A Mind of Your Own

Hey Mom. I never told you this before, but... on that fateful night, I had a dreadful dream about our future as a family together. Much like déjà vu, my mind had forgotten the endless love that we shared and cared for. It had also imprisoned my eyelids in an involuntary state of nervous rippling, as if caught in an immobilising spell of suspended memory replays. When they finally popped open, I vaguely remembered the events in which I had lost you to the depths of this familiar velvety darkness that consumed you entirely and so unsparingly. In my wake, I could not save you from the demons that you were so enraptured by. The only stark detail that I can dredge up is the moment you were sprawled on the floor in your usual drunken stupor, completely unaware and steeped in your drenched, soiled pajamas.

Of course, I took it as a display of brazen callousness towards paying mind to your own children when they needed you the most, so I begrudgingly left you in the sorry state that you were in. Along the way, I divested you of that Kodak photo album of Grandma you had in hand and ripped it to bits before leaving. It had been so long since she had graced our lives with her merry presence that I had desperately wanted to erase the troubling contrast her almost tangible aura had brought when conjured up by that photobook.

Had I known that it was what kept you from relapsing into a full-blown anxious rage, I wouldn't have dared to destroy your one and only priceless possession. In the following days, I blatantly lied about having seen it anywhere but at home. Before you could suspect me, I falsely accused Jonathan of removing it from its place because he had clearly hated Grandma with a burning passion, even before you both decided to get married. In hindsight, it was a pathetic attempt at gaining your attention when there may have been plenty of other "better" ways to have done so. I came home to a cold turkey sandwich left on the kitchen countertop and regretted it that instant for not taking care of you when I should have. Right at that fortuitous moment, Bethany scurried in to report the god-awful stench coming from our living quarters, and I had never felt so ashamed. Again, it made me brood over how I had failed to care for you when you had raised me in perfectly sanitary, loving, and healthy conditions.

Immediately after, I found myself bounding up the stairs in urgent buoyancy and was in the middle of reaching out for the door handle when I heard a deluge of not-so-friendly hues and cries that prompted me to turn on my heel and retreat silently. "He knows! I know he knows! " was all I could decipher, and the farther I moved, the quieter the voices grew. I liked it that way. I couldn't dare show my wretched, guilt-ridden face in front of you or Jonathan. A distant quietude settled into the porphyry-colored walls of our home, following which, a man emerged from your bedroom and shot past me down the staircase and out the door. Even if I hadn't caught an accidental glimpse of his face and build, I would've still been able to recognize Jonathan from a mile away. He left that day and was never to be seen again.

The next morning, my senses awoke to a surreal daze as I wandered down to the kitchen, and to my surprise, you were cooking my favorite breakfast meal: french toast and golden eggs. "Thank you, Mom.", I'd managed to choke up an appreciative thought and you'd smiled lovingly in return. "You're very welcome, honey. What did you do the night before? Did you get enough sleep? " You seemed more concerned than anything else, while I fought to conceal the growing mass of regret and culpability whelming inside my stomach. It felt as if I were being swamped by a swarm of gnats that buzzed and whirred and stung until I couldn't stand their constant thronging any longer, and before I knew it, I was a crying heap of a mess right under your watchful eyes.

"Oh, honey, don't worry, nothing bad has happened." You attempted to calm my heightened anxiety, but I could sense fear and confusion emanating from your side of the dinner table. For a fleeting instance, I considered how I could make up for the harm I'd done, but then hopelessness overtook me, and I couldn't think of any other way to bring him back to us. "I'm going back upstairs," I murmured. "I'll see you soon, promise." Before I left, I returned briefly to your room and noticed you staring out the window, motionless, as if you knew.

You've given me a second chance, Mom, but I can't help but feel like I don't deserve it. Not anymore. I've let everyone down, including myself.

And that will plague me for the rest of my life.

Your unlovable rapscallion,

James.