• Solo • The Loss of a Loved One and All it Entails [Pig Boy]

[Kotton]

123 Ashan, 724

.

His eyes gazed around the empty room. It was just him and his mother. He anticipated nothing and therefore received nothing other than a general understanding that what once was would inevitably be no longer. There was a steady and circular movement of things. Birth transcends into death. And that is how it would always be.

There was a backstory to this whole situation just as there was a backdrop, though the former was more important. And it detailed an underlying issue and the inconclusiveness of a diagnosis that didn't matter to someone who was fluent in how basic medical procedure went. Practioners did what they could to find and solve the problem, but when that failed, there was nothing left but to explain to the ailing just how serious and untreatable their prognosis was.

Kotton was unaware that his adoptive father had kept in contact with his biological mother. That was until he had sat the young man down and adhered a strict and sombre expression onto his face during one of Kotton’s usual visitation dinners.

“Son,” he had began, but even without the ability to hear, Kotton knew immediately that there was something wrong. May it be his father’s body language, facial expression, or even the slightly abnormal behaviour he demonstrated (the constant licking of his already very chapped lips or insecesnt wringing of his hands), there was too much in the way of evidence to suggest anything other than bad news.

Kotton had gone through life expecting bad news. It was just in his nature. He was inherently susceptible to anxiety and facing the ugly reared head of what was considered the ‘worse case scenario’. But that had been okay with him. In fact, it could even be seen as a blessing. For when your expectations were so low that they dipped into the realm of the negative, nothing could make you disappointed or leave you feeling disheartened. Whilst others may view this fact with pity, it was uncessesary because it gave Kotton an edge that most other people didn’t have. He wasn’t easily offended. He wasn’t easily thrown into the throes of despair. He wasn’t regularly met with defeat in the way another other normal person would react to having lost, especially if the loss was of great significance so as to leave an everlasting mark on their psyche. No, Kotton had grown to understand the two sides of how the world worked. There was always contrast- a negative and a positive. There was always a presence of antonyms, and in this particular scenario those antonyms fell into the terms and definitions of life and death. And here he was faced amidst the potentiality of an all-consuming death.

Whilst Kotton had far removed himself from any emotion tied to his past life regarding his biological mother or father, there was still within him a reservoir of emotion and it presented itself in the form of tears. His waterline fought to hold back those bastardly salt droplets, but one slipped. He brushed it away, hoping no one had seen it, especially not his mother. He didn’t want her to think that he was weak. He honestly still had a bone in his body that was saturated with resentment towards her for throwing him out, considering him defective, and choosing to not have anything to do with him no matter how much he grew and thrived and progressed in life such as he had. But there were more bones in his body than just one. And those bones weren’t saturated with hatred and condescension. They were normal, healthy bones that contained about as much humility and respect and consideration as someone who looked after people for a living. Which he did. As a medic and soon-to-be appointed nurse.

So why brush away those stray droplets of sadness? Maybe it was to prove a point to his mother. Maybe it was more to prove a point to himself. He wouldn’t know until after having slept on it and dwelling on it for two to three days. But he didn’t have that time. No, he only had an hour at most to meet with his mother, to speak with her, to ask her questions and to, dare he say it, forgive her for what she had done to him.

He took a timid step towards her cot and leant his upper body so that it decreased the distance between him and his ability to look at her mouth. She spoke, “I am so sorry for what I did.” She wheezed, fighting for the air her lungs simply could not give her. “I was so young. I was so naive. And I was so unprepared to handle a child who needed additional help.”

Kotton, whilst proud of his ability to remain open-minded, had a difficult time accepting this apology. Although, after a moment’s contemplation, he recognised that he had never been in his mother’s shoes so to speak. He hadn’t had a child. Alone. And he certainly hadn’t had a child whilst still so young and unaware of the ways of the world. Perhaps she hadn’t had a good support system, something essential to doing anything as important as raising a child. Perhaps she didn’t feel she had the resources to help her in raising a child born with a disability. Perhaps she had succumbed to those misleading and treacherous and vile evils of anxiety that kept her from believing in her worth as a mother. These were all hypotheticals and Kotton couldn’t begin to assume the truth toward any of them.

He took another step closer and offered his hand. His mother hesitantly reached out to take it. Her palm was cold and sweaty. But his was unnaturally warm and pleasant in feeling due to his witchmark. His mother even uttered a sound of unexpectedness once she had made contact with his flesh. It wasn’t much, but he surely hoped the heat from his skin would give her enough comfort to get through another few minutes of conversation. He could only fathom how much energy it took for her to simply form syllables.

The young man was no pushover but he was certainly no apathetic jerk. He was considerate, understanding and even when there was so much evidence appointed to suggest he not forgive, he did so anyway. He had a strong heart and a listening mind. Even deaf, he could hear the pleas of those who genuinely wanted to be heard.

“Your father was cruel,” his mother continued after having found her breath. “He left as soon as he knew I was pregnant. I feel terrible admitting that I thought about aborting you. I was so close to trying any and all methods to prevent you from being born, but there was something that stopped me.”

Kotton tried not to take offense to the way she had begun her statement, but was easily drawn away from the feelings he felt were attacked by focusing on the fact that she hadn’t gone through with her wishes. And it was all because of… something? Could it have been an immortal, perhaps? He racked his brain for any and all information he had about immortals and their varying domains but could only settle on one. And it came down to three: Pier and Pre, immortals of equality, justice, truth and lies; Qylios who he had studied to be the one who managed bonds and leadership; or Vri, the possessor of life, love and remembrance. Now, those weren’t all the domains these immortals sought to imbue in mortals, but they were the most logical to assume during the current scenario. And Kotton was knowledgeable about all of them.

His mind was frantic, sprinting through corridors and rounding corners without a care as to hitting his hip on the sharp edges of said corners. He was overwhelmed to say the least, but he wouldn’t be bested by it. He channeled his anxiety and all undue energy and used it to close off all other external stimuli such as the ridiculously sensual and prophetic butterfly of catastrophization that dared invade his thinking space. Call it meditation, call it introspection, call it whatever you like, Kotton took a swan dive into his mind’s eye and relocated all elements of what he had just experienced until it was a single mass in the very centre of his psyche. He glared at it, he seethed with rage at its simple existence, but above all, he brought forth a form of meditation known as Vipassana or ‘insight meditation’ where he encouraged the silence he sat in and examined the nature of reality. He ‘let all emotions, sensations and thoughts arise without becoming attached to them’ and if they arose, which they more than likely did, he would label them a distraction and punt them far enough away so as not to impede on his focus and concentration. And thankfully, this wasn’t a very timely exercise. He could do it in as little as a few minutes, which was enough time for his mother to find her breath and recognise her status, lying on a bed in hospital, speaking to the son she had surely thought she had lost.

“Mothew,” Kotton started, resisting the emotional urge to stutter his words. “I may not fully undewstand the weasons of what you did, but I appweciate you telling me. And I have come to the decision that I fowgive you. You only did what you thought was best.”

His mother’s face brightened exponentially. She opened her mouth, just about to respond when Kotton raised his index finger and cut her off before she had the time to utter a single letter.

“But-” His lack of confidence chose to manifest itself at this very momentous moment. But he had practiced for this. He had studied up on how to be more self-advocating and secure in his stance. Therefore, he stood tall, refrained from biting his tongue and shutting down and continued, “I will not fowgive you fow not weaching out. You had so many oppowtunities to look in on how I was doing, but you didn’t. I’m doing gweat by the way. I have a stable job as a medic, soon to be nuwse, I have a house, I have pets, I have fwiends, I don’t have any debt haunting me, and I have all the suppowt you couldn’t give me.”

Whilst direct and inadvertently factual, his honestly could have seemed offensive in the eyes of anyone who was over-sensitive. That was not his concern. As someone who valued the truth and who lived for integrity regardless of the harshness and brazen commentary needed to make statements aware to those who had already been given warnings time and time again, this was where he felt most doubtless.

It was no surprise that silence pervaded the room with an unfragrant aroma. It was also no surprise that it lasted for longer than a minute… or two… or three. But Kotton had no need to be anywhere else. He had no prior commitments, no predetermined plans, no important appointments or meetings to promptly attend. It was just him and his mother in the clinic that forced a tacit agreement as to the time and place of what was an irrevocable decision of term.

Confidence aside, Kotton struggled to find solace in the words he had just said. Would those be the very last he spoke of to his mother? He hoped not. He valued etiquette and politeness even when he had been inarguably wronged. But even more than he hated that, he hated ending anything as a bad guy.

Much to his luck, his mother was still there. Lucid? Enough. Coherent? Just barely. But she was still there and Kotton couldn’t have prayed for anything better.

“You’re right,” she wheezed with a wet and phlegmy cough. “You are so right. And I am glad that you became as great as you are without me.”

He thought his body had no more water. He hadn’t drunk nearly enough water to keep him hydrated for the day, but here he was, ever hit with a sadness he truly thought he was incapable of feeling. He felt the strength of his mother’s hand against his own weaken. He knew right then that time was limited, so he worked up everything he had- feeling, emotion, thought, energy both physical and mental- until he didn’t think there was anything more to conjure. And he said, “I love you, mom.”

A second later, her hand was as cold as ice, her body limp and non responding.

There was only the sound of sobs that filled the room and they came from a young boy who had once been lost, now found, but had seemingly become lost again. He would cherish his mother’s legacy and remember her and love her for who she was or for who she wished she could have been. And he would embrace her death with the sadness requited by someone who had just lost a family member.

[Pig Boy]

The Hand of Silence

"Always too soon to say goodbye." Came a voice from the dark of the room. "You had barely learned her name, before it was time."

Vri sighed, unable to help himself. This part of his duty he took no pleasure in. There was always a sense of shared helplessness. Yet this was as needs must be. Everyone would experience death at one point, even Immortals couldn't forestall the tides of Fate, so Ziell often insisted upon their meetings.

"Sorry, I'm not very good at this..." Vri apologized to Kotton, as he took up position on the other side of his mother's death bed. "You know who I am? My wife told me of your struggles."

"What she told me reminds me of... well of me. Not to make this my issue, I..." However it was possible, Kotton would find he could interpret Vri's words perfectly, even when his eyes were turned aside, or not following his lips. "I'm sorry. This is difficult."

He ventured, somewhat awkwardly in cadence, "May I take a seat, Kotton? I prefer to see eye to eye with the berieved."

If he was allowed, he'd pull a chair and take up the seat on the other side of her bed. Then he'd stare with a frank look toward Kotton. "There's little I can do to ease this pain. The loss of years and memories you never had a chance to build. Your mother's legacy, however, can be a seed of what you have done with your life. All the good, and the bad. If you want it to be."

He mouth twisted at the end of that statement, perhaps realizing it wouldn't be much help. "This is why I need my love, my wife, Anaza. She's serves every failing that I possess. I'm not good at... talking to people, whereas for her it seems effortless."

"'Love can take many forms.' She says to me. Imagine a mortal chastising an Immortal on the meaning of his domains. And yet... " He shook his head. "What I think is meant by that... what I'm trying to say," He paused, as if searching his thoughts, "I suppose I'm asking..." He tsked, and sighed. He didn't appear to know what he was saying.

For a few moments, there was a comforting silence, as Kotton let the sorrow flow through his mind and heart. And Vri seemed content to leave it so, until Kotton opened up. Finally, the Immortal seemed to find his tongue, "If you want to talk, to share a trouble, I am here to listen And if you wish to, I can speak on my experiences. Though for obvious reasons there are secrets that I must keep to myself. I hope you understand."

So saying, Vri waited for Kotton's reaction.

[Kotton]

.

A chilly wisp of air suddenly traipsed throughout the room, though Kotton, still blinded by wet eyes, took no immediate notice of it. It was probably another nurse coming to tend to the aftermath of a loved one too quickly lost. He sniffled, pressed his fingers to his eyebrow and instinctively began drawing small circles. This had always been something he did when he needed to not only calm down, but feel comforted and consoled when he was alone. Maybe it soothed any impending headache or jostled his emotions toward symmetry; he couldn’t continue crying forever. Whilst he was an extremely empathetic man, he still really only knew the woman for a short amount of time.

Suddenly there was an itching sensation in his head. Not on it, as something that could be physically scratched, but inside it. It felt like a little tingle, like when someone’s breath hit the back of your neck in the perfect way that all hairs stood on end in either a response of fear or utter ecstasy. Kotton couldn’t determine which it was. At least not until he raised his head and met the gaze of a towering figure with a pallid complexion. The contrast of his snow-white pallor and stark black hair would have been dubitable had he not have seen the man with his own eyes. Eyes… speaking of eyes… His pupils were reminiscent of his feline friend Imogen’s: goldenrod, a warm and inviting colour but with the potential to be intense with the theory of being a threat or muted with the possibility of being nothing other than a gentle embrace.

He had positioned himself adjacent to his mother’s death bed, directly across from Kotton as the young man had lifted his chin to declare it was a perfectly acceptable thing to do. He so desperately wished he could hear the man’s voice, for he was certain it was soft, but loud enough with the power of understability. He was almost sure his voice would be a little gravelly, like from a man who was wise beyond his years. And that was when he made the connection.

Those faint tingles and tremors inside his skull had been the whispers of someone who had such power to breach the language barrier that was Kotton’s inability to hear. He hadn’t noticed the man until now, but had somehow picked up on some of the words he had spoken before making eye contact. That, coupled with the addressing of a wife he had called Anaza was enough to connect the last pieces of anyone’s puzzle. His cordial affirmation of death’s importance and his take on love only aided in fueling Kotton’s fascination and alacrity.

As someone who knew what it felt like to be cast into a sea of melancholy, to be lost amidst the ways of morose waves that filled them, it was easy for Kotton to perceive an air of grief about the man, who at this point had been identified as none other than the very Immortal Vri.

“Y-yes,” Kotton stuttered none too confidently. “I met Anaza a-and she told me to find mementos wowthy of cweating a time capsule in your honouw.” His memory, whilst usually unreliable, had decided to bless him with the exact moment in time when he had the chance to speak to such a wonderful and lovely visage. Kotton could spend hours simply reading the hesitancy that sputtered off Vri’s lips. The very fact that an immortal was at a loss for words tried to instigate a fight inside his mind, one willing to force him to cry once more. It was relieving, refreshing, almost heavenly, to find himself in someone who held so much power. He understood now exactly what the man had meant when he said Kotton reminded him of himself.

Vri had found a pause in his thoughts, leaving Kotton to either do away with the silence or make it something momentous. He chose to circle back on the statement Vri had made about his mother’s legacy being a seed to either nourish or let die in the vacancy of sunlight, soil and encouragement.

“Thewe’s undoubtedly a weason why things become what they awe. I would have been an entiwely diffewent pewson had I known my mothew, been waised with my mothew, and ultimately gwown up by my mothew’s side. And perhaps that is not the pewson I would have wanted to be. I have wegrets, sure, but I’m at peace with who I have become. That doesn’t mean I’m not always conspiwing in the ways of the ‘what if’. I often think about who I would have been if I had a loving family, waised by someone of my own blood, but then I begin to pondew… what I don’t know can't huwt me. I will always cweate scenawios in my head, but I will nevew be suwe which scenawio would have been twue. Sometimes ignowance is bliss. And that is the way of life. I have twied to teach myself how to deal with the cawds I have been dealt. Anguish often catches me as I attempt to wun away, and whilst I absolutely hate that it’s thewe, perhaps that’s just a pawt of who I am as an individual.”

Kotton licked his lips as they had become dry during his speech, much unlike his armpits which were drowning in excess sweat. “I just wish I knew that all this pain and sowwow was meant fow something better. Like,” the young man paused, trying to find the best way to approach this subject without seeming to be ungrateful or spoiled by all the goods he did have. Once he found what he was looking for, he let go. “I just wish I knew the puwpose of things so that it made sense as to why people choose to end theiw lives by theiw own hands.” He stopped, reviewed and attempted to edit his previous statement. “I mean, I undewstand the impowtance of death and sowwow and the love that comes to those who feel all too much of it at once. But… thewe are people who… like I have thought about it too… many times, but…”

He submitted his lack of wording to the air between them, but not before adding, “what has youw expewience been in tewms of suicide?”

Kotton hoped this sensitive topic wasn’t too unprofessional or personal to garner him a reply. He wrung his hands, still wet with the aftermath of salty tears and braced for Vri’s response.