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123 Ashan, 724
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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.
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.