your own heart and soul—if you didn’t like it; it’s almost like not liking yourself.”
He looked at me speechlessly. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that no one ever had faith in anything he wanted to do. He was so used to rejection, disbelief, and insults that he was almost embarrassed to get a compliment—embarrassed to have someone who would always believe in him. It was sad; I never wanted him to feel that way. He was so used to being alone, that anything else was strange and uncomfortable. He was like me. He deserved better.
And I wanted him to realize that.
But he didn’t want to. It was strange for one to come up to a desolate house in the middle of nowehere seeking love and refuge from a life that never gave him happiness, to reject affection when he found it—but he was wary. He didn’t trust what I had to offer for obvious reasons. If nobody else cared for him, why should I? But there was something else I could not put my finger on. Something he was not telling me.
“I think I’d like to take a walk,” Micah said after a moment.
“Would you like me to come?” I asked.
“No…”
He was withdrawn for a whole three days; unwilling to let himself love and be loved. He was like me, before I realized he was my son. Distant and bitter. And when he was like that, I was like that too.
“What would you like for breakfast?” I asked pleasantly.
He slumped at the table silently, looking miserable. I was afraid he was wishing to go back home. He didn’t even answer.
“Is something wrong?”
He looked away blankly.
“I don’t believe it, you come here to avoid your parents to find someone to love you, and you have. What’s your problem?” I asked, exasperated.
He looked back at me with tears in his eyes. “I never expected you to be this nice!” He cried.
“And why is that a problem? Are you so selfish that you can’t even love back?” I slammed my palms on the table angrily.
“Leave me alone,” he got to his feet and headed out the door. I chased after him, head pounding harder than ever.
I willed myself to calm down as I said, “I’m sorry, don’t go… you can feel however you wish, I just don’t want to lose you again,”
He stopped in his tracks, back facing me—and then he slowly turned around, with tears in his eyes, his lip trembled and he swallowed audibly. “I’m so sorry. It’s my own fault—I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to be happy…” He walked back to me and I put an arm around his shoulder.
“Do you want to work on your story?” I asked quietly.
He nodded.
While we worked tirelessly on the story--during a break—lying on the bed, looking as the ceiling, Micah asked, “What were your parents like?”
I smiled. “My parents?”
I thought about it for a moment. It was hard to put two people I loved so much into a few words, but I ended up simply saying what came to mind about them. “One thing I remember about Mom was her way of talking. She always put tags at the end of her sentences, like she wasn’t exactly sure of what she was saying—but the funny thing was, she always knew what she was saying was right—she only added those tags to avoid sounding like she was better than anyone else, because that’s just the type of person she was.” I laughed. “She always called me a tiny monster when I was bad…”
I was lost in thought for a moment as I scribbled a quick note about the story onto paper. “Dad was….” I almost choked up. “He always worked so hard, he practically never had time for me… it breaks my heart to think I had so little conversations with someone I loved so dearly. It’s funny to think that you have all the time in the world to be with someone, and then they could be gone the next day… I miss them. I miss them a lot.”
He put his hand on his chest thoughtfully. “I see… what would have happened if you didn’t have parents?”
I thought about it a moment. “I’d be a wreck, a kind of monster even. Having love of any kind, even if it’s just for a little while, can make all the difference in your life.”
After a moment of silence, Micah started humming that blasted tune again. I put my hands on my temples. “Please stop.”
“Sorry, it has a calming effect for me….” He said. He smiled at me, definitely cheerier now. “I feel like… I feel like I’m home….”
That was the best thing he could have ever said to me.
After that, we were closer than ever. We worked tirelessly on his story, and he was so excited and happy about it. It was contagious, and I had never been so happy in my life, and that was including when I was with my parents. But that, I discovered, was what having a child was. I was happy when he was happy, and I was proud to see him flourish. It wasn’t out of some sort of selfish vanity; it was because making someone proud of themselves was something that made you feel warm—like you’ve done something right—like you’re someone who’s worth knowing, and someone who can be relied upon and loved unconditionally.
I had no idea just how much I had been craving that closeness.
And I adored Micah. He was such a sweet, outgoing, artistic young man—he made up stories even when we were just taking walks—they felt so real and convincing, I always loved them. There was no one I ever loved more in the world, even though he was not technically mine in this life. When he was happy, he had a wrinkly smile, and pressed his palms together in front of his smile. It was the little things about your children that you loved the most.
He told me many stories about his past lives. He was always someone interesting, and never anyone less than admirable.
But, a day came, when I found out he was someone less than admirable.
Usually, my son wore gloves on his hands, and on this day, I wanted Micah to come into the city with me. He didn’t want to.
“I don’t want to go there! That’s where my parents are!” He cried.
“You won’t have to talk to them; I just want you to get out of the house.” I said calmly.
“Don’t you see? I don’t belong there… I won’t go. You just want to get rid of me!” He said firmly.
“Come now Micah…” I grabbed his wrist and attempted to drag him out of the house, he was tugging the other way, however, and the glove came off—
I was taken aback, shocked. I stared blankly. There were no scars on his wrists. He’d lied.
He looked at me with stunned tears in his eyes. Everything was completely silent as I stared at him incredulously. He dashed for the door. I chased after him out the door he opened—all the while that damned song he was always humming repeated over and over in my head—flashes of the child with blood on his hands kept appearing in my mind. There was a screaming at the back of my head that was starting to mix with the song; all the while I chased him over snow.
He was ever at the edge of sight, out of reach. I clenched my teeth and sped up as much as I could.
The song and screaming culminated in a horrid noise I could not even describe, and then with a yell my fingers shot out and his feet got tangled in Blue. He fell down. I grabbed him by the collar roughly. “You’re going to explain this to me. You’re going to explain everything.”
He kicked me, but I was not fazed.
“Tell me the truth! Who are you? Why are you messing with me?”
He wiped his tears with the back of his hand. “Will you let me go?”
“Maybe.” I got off of him and looked at him with blazing black eyes.
He sighed, eyes blazing with hot tears. “I did know you in my past life… but I was not your child. I worked—downstairs.”
And then, it was as if the cracks in my mind were mended, and the whole picture came together. The reason I was made to suffer over and over, and unendingly, was this pathetic creature I was looking at.
I screwed my eyes shut, my mouth twisted in a crying frown. I put a hand on my forehead in anguish—my head burning hot. “You hit me on the head…” I managed t
o say through clenched teeth and tears.
He stared at me for a moment, and then he got to his feet. He knew there was no point in apologizing; it would only make me angrier. He walked away silently with tears running down cold cheeks.
And I was alone again, like I seemed destined to be.
I did, indeed, know him in the past; a green-skinned Yulyan with cold blue eyes who was hurt too many times to ever speak or voice an opinion. His parents were rotten to the core and cared nothing for him. He was an eight-year-old who worked for us as a servant, but like most of my servants I treated him as a friend.
I could remember now, the first day I met him. He was cleaning a vase as I was walking by and accidentally knocked it over. It shattered.
I looked at him somewhat sternly, and he looked so frightened I thought he might bolt. I smiled gently and laughed. “I’m not going to eat you. What’s your name? One of my staff must have hired you.”
“Gabriel.” He squeaked out.
“Do you wish to work here? You’re a little young. I only hire people who wish to be here.”
“I want to be here,” he said quickly.
My daughter, Elizabet walked by just then and giggled. “Daddy did you break another vase?”
I cleared my throat awkwardly. “No.”
Gabriel smiled as she walked out of the room and then he looked at me guiltily. “Sorry.”
I sighed. “Kids like you should still be at home, enjoying childhood…”
He shrugged.
“Well Gabriel, it was nice meeting you. You can quit any time you
Blue Page 5