My Baby (Sun/Moon x Reader)

To Ponder and Be Pondered Over

-x-

They are back to that backyard, back in that place where the cold grass wets their knees and the noise of gunshots vibrates through the air.

They are bent over something prone on the ground, unable to see what it is from their position. They sob with no sound, their shoulders heaving up and down. The noise around is filled with static as it grows louder, harsher, and more intense. Their tears gather at the tip of their nose before falling to gather over soaking clothes.

The sorrow they felt is enveloping, crushing. It wraps around them like a noose.

They repeat something familiar, but they have yet to understand what it actually means. Over and over, it falls from their trembling lips, fogging the space where they had their face smushed against. Each breath pains them, each gasp and whimper snags in their throat.

What happened? Why were they crying?

In the dream, they knew why. Even when it made no sense. Over the dying grass lies their mother. They cannot see her face, or smell her clothes, or hear her heartbeat, but they knew it was her.

As a child, they knew their mother was dead. It was pessimistic thinking, especially for someone that age, but they knew war wouldn't leave anyone alive.

Otherwise, why hadn't she saved them? Why wasn't she home? Why did they have to cry so hard and she was yet to reach them?

They never knew what really happened, but they can guess. Believing she died felt a bit more peaceful—they didn't want her to live in the agony of war, not knowing if her kid was alive or not. They didn't want her to face the same fate as they had.

There were days they'd fantasize about her breaking into the shelter and taking them into her arms, murmuring how she finally found them, and how they'll never separate from her again.

That fantasy was just that: a fantasy; a wish so far-fetched. But on dark nights when they felt hopeless, that fantasy held them a little afloat, helping them fall asleep to imaginary arms.

And when they wake up the next morning, they are alone. Fantasies never come true, they learned. They'd cry about it for hours, though.

Exactly as they were doing now, surrounded by dream clouds.

Their hands tug at the clothes of their mother—maybe to shake her awake, or maybe to hold on so no one preys them away.

And suddenly, they understand what is being repeated—its meaning brings them distress more than what they were feeling prior.

"Mama, please wake up. Please wake up. Please, mama. Wake up."

They have no control over their body. They are stuck in that position, repeating the same words as they cry silently.

The misery was heavy in the air, clouding their judgment. All that was was the simple fact that they had lost her forever, and there was no way to undo it. Their little peaceful life is over, and pain will be the new norm.

And they knew it, and it had them crying harder.

Why did they have to go through that? Why wasn't there a way to prevent it?

Now it is all over, the hurt was made, the wound isn't healing, and it burned. All they remember is what happened to them, every little thing in life reminds them of it. They cannot live without the reminder. This wasn't a thing that happened in the span of a day or even a year, this was ongoing. All and every memory they might remember is plagued with painful memories.

"Please wake up. Please wake up, mama. Wake up, please. Please. Mama, wake up."

They lie over their mother's dead body exactly as they do bad memories. It is attached to them, to their whole being. They cry helplessly over it while knowing full well they can do nothing to fix it. Their pain is a permanent scar that they never stop picking at because it never stops aching.