~✽~
- Nicholas Fletcher -
I woke up screaming.
The soldier from my drea-nightmare, came rushing in, asking me what was wrong. "Y-you...WHY DIDN'T YOU SAVE MY MOTHER?" I screamed, my voice cracking in pain.
"Son...how did you..." he mumbled.
"D-d-dad? N-no way. You look just like the soldier-" I croaked out, my eyes welling up. I was so confused.
"I told you both...I found you during the war, on Christmas eve." he replied sadly.
Then, it finally hit me. My mind began to connect all the dots, as I cried out in frustration. "MOM IS STILL OUT THERE! LISTEN. WE NEED TO FIND HER. SHE'S ALIVE AND ALL ALONE." I screamed.
"Nico, please. Try to understand...all these years, its haunted me. After I brought you both here, I didn't know what to do. I know the pain of losing family. I've felt it before. I couldn't leave you at some orphanage after your mom gave up her very life to make sure you would be safe, so I raised you myself." He explained.
I stared at him through my tears and let out a dry, monotonous laugh. "It haunted you...huh? All these years? Yet you never went back for her, even after you promised." I said. He looked away, his morose face drowning in guilt.
"I-..." he croaked.
"I don't care. Get out of my room. Now." I threatened, cutting him off.
I watched him get up and leave, as I threw myself to the floor, screaming at the ceiling, as if it were going to somehow bring my real parents back. Everything that happened after that was a blur. After hours of lying there on the floor, not knowing what to do, the first rays of daylight began to creep through the warm, peachy curtains in my room, striking my eyes as it danced around gracefully, illuminating the room, and seemingly washing away the aura of misery. I sat up straight, determined to find my mother. In my dream, dad didn't make it, but I believe my mother is out there waiting for us, and I would walk through hell and back, if only I could be with her again. It must be tough for Di too.
I remember seeing her run into the house from her school bus, crying, when it was Mother's Day. Their teacher took a special break from studies, during the last lesson so the class could do an activity. They were supposed to make cards for their moms and take it home to surprise them, and she was the only child who didn't even have one to give a card to. But as stubborn as she is, she made one anyway, promising herself that she'll give it to our mom one day, but of course, a 10-year-old can only pretend to be brave for so long.
She broke down crying and ran out of the classroom and straight into the girls' washrooms, leaving her unfinished card behind. Then some snotty, stuck-up little girls followed her and threw the card at her claiming she was such a cry baby, and the card was a waste of time because she doesn't have a mom anyway.
I was so pissed off, I almost went to their parents to give them a good wake-up call, telling them to maybe teach their kids some manners instead of spoiling them all day. I bet that bunch of girls are going to grow up to be those fake mean girls you see in a typical school setting, and boy have I witnessed my fair share of that type. Cue the eye-roll.
I was home-schooled for a while since, our second dad found us when I was 6 and Di wasn't even a year old. But after I caught up, I got sent to school. I studied as hard as I could, because I felt that if I slowed down, even for a second, I'd fall back too far. Soon enough, that fear propelled me into being a 'prodigy,' as some would call it. Although, it would seem as if it were an unspoken law of the universe though, that all the smartest kids a never make many friends, which was utterly true in my case, as I remember spending the majority of my first year of high school's lunches having a crappy sandwich from the canteen in one of the old toilet stalls.
Sure, it's kind of sad, but I've never really been the type to get close with people unless they're immediate family, so it never seemed to bother me that much. While other guys my age were asking girls out and going to parties with food and dancing, I'd spend my weekends with my nose in a book.
I guess that's something I inherited from mother. I'd almost always recall seeing her with a book, and some steaming, hot tea in her favourite mug. She would have all her hot beverages in just that mug, and no other crockery. I believe it was a present from someone, although I don't seem to remember who. I guess I'd just have to ask her that myself too.
.
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