Good?

Middle.

November 2015

For the first time in a while Francisco is allowed to leave the hospital and be outside. He wasn't discharged, yet. Though the doctors are saying that his body is recovering at an unusually pace. As if the body doesn't want to recover. Since, recovering would mean going back home.

Francisco pinches the edge of his nose as he walks down the sidewalks he once ran on. He sighs and keeps walking. A couple of middle schooler run past him. As they do they fart and look over their shoulders expecting a reaction from the stranger. Francisco's face stays stale, at a time he would have defiantly cracked a smile at the sound of farts. Now, the sound of farts is drowned out by the memories of his mother crying at his bedside.

When it hurt to form words Francisco kept quiet about the small bruises on her neck. Whenever he pointed them out his mother would simply blow them away. Ignore them or explain them away so her child wouldn't worry.

As the months passed the small bruises became larger and more vivid. However, in front of the nurses she would wear a coat even if it was hot. In front of Francisco she would keep a meaningless conversation going to avoid the main problem. She would smile all her pain away just so her child wouldn't be worried about her.

Francisco shoves his hands into his jeans as he looks at his small house. Hard to believe that he used to live a happy life in there.

Francisco walks forward and stands in front of the door. He grabs the golden doorknob and pushes it open. His vision blurs for a second but soon enough it clears up. It's pitch black inside, well, as dark as it can get. Francisco's mind begins to picture out situations. Did Monaco turn of the lights to hide evidence of something terrible? Where is he at right now? Where is his mother at right now, safe? What the fuck did he do to her?!

'Surprise!'

Francisco stumbles back as the lights turn on. The light pierces his eyes and he feels his head begin to pound at his skull. His eyes readjust and he sees his mom come forward, wearing a long sleeve shirt, she grabs his hand before he steps out the house.

'You're fifteen years old! How's it feel?' She jokingly asks, a cone on the top of her dirty hair.

'Uhm, well, it feels normal?' he struggles to find the words, 'What's all this?'

'It's your birthday', she wraps her long arms around him.

'Oh, I guess it is'.

His mom drags him inside where with all the lights on he can see the effort that was put into this. The small white walls have massive balloons taped to them. A colorful concoction and a delight to the eyes. There is a small home-mad banner that starts at one side of the room and stretches to the other.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRANCISCO

The growing boy's breath gets caught in his throat as he sees this banner. He looks at his mother with tears in his eyes. Slowly, it's his turn to wrap his arms around her. In this moment it's just the two of them and it is wonderful. After the moment Francisco doesn't bother to ask where's his dad and his mom doesn't bring it up.

The two of them sit at the table and look at old photos. As they flip through Francisco notices that there are multiple gaps between photos, but he doesn't bother to ask. His heart flutters as he sees pictures of him with his mother. Pictures where they smile at the camera, where they are dirty, at the beach, with tutors, and selfies Jasmine loves to take. It's at this moment the growing boy thinks, I can live like this. We don't need him. His skin turns cold as he thinks that. No, he scolds himself, I can't think like that.

Minute---No, hours have passed as the two have simply been looking at old photos and talking about how happy they were. They both know what they mean, but neither of them brings it up.