A Fly Trapped in Amber

I woke in the white vault of a hospital, with screams ringing in my ears. They would not be the last. My name is Maki. This is my story.

My father would often remark I was a Christmas boy; I had white hair, and red and green eyes. Whenever he said that, I would feel proud of my uniqueness. I began to glory in it later. But at the tender age of six, my heterochromatic eyes were a burden, and my feathery white hair pressed down on me. I was a phenomenon to my parents; how could two dark-haired, brown-eyed, average people create such a different child. My father walked out one day, to find that answer, and never came back. After that, we never mentioned him. He became an invisible presence in the room. How can something that is gone, weigh you down so much?

My mother's name was Lisa Melnick. She was a thirty-two year old receptionist. With black hair, and hazel eyes, everyone she met had trouble believing I was her son; I think she had trouble too. Before my father's disappearance, I was a toy for her…something to play with, to buy toys for; when she was in the mood. After my father's disappearance, I was scapegoat. She was subtle about it; a long, lingering look at my father's armchair, and then a quiet one at me, quietly blaming me; comments such as ""He loved the springtime" or "He wanted to go to the city with us, once" made me squirm with the inside guilt of the knowing that I had caused this calamity.

At school, I was not a Christmas boy; I was the quiet, solemn one, who was the target for rumors. They did not matter. I had to win back my mother's affection, I had to. My valiant attempts took the form of not arguing, cleaning my room, washing my own plate. I can remember one time, when a delirious idea came to me, that if I clean all the plates in the house, she would love me again. I had finished the first two plates, and I had done so quietly, hoping not to wake her. On my third, unlucky, plate, my fingers slipped, and the plate shattered, cutting my fingers, and spilling soapy suds, and blood around the room. The crash had woken my mother. She had hurried downstairs to see me, crouching on the floor, holding my burnt and bloody fingers.

"WHAT HAPPENED?" She yelled angrier than anything else.

I could only shake my head.

"WHAT HAPPENED!"

I began to tremble, for at that moment, I realized she was not worried about me, she was angry about the plates .Porcelain saucers weighed more to her, than me. It was than that I became a Contractor.