Don't Forget

☪ Prologue| The Disgrace ☪

 ☪ 

 Michael swung his legs beg and forth, studying his sneakers.

He was put on the bench at every single soccer game. He hated it.

He craned his neck to see him in the crowd, screaming at someone on the phone. He didn't look up at Michael and he was fine with that.

Mr. John Sanders sat in the stands, red in the face, looking like he would rather die than be here. Michael supposed he did actually want to die instead of being here, he didn't blame. He wanted to die instead of humiliating himself.

A woman, Mrs. Sanders, sat beside Mr.Sanders, giving Michael a thumbs up.

Michael had Mrs.Sander's gold hair, that sparkled in the daylight, and Mr. Sander's fair complexion. He had neither of their personalities, though.

Michael was born awkward, not knowing what to say and when to say it. At all of the grand parties the Sanders hosted, he would stand awkwardly in the corner, not wanting to mingle with the others. He was never good with kids, never seemed much like the heir of a millionaire, but then again, the Sanders convinced themselves that he was only a boy and would learn over time.

Only, he never really did.

Mr.Sanders was a man purely of business, someone who worked from scratch to built up his multi-million company. He was absorbed in work, never really giving Michael much of a thought, preparing him to be the man he wasn't.

On the t hand, Mrs.Sanders was was the complete opposite, the one thread that kept the family together. Michael loved her, and her cheery ways. Just today, she woke Michael up by throwing a water balloon at him.

Her eyes were brimming with glee, waving crazily to Michael, bouncing with joy. Every five seconds, she would scream, "that's him! That's my boy!"

Most boys would hide their faces in shame, burning as bright as a tomato. But not Michael, he loved her way too much to be embarrassed by her.

However, Mr.Sander's looked looked aplenty embarrassed at his hyperventilating wife, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation.

The coach of the team came over to Michael, his face grim, telling him it was his turn to play. Michael gulped visibly, his nerves getting the best of him. He felt his legs turn to putty, this sickening clenching at the pit of his stomach.

He walked up to the middle of the field, his legs shaking terribly. He was nervous beyond words.

The piercing whistle of the coach blew, making some kids crouch down for cover, hands over their ears.

Then the match started. Michael didn't know what to do, hopefully his team members weren't stupid enough to actually pass to him. They all knew he was completely pathetic at the game. Only his family's history forced the coach to give Michael a turn every now and then.

The wind carried the voice of Mrs.Sanders, hooting and cheering Michael's name. He felt like a failure on the field- scratch that, he felt like a failure everywhere he went. 

It wasn't ever easy having the title of Sanders. It came with a huge responsibility, one that Michael was incredibly afraid of. He could never admit though, he was always told to be thankful.

Not that Michael was ungrateful. He knew he was lucky, far more lucky than most children. Mrs.Sanders always told him he would be heir to the throne one day, his father, no matter how much he disliked Michael, grunting in agreement.

Michael was sure Mr.Sanders would do anything to have another heir that wasn't him. Mr.Sander  was sure that Michael could never do something as big as running a world-wide company. And Michael agreed with him.

He stood in the middle of the grassy field, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. He felt the light breeze whip against his face, and the hollers of his teammates. 

It was amazing that Michael was only eight years old and still had to be burdened with the family's drama. The weight of responsibility on his two shoulder far more than any other child could handle.

Suddenly, the ball rolled towards him. He didn't know why anyone did it. Who in their right minds would pas him the ball? Maybe it was a slip, or an accident. Or maybe Michael was the only one in sight, so he seemed like the most reasonable past.

Michael felt bad that his team had to deal with him. He was the only who, even with all the extra training, couldn't even kick a ball. It was sad, really. 

He awkwardly tried to dribble the ball as the enemy team closed in on him, like a pack of predators circling its prey. At the moment, he simply wanted to curl up into a ball and hide, but Mr.Sanders was in the crowd...

Michael tried to kick, but he ended up just tripping over his feet.

He caught a glimpse of Mrs.Sander in the crowd. Her face still glowing with happiness in pride no matter what Michael's pathetic ball kicking circumstances word. Her vibrant green eyes cheering him on. Michael had inherited Mrs.Sanders' green eyes.

He saw his Mr.Sanders' eyes glued to his phone, not up once at him. He was a busy man, far too busy to come to one of Michael's soccer games. It must have been Mrs.Sanders' begging that got him here, no wonder he looked more grumpy than usual.

It was a weird feeling Michael had that he was always letting Mr.Sander down. Mrs.Sander was always telling Michael that it was just in his head, that Mr.Sander was just a little preoccupied most of the time, being the leader of multi-million company and all.

But it wasn't that, Michael knew it. His father was upset and Michael always blamed himself for it.

Michael tried to kick the again, failing miserably and tripping, falling to the ground and scraping his knees. He let out a small yelp at the pain, holding back tears, as a member from the opposing team dribbled the ball right before him.

He heard a cheer and then the piercing sound of a whistle. The other team had won, they had lost the game. Because of him...

Still on his knees, Michael looked up into the stands. His mother was giving him a thumbs even though he was the won who made the team lose the game. Then he looked up Mr.Sander, who had finally tore his eyes away from his phone, his gaze hardening which made him look older and scarier. His disapproval and anger showing very clearly.

Michael learned two things that day.

One, he was horrible at playing soccer.

And two, to his father, he would always be a disgrace.

 ☪ 

Author's note:
Well, this is one of my first things and I'm kind of new to this stuff so I hoped you enjoyed! I'm trying to update this as fast as I can! :)
P.S. It's independence day in my country, so any of you fellow Pakistani readers: HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!