Covered with a deep red comforter, she curled herself up on the royal blue vintage sofa. Her weary eyes tried to focus on the ticking grandmother clock. The bronze clock ticked continuously, rhythmically echoing in the room with the sound of the rain beating against the windows. She looked at the door for the umpteenth time, sighing loudly and slouching back a bit. She had someone out there to worry about.
The rain beat against the roof and windows and everything it touched, causing deep, loud clashes and booming with the thunderstorm. The closed window kept the wind from bothering her, but not enough to stop her from worrying about who was out there in the storm. If only she could find and lock him up in his room. But she couldn't, she could never. Not just because her husband would punish her, but because the person she worry about wasn't ready to be saved.
She tossed on the sofa, turning her body towards the largest window, and as if waiting for her to turn, the wind forced the window open, throwing the curtains astray and repeatedly hitting the thin glass against the wall. Jumping to her feet, she ran towards the window, her duvet dropping on the carpeted floor. The wind pushed in the rain, making it a bit difficult for her to close it. With a bit more effort and a sigh, she locked the window.
"I hate it when it rains," she murmured under her breath.
"And that's why I always beg you to sleep instead of worrying," a startled scream left her mouth as she turned with a jump. The brief clash of thunder and the flash of lightning enlightened the speaker, giving him a spookish appearance that scared the woman to the pit of her stomach. "Mother, relax, it's me, calm down." The woman clamped her hand on her mouth, taking in a deep breath as she processed the situation. The speaker was her son whom she had been waiting for.
Now out of her frightened state, she gave her son quick scrutiny, first noting the blood splattered on his baby blue shirt and his pants. Then she looked at the trail he left, a mixture of water and blood. "It's not mine, you need not worry." He spoke as he watched his mother's ever-pained eyes observe him.
"I know," she sighed, "it's never yours. It still doesn't stop me from worrying about you, darling. Whether you like it or not, I am your mother and I must worry about you, especially with the kind of work you do at your age. It's disturbing and you know—"
"If I don't do it, mother, father will hand it over to him. I have to work to earn my father's trust, to prove that I am strong enough to take after him, so I won't be replaced. We stand a lot to lose if I fail to convince him—"
"But in doing so, you are losing yourself," the woman cried, dumping the duvet on her young son's head. Using it as a towel, she roughly dried his hair. "You are becoming more like him and the others before him. I do not want you to be like him, I want you to hold on to happiness, to have the compassion he's failing to sustain. Why can't you see it?" He pulled the duvet out of his face, turned on his heels, and walked away from his mother to avoid the conversation.
Relentless on her part, she followed him to his room, ready to make him see a bit of the picture from her view. Once in his room, he pulled off his bloody shirt and dumped it on the floor, knowing his mother would handle it fully. However, she stepped over the shirt and ran before him, blocking the path to his bathroom. Sighing out loud, he ran his fingers through his wet hair with a roll of his eyes. He really didn't have the energy to deal with her relentless sermons.
"What do you want, mother?"
"Promise me," she blurted out. He raised a questioning brow at her. "Promise me that even if your world becomes nothing but blood and wine, weapons and sex, white and black, you will always find the small spark of light to anchor you to humanity. Promise me you will not let this life you have been forced to live completely overwhelm you. Promise me that when you find something that adds colors to your monochrome world or pure excitement to your life, you will not destroy it like your father is doing—"
"You know I cannot love, mother, if that's what you're insinuating. Love is for the weak and for people like me, it expires as soon as it begins. Your marriage to my father is a good example." He said blatantly, carefully, and discreetly trying to step around the determined woman. He, however, knew it was a waste of time. When she's determined, nothing can stop her. Not even his father.
"I no longer weep for the lover that I lost, but I weep for the son that is turning into a crueler version of him. You can love, darling, you just believe you can't but I know you more than anyone else. I know the baby that lives in you, the sweet, caring, jovial boy you ought to be. I know it's buried in there somewhere and one day, I believe you will meet the one to bring him out, or at least, the best side of you. Just promise me that no matter the situation, no matter how hard it is for you to hang on, you'll always find an anchor to humanity." She cupped her son's cheeks, pushing her stern face into his. He didn't take it seriously because he didn't care, but he had to get rid of the woman. He had another job to do.
"Promise me, My Teddy, promise me."
"I promise, mother." And he never breaks a promise to her.