Whatever Will I Be Without You?

Underwater

 He's been forced beneath the water for nearly three months. At least that's what it feels like in his home, on the farms and in the village; a life once bright and comforting, though then it was never appreciated, now a life submerged. Wave tossed and eroding with the ever blowing sands of time. Voices around him float over head, they go by distorted, ignored; the faces of family he does see are out of focus. His life has been coated with a thick layer of seafoam, brimming the dunes of the shore with each cast,  making all he experiences process as surreal, there no longer is a reality. He finds himself wondering just how much a human can take in the means of shallow breaths and screams that are drowned out; how much pain they can suffer through before they drown, sink below the murky surface and give up the struggle against the raging currents.  

At least the outdated wallpaper was not anything new to become accustom to; it's never not been within the house. His mother all but dragged him upstairs by the collar of his dark sweatshirt, perhaps fearful of how much he's been holed away. His father is at work. Of course, that's hardly world breaking news to broadcast he feels, nothing worthwhile to acknowledge. 

 His self-proclaimed father had been showing himself less and less. At first he figured they were just once distancing, but now the grand mystery has been solved. He's avoiding him. The 'poor, poor, boy' as the hushed whispers that leak through the improperly laid floorboards say, words of other folks from the town when they come to visit. Mostly elders. Now, he can truly see. At least his vision isn't shrouded in all aspects. 

The crack of an egg as the fragments of the shell splinter apart draws dark eyes to lazily drag their way over to his mother, preparing something or other in an already dirty bowl; he wasn't even aware she knew how to bake. She's a good parent; but homemade cookies and pies for church picnics were never what she was known for. 

He's aware that he's the picture of pathetic, but, he's sick of having /that/ look cast his way. The look he receives now as his mother lifts her gaze from the rim of the bowl, meeting his own intense stare. The soft one, like too strong of a hold will shatter him into a million pieces. With the slight furrow of her bushy eyebrows. Followed by an overly sweet smile. He's seen it so much he can count down to each new step in the sequence. It's that predictable. The easiest solution would be to just quit being sad, but, with that being near impossible, he's decided that his new course of action will just be giving no new reasons to enforce such a look. And that means keeping the little crush velvet box hidden away, unless, of course, she already knows. And, he needs to reassure her that he's fine.  That's what he needs to know, really. He needs to know what he can do to ease his mother's pain as much as his own uncomfortability. 

Sadly, instead of an answer, he just gets a request, "Sebby," he hasn't heard that name since he was a toddler, not from his mother; through the feminine tone of her voice kept too many years from pricking at him.  Why the use was deployed now sat heavy as a cement block in the pit of his stomach, nonetheless. "When I'm finished with these cookies, will you bring them to our new neighbor? Being outside will do you some good. My God, you look white as a ghost. You need sunlight," he's always looked like this. Complexion wise. He's lost weight, giving him a lanky form, but he hasn't paled at all. Still, that isn't his main concern with her statement. No, his interests lie elsewhere. Specifically, this new neighbor. He wasn't aware they had one. Who could it be? But then again: when did he start caring about such?