Short Beautiful Stories....Of Life

Puddles

The sweet aroma of my perfect chicken stew filled the kitchen. I was preparing lunch for my wife and kids while enjoying the songs playing from the stereo. Once in a while, I'd use the knife as my microphone. At one of these moments, my 11-year-old daughter barged into the kitchen with a nasty frown on her face, that momentarily changed into an expression of amazed confusion at what I was doing.

"Oh um, hey sweetie, just living the moment," I said, a little flushed with embarrassment.

"Daddy, " she called, going back to her nasty, angry face.

"What's the matter, love?"

"That boy over there," she said pointing outside as if I could see through walls.

Her raincoat was dripping muddy water on the cream-tiled floor of our kitchen.
Her coal-black hair was also wet. And I understood.

"He splashed water from the puddle on me Daddy," she wailed, looking at how dirty her raincoat was.

"I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose now did he?

"I don't know. But he didn't apologize,"

I could see her eyes sparkle with tears. It was kinda cute if you ask me. Anyway, I dropped the knife on the working table, asked my wife, Daniella, to check on the rice and allowed my daughter to lead me outside.

The boy wasn't there when we got to the crime scene so she led me to their home. 

I wiped my hand on my stained apron and knocked on the wooden door. After a few seconds, a man opened it and greeted us politely.

"Good afternoon Sir, sorry to bother you but, um...well.."It was a little hard to explain.

"Okay, my daughter here has a problem with your son."

"Oh and why is that little one?" He asked, looking surprised.

"Well," she said, stopping when the boy appeared behind his father.

"H-he splashed muddy water on me. A-and didn't apologize..." She said, confidently.

"Really! That's not good at all! Martin, kindly apologize to this lovely girl."

"I-I'm s-sorry," Martin replied, hiding himself once again.

"It's okay. Wanna play in the puddles?"
My princess asked, sending both of us, Martin's dad and I, into a state of astonishment. Martin looked at his dad questioningly and after getting a nod of approval, happily wore his boots and joined her.

Kids do teach us big lessons. They don't keep grudges, especially after peace has been made. They teach us love unconditional. As I watched them play in the puddles from the kitchen window, I was taken back to my own side of the story.

********

I hoped this was her home. I had never seen her, but I found her address with the name 'Mom' in my mom's notebook. I was carrying a small old bag, with a few rugs of clothes. My shoes were laughing and the clothes I had on were torn and patched up all over. I knocked on the beautiful white wooden door and patiently waited for someone to answer.

After a few minutes, a not-so-old lady opened the door. At first, she was surprised, almost confused. I understood. I was 8 but I understood. So I introduced myself.

"Good morning ma'am. My name is William. My mom had your address in her notebook so when she was taken to the place for making people good, I had to find somewhere to stay. I don't know where my dad is, I've never seen him. I didn't want to go to the orphanage. Can you help me?" My voice kept breaking and I was on the verge of tears.

She gently led me inside and sat me on a soft comfortable seat. She asked who my mom was.

" She's called Bertha."

She gasped as if that name invoked a horrible memory. I could see tears form in her sparkling wrinkled eyes, and I saw them fall. Bertha was her daughter I guess. Meaning I was her grandchild.
She touched my scarred face and ran her hand down my tired hands, decorated with cut marks from my mom's beatings.

"Come here. Come here."

I slowly got up and went to her thinking that I had made a mistake. I had been beaten for practically anything so my instincts were always apprehensive. I closed my eyes waiting to feel the familiar feeling of pain. So familiar it was, that it was weird not feeling it.

Instead, Grandma took me and set me on her lap. She embraced my stinky, tiny, bruised body and we stayed so for a very long time. I fell asleep in her embrace and woke up in a beautiful room, on a warm bed in fresh, scented clothes.

For me, that was a miracle I never thought would happen. I had resorted to adapting my young mind and body to pain and loneliness for life.

Well, life had changed. And I was glad it had. I loved my mom, but in my 8 years, I had never understood why she never treated me like her child. Or like any child. She seemed to always be irritated by my very existence. I remember her burning my back with a cigarette butt just because I entered her room while she was resting.

Another time she thrashed my legs with a cable, and I couldn't even walk to school that week. And the reason for that was, I had asked for a new pair of shoes.

Anyway, the past was where it was, I hoped. I would look at my healing wounds and let some tears flow. They weren't bleeding any more. My clothes weren't getting glued to my blood anymore. I wasn't feeling so much pain anymore. The scars were healing.
Still, the fear of making mistakes was still in me, and mistakes for me were anything I did. Anything at all. Be it asking for something, or going somewhere, I just couldn't. And grandma couldn't fully understand why. She had asked me about my scars. I had told her half the story. I had told her my mother's side of the story.

She would ask why I never asked for anything, why I was always in my room, sitting on the chair, doing nothing but staring at the sky from the window. She couldn't understand that I was afraid of messing up and being beaten to near death. She couldn't get that I was so scared of being forced to sleep on the cold hard floor. Or sent away from this haven. I couldn't risk it. They say like mother like daughter. I couldn't risk it. But Grandma never drew blood from me. Let alone raise a hand to hit me.

Well, I was on the right side of the law until one day when I was 11. I was playing outside on a rainy day, alone, as I had always felt. I was jumping into the puddles that had formed on the path.

I hadn't seen the girl playing next to the big puddle. It was big, and I was excited. With all the energy a young boy could have, I jumped into it, splashing water all over her.

She shrieked, and I panicked. I had made a mistake. I was going to pay for it. I didn't know what to do. I was so scared I didn't even apologize. I ran home and hid in my bedroom, preparing my mind for a time of pain.

A few minutes later, my grandma came for me, telling me that there was a father at the door with a little girl who claimed that I splashed muddy water on her. She assured me that she wouldn't beat me because it wasn't intentional. I slowly crawled from underneath the bed and went with Grandma to the door.

I apologized, shaking like a leaf, thinking that maybe the father would beat me. But the girl just said,

"It's okay. I'm Daniella. Would you like to come play with me in the puddles?"