Sentiment of a Witness

𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝙶𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜

And that's when it truly started - my efforts to be the 'perfect' son. Well, as 'perfect' as I could be with my... issue, as my parents called it. It was useless and looking back, I wish I had realised it. That no matter what, my parents would not change their minds about Witnesses. That I would never get their acceptance nor their love ever again.

Yet still, I tried.

If they were somewhat happy with me, that meant that they weren't wholly furious at me, right?

Oh, little did I know - I had so many lessons to learn... and learnt them I did. The hard way, naturally.

After the day it all changed, I hardly ever saw my parents. In fact, I don't recall seeing them for the next month or two. The only human interaction I ever got was from Alicea and Fredrick, our butler, when they came to deliver food and messages, and from Mrs Jameson and Mr McKinnon when we began the continuation of my education.

I doubted, and now I know for sure, that they had no idea what was going on. That they were just following orders of those superior to them – my parents – I mean, how else were they going to the money for their survival? For them to thrive, for their families to thrive?

After a three-hour lecture on the Great Magnificat Revolution of the Third Age, I arrived back at my room and fell face-first onto my bed. I had nearly run into my mother in the hall. The harsh clip of her heels had given her away, luckily for me. I decided that day that this was all terrible; I knew that one day very soon, I would run into one of my parents, and there was no way that was going to go well.

Which it didn't.

It happened in the Springtime. My mother's favourite time of the year. Why? Something I still don't know – I should've asked years ago before shit happened.

It was three in the morning on a Tuesday, and I woke up thirsty. I crept out of my room and snuck down to the kitchen. I filled a glass of water and took a sip. As I stood there by the sink, I took the opportunity to look around the kitchen. It had been a while since I'd seen – like most of the house – but not much had changed. The old wooden table and chairs were still there, though only two chairs were there instead of the usual three. It seemed my parents knew that I wouldn't be joining them for another meal as long as I lived there.

But looking around, I saw much more than just the ordinary kitchen – I saw memories. And not just any old memories, the kitchen's memories. I was looking at the kitchen through the Gossamer.

That was the first time I'd really felt connected to the Gossamer – I felt alive. It was natural. It felt like I was doing what I was born to do. But only for a brief moment.

"What are you doing here?!" During my little moment, and last for a long time, of felicity, I hadn't heard the door open.

I whiz around to see my mother standing in the doorway in her dressing gown and slipper, hair messed from sleep and a shocked look on her face. A face that still haunts me to this day.

"I thought I told you to stay in your room unless for-"

"For necessities, I know. Drinking is a necessity – without it, we die."

It was a bold move and perhaps a foolish one. But hey, I can't help it if my mother's stupid.

"Don't talk back to me, boy," she spat, glaring at me.

"Now answer me again. Properly. This time," she paused to take a deep breath, "What. Are. You. Doing. Here."

It was nearly as if she was asking why I existed. Like hell, I'd know the answer to that. I'm like, your son, why don't you ask yourself that question?

"Getting a drink. I was thirsty."

"You could have waited until the morning."

Part of me wanted to say, "but technically speaking, it is the morning." But I was smarter than that.

"I was thirsty," I repeated, lowering my gaze to the ground.

"I don't care. You should have waited for Alicea to come in the morning."

I sighed, knowing the only way to get out of this was by letting her play the victim, "Okay. I'm sorry. I'll go now."

I moved to place my glass on the bench and walk out of the kitchen, but then the old crone decided to try to stop me. As I put my glass on the counter, she knocked it in an effort to grab my arm. It fell to the ground and shattered all over our feet.

We both gasped before glaring up at each other.

"Look what you've done!" my mother's eyes were wild, searching my face for some emotion, some sort of answer. For something.

I only glare back at her with eyes just as wild, "How was that my fault! You knocked it!"

"I did not. You threw it at me! Now keep your vice down, boy. If your father gets involved, you get a beating," she snarled.

That silenced me. I had never been hit before – I'd been a good kid.

"Now. You will stay here and clean this up. And tomorrow you will write me an apology note for all this. If you don't, I will tell your father, and he will deal with you."

I gulped – out of both my parents, I think my mother was the parent I preferred. My father had turned cold, cruel, vicious even. While my mother had turned cold and shunned me out, paying little to no attention to the son of whom she had brought into the world and had whole-heartedly loved.

With that, my mother turned on her heel and left the kitchen, clearly forgetting about whatever she had initially come down for. Holding back the flood threatening to spill from my eyes, I opened the cupboard to get the dustpan and broom and clean up the glass. Placing the cleaning equipment back into the cupboard, I felt a sharp pain in my foot. 

I looked down at my feet, and sure enough, there were tiny cuts all over them. I sat down on the floor by another cupboard with the first aid and checked for any pieces of glass in the cuts. Fortunately for me, there weren't, and even more fortunately, most of the cuts were extremely shallow, practically papercuts. But with glass. So... glasscuts?

I crept back up to my room. It was a quarter past four now. I lay down in my bed, snuggling into the covers and cried myself back to sleep for the umpteenth time that month.

Written - 15-16 May, 2021

Published - 16 May, 2021