Neverland [ ✓ ]

Day 2

ENTRY:
11:03 AM

From the earliest recollections of my childhood, I know that I've grown up alone. 

My mother was there, sometimes- but rest assured, I was still alone.

She was in her own world without me. Truthfully, very few of my favorable memories include her. 

On good days, she would feed me. Those are what I would consider good days with her. 

Nevertheless, I did love my mother. I still do love her. I love her in the way families should, you know? I love her the way I wish she loved me. With that said, I've forgiven her for the things I remember and I'm sure that I'll continue to forgive her for the things I don't. Being in this place again has opened many doors into memories I never knew I had. One by one, they come to me.

One of my earliest memories are here in this room.

I was two- maybe three- years old when my mother left me alone for two days. I'll give her credit for having enough mind to place food in my crib, but the one thing that ruins it is that the food was canned and I was a child. There was no way for me to open them, so I played with them like toys, rolling the cans back and forth, listening to the sound they made when they hit the rails of my crib. But such play grew old, as it would for any child, and soon I began to cry. I cried for my mother, I cried for hours until I was hungry and dehydrated.

My head had been hurting so badly- I can almost still feel it.

The ache sloshed around inside of my young skull as I leaned over the rails of my crib to watch the sun rise onto day one of having no one to care for me. I was alone for the entirety of the day, either crying or playing with cans. That night, however, was different from the night before. As young as I was and as old as I am now, the visual of isn't clear, but I've grasped the concept. Someone came and took care of me that night. Surely not my mother, but it was someone else. 

Something else. 

I felt like I was being cradled in lukewarm water. I had never felt anything like it. I knew no fear in the arms of that presence; if anything, I was glad for it. The mist- that's what it looked like to me- would make me laugh, yet I cannot remember how. But laugh I did, giddy with excitement, reaching at it's face with pudgy hands. 

It made me happy. 

ENTRY:
9:07 PM

My mother inevitably returned the next day; or, more so the next night after the mist first visited me.

She was on something I realize, now years later; but then, I didn't know. 

Back then she didn't look nearly as bad as she got within the next year. Back then, she almost looked normal. The only thing I could comprehend about it was the fear I felt when I saw the look she had on her face when she came back. 

The way she moved towards me is ingrained in my mind, because the way she approached me was not the first time she had and wouldn't be the last. I can still hear the scuffling, scratching, rumbling noise her feet made against those wooden floors. With every step, I grew more fearful in spite of how desperately I wanted to be glad she'd finally come back for me. 

Once my mother had made the trip between the doorway to my room and my crib, she loomed there for a moment, staring like a dead fish. I stared up at her, head tipped all the way back, mouth open with anticipation of what she'd do. 

My mother slowly cupped her hands around my round face. I felt a sense of belonging when she did it. She smiled at me in this motherly way in spite of her dead-eyed stare. I almost felt loved, even as a child who didn't quite know what love was, I felt wanted for a second. But it was for only a second. More than a second from my mother would've been too much, too hopeful.  

Forward came my head, the world rolling and blurring as she lolled my head like a ball, pulling it forwards before sharply snapping it back. My visual memory is fuzzy after the first time she does it, but I do remember this being the very first time she ever truly hurt me.

In flashes, I'd see my mother as clearly as the room at her back. Of course, I cried. But even through tears, between every other strike against the wall and bars of my crib, I'd see the mist.  It looked like a shadow at the time, so it isn't surprising she didn't see it.