, so tired. I didn't want to hang anything up that would constantly remind everyone of his pain. I also did not want him to have to see himself, for I knew that he avoided mirrors and such because seeing his scars reminded him of the past.

Turning my thoughts back to the task at hand, I opened the glass door and entered the living room. As I climbed the stairs and approached the library at the end of the hall, I heard his breath still. Was it just depression? Or nerves, perhaps? I didn't know. All I knew was that he needed me, whether he knew it or not.

Taking a deep breath and mentally preparing myself, I knocked on the door.

No response came. I knocked again. "Jasper, sweetie?" I asked tentatively, hoping to hear his deep voice in return.

I heard movement from inside the room. "Yes?" he replied, in a soft voice.

"May I please come in?"

He hesitated for a few moments, and then gave me permission to enter.

I went in the room and grabbed a chair. His big eyes tracked me across the room, watching me closely. I set the chair down on the other side of the desk from him. I glanced at the familiar titles on the books that were piled in front of him, and then I lifted my eyes to the face of my son. He looked down immediately, fidgeting uncomfortably. This was not going to be easy.

I figured that starting in with questions about his emotions was probably not a very wise choice. I turned my attention once more to the books in front of him.

"How many of those have you read?" I asked casually.

"All of them," he admitted.

"You're rereading them?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I cringed a little at the use of the word ma'am. I wished that he didn't have to be so formal with me. I was his mother, not a casual acquaintance. I withdrew the pang of sadness I felt, a little too late. He felt it, and recoiled a little. It was so hard for me to contain my emotions. I loved so hard that I couldn't help but share it with others. He knew how much I loved him and he understood that I always had his welfare in mind.

But, it was hard for me to remember that my concern made him feel guilty. I was a bit frustrated that I had made a mistake, and a little at a loss for what to say next.

I examined titles of the books in front of him. The Two Towers, The Great Gatsby, Crime and Punishment, and The Scarlet Letter were among those on the top layer. "These aren't the happiest of books," I noted.

"No."

"Then why do you read them over and over?" I probed gently. "I mean, these in particular?"

His brow furrowed in thought, highlighting the scars on his forehead. "Because they're deep."

"And they take you away."

"Yes," he said uncomfortably.

His admission led me to open a door to another line of questioning. However, I paused for a moment as my stomach curled up in a knot of apprehension.

He cocked his head and eyed me curiously, using his gift to make me relax. I thanked him with my eyes, and then asked, "Have you ever thought that there is another way to deal with your feelings? A better way?"

He looked back down at his lap, fidgeting as he thought. His face became contemplative. Several times, he opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped the words from coming out. It was times like these, when he struggled to find the words, when I wanted to be able to pick them from his brain.

After a minute or so of editing his thoughts, he said slowly, "I know what you wish for me to do."

"And?"

"You understand why I haven't." He voiced it as a statement rather than a question.

I looked down at my lap, saying nothing. I knew it was an overreaction, but I somehow felt that his words were designed to push me away. I felt the sharp sting of rejection in my heart.

As soon as he felt my reaction, he relieved me of those emotions. I saw him glance down, and he winced guiltily. "I'm sorry. That's not what I meant—I just…"

His eyes reached out to me, as if he were wishing that I would understand and eliminate the need for him to complete his thought. I wished I could. Instead, I simply sat there with my mouth partially open, wishing that the correct words would somehow come out of it.

He recognized that his sentence was not going to be completed, and he looked down again in silence, wishing for once he could be understood.