My name is Astaroth.
There are times when I almost forget about it, sometimes. The stories are different every day, and I'm sure my mother forgot about me years ago, as she forgot everything about my father. Sometimes, I even forget about him myself. But he's always with me. I can't imagine living without him. He's my rock, my anchor, my guiding light. If he weren't by my side I wouldn't be able to get through anything, because I don't know how to move on from the pain that comes with losing a parent... I could never leave his memory behind, but it hurts, sometimes. I don't know why it hurts, but it does. My chest feels so heavy whenever I think about him that I end up having trouble breathing. It feels like someone is constantly squeezing my heart with an iron fist, and I don't know why it hurts so much.
I don't understand how people can be happy when they lose their parents. They should mourn and grieve and cry, but instead, they smile. They laugh. They smile like everything will turn out okay. I don't understand it, but I have to admit that it doesn't hurt as much as it used to. Perhaps it's just because I've accepted that he's not going to come back to me. Not ever. At least, I think that's the reason. It's hard to know. He's my mother, and I have a hard time believing that she could just...die. I mean, sure, she was sick. That could be a reason for it. I guess. And it probably isn't the same reason as the doctors who found me wandering the streets of Cairo or the woman who saved my life in London. It could even be something else entirely. Maybe the woman was only supposed to heal me. Maybe the sickness that caused me was genetic. Something happened to my mother that I can't fathom. Or maybe it's just my mother being my mother.
Still, it's strange to see my mother happy all the time. To look at her and realize that she never truly forgave me. She never forgot about him either. When I first came back to Egypt she didn't recognize me. She said I'd changed, that I looked thinner and darker and sadder, but I think that was the wrong way of putting it. She thought she could fix me - she tried. But I couldn't forgive her for leaving me, and she couldn't forgive herself for staying. So it was a constant struggle between us, always. Until the last few years, anyway. She smiled all the time, and I didn't. But lately, she started smiling more and more often. She seemed happier. More relaxed. Almost like she was forgetting about me.
But maybe I am overreacting. Maybe it's just that she's adjusting. It would be nice if she would do that for me, too. If she was happy, then I could be too. But if she wasn't...well. Maybe she'll eventually be okay, I guess. It would have been nice if things had been different after Dad died. We could have been happy together, as a family. As two people that were meant to be together, no matter what else was said or done. Maybe if things went differently we could have become even closer. But then again, if things went differently...then she would never have met Dad. And that's alright. I'm not going to complain about that, anyway. I'm still glad that Dad got to spend his last moments with her. She was very good to him. And now he won't need anyone else. Well, except maybe that boy who helped him out. That was very nice, too. I wish I knew his name; he seems familiar to me somehow.
And yet, even if I'm satisfied with the fact that I'm getting over him - or maybe it's more accurate to say that I can live with the loss now that I've moved past it, at least somewhat - I can't help but find myself thinking about him constantly. And I can't help but want to know more about him. I can't help it. I want him back. I want to hear him talk again, and hold him close, to feel his embrace wrap tightly around me. I want to taste that sweet wine, I need that taste. And I want to see those bright green eyes that shine so brightly. I'm sure they would be filled with warmth and compassion at that moment, if only they could meet mine. I can't help it. It's the same for all of them, I think - there is no way that I can stop thinking about them, and looking back upon everything that I've lost since I lost contact. I've lost a lot of people, I suppose. I wonder what happened to them? Did they go to another planet, like my mum did, or did they die? Did they stay home and wait until I was older, before they disappeared into thin air too? How long do I have left? How much further until I forget? What am I waiting for, exactly? Where do I even start? There must be some answer. Some way of finding out whether I will live. Why did she disappear, and why can't I ever speak of him, of what happened to him and to me, or even ask? Why can't I ask anyone anything? Why can't I speak to him again? I can't do anything for myself now that I've lost him, and all I have left is to wonder where he is, to wonder if I'll ever see him again. I don't want to know. I've tried so many times. I've thought of so many possibilities, so many ways to reach out to him...
And yet he's always far, far away from me. So distant. His presence was always so strong within me, but now it's faded, faded to nothing. Now I don't know anything anymore about him. Nothing can fill in any of the gaps in my memory - not his face, not his voice, and certainly not the sound of his voice. If only I knew who he was. If only I knew how he felt about me. If only I knew him better. If only I remembered better. If only.
It's hard to remember. It's painful to remember what it felt like to be happy. To feel that I belonged somewhere. That I belong, at least, in part, with someone - and to be loved.
Word Count: 1091
