Clear Minds

1 Month Later...

I awoke to a sight I had almost gotten used to by this point. A dainty room cloaked in ephemeral darkness, the light of the sun outside coaxed away behind a thick amber-shaded curtain blocking it's rays from entering. 

As my vision acclimated to the darkness, I recognized the mahogany drawer set that had been placed neatly on the far wall opposite of the bed I now laid upon. Sitting on top, a figment of a bygone memory, lain a portrait of my Family. Me, Father, and most depressingly, my Mother. 

Father pleaded with me to keep her in mind, brought ample portraits and relics of hers to our new abode, hoping that, with time, I would come to accept her death. But how could I? Every moment of my life now consisted of that bleak dreariness, the exaltation that came with the fact that not only did I fail her, but I outright killed her. 

I was gifted with The Power, and in a decisive moment that cordoned off my Mother's life, I chose complacence. No matter how many times Father argued for the contrary. He would never take that guilt away from me. No one could.

The silk blanket that wrapped itself between my arms and legs amidst my fitful sleep drained every semblance I had of getting up. The cool atmosphere of the room I had called home for the past month lent well to the act of sleep. I wished for nothing else. Turning to a more comfortable position, I felt a sharp tinge of pain emitting from my collar bone. Lifting the upper edge of the blanket away from my chest, I saw that the wrappings covering my upper body were beginning to sag as the adhesive they were coated with thinned away. 

There was a method to my new existence. Wake up, check my bandages, change them if need be, then go back to sleep. This ritual would occasionally be disturbed by my father offering me a plate of heartily-cooked food, but every bite only reminded me of how sweet and fulfilling Mother's had been. 

My thoughts were interrupted by a crude set of knocks coming from the rough-hewn door marking the entryway to my room. Speak of the devil. I lifted myself from the comfortable plush mattress, taking my bandages off with intricate motions as I did so. 

The door shifted open, it's hinges creaking loudly as they always did so. Father stood in the open frame, a plate of food in his opposite hand, as light flooded inwards from the parlor lights outside. 

"Hey there, son. Cooked up something I'm pretty proud with, If I do say so myself. Try a bit, wouldn't you? A growing boy needs his nourishment, after all." His voice was tinged with a halfhearted air of positivity. One could mistake it for genuine mirth, if it wasn't for the destitution that cloaked his emerald eyes. Even his face sagged with a hidden depression, drawing from his once handsome features as a thick stubble replaced the finely-quartered extension of his jawline. 

I reached for the duct of adhesive medical tape that sat on the nightstand to my right, before Father hurriedly skittered over to offer his help. 

"Here, allow me. I imagine it gets pretty difficult doing it by yourself."

"I don't mind. Thank you." My voice was course, devoid of any satisfaction or life. Setting the plate of food on the countertop, he sat besides me as I turned by back towards him, arms aloft. The pain was manageable by this point, but a tinge of embarrassment remained as I relied on his help for such a measly task. 

He got to work, carefully pulling the pale-colored strips around my chest, paying close attention as not to pull too tightly and irritate the bruising that formed on my pallid skin. 

"You know, If I had been hurt as badly as you were when I was your age, I wouldn't be taking to it nearly as well as you have. You've been strong, Yovin. Much stronger than I could've been." He voiced, still speaking with that manufactured tone of subdued angst. His words struck something deep within me as I reacted more truthfully than I intended to.

"Nothing strong about me, Father. Not a damn thing." I muttered, the scathing review of myself caused Father to stop his work with the Medical Tape for a moment.

"Don't speak like that, Yovi. What would your Mother say?" 

"What would Mother say, huh? You wouldn't need to ask if she was here, would you? You wouldn't need to ask if I had just done... done something." My voice was raised, both in apprehension and self-pity. Father had seemingly picked up on both of those factors.

"I know what she would say. She would applaud you for your resilience. She would understand, as I do, that what you're going through is monumental, and that nothing but food and sleep will allow you to grieve. So eat, Yovi. Please. It's good, I swear." As he spoke, his measured hands continued their work, slowly but effectively coating my upper body in a wreath of pale ribbon-like material.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. He could never possibly understand the core of my weakness. Of being gifted with the one thing that could avert the tragedy that befell our family, and still do nothing. Be reduced to nothing. All I could do was peer towards the steaming plate of roasted eggs and fried potatoes that rested appetizingly on the nightstand besides me. I felt a quiver of hunger coax my hands, but only for a moment. 

Finished with the bandages, Father stood up, softly patting my head with the same hand he used to apply the medical tape, before going back towards the door he had came in from. Grabbing it by it's outward edge, he looked over his shoulder, that same longing gleam in his eyes.

"I love you Yovi. Never forget that." And in another hushed movement, he closed the door behind him. the hinges squeaking as he did so. 

 Beyond it, I heard a painfilled sigh loud enough to convey a deep regret, it's source treading further away with every step he took.

He had run himself ragged trying, and failing, to nurture me from my malaise. Even I could see that. Through direct or indirect means, he had always been a loving Father to me. 

But this was greater than the sum of our relationship. The divide that had been drawn after the brutal passing of my Mother, and his wife. created a rift I was certain would never heal. 

Because, deep down, I knew. I knew a small part of him blamed me. Blamed my inaction that resulted in her death. I couldn't possibly hold it against him either. I would feel the same if the roles were reversed. Keeping a facade of tranquility, when just beneath raged the torrents of betrayal. Or rather, a feeling of incongruity. 

The Plate of food sat idly besides me, it's scent wafting into the air around me until it stained the entire room. I was getting nauseous. He had worked hard to make this, and yet, I felt the energy he spent was duly wasted. I was neither a son or a Man. I couldn't protect the one thing that mattered, and as a result, I figured death would be close behind. 

"What am I to do, Mother? The walls are getting closer ever since you left." I muttered, a figment of insanity etching my words. She would never hear me, never speak to me, and yet, I reached out to her all the same. 

Silence pervaded the room, as one would expect. Hearing a voice from nothingness would be beyond the bounds of normality. Nothing could breach that horizon between life and death. As much as I wished something would. 

'Eat.' 

Against my better judgement, the faint whisper of a voice echoed against the blank walls that surrounded me. A draft from the window, surely. Or maybe the house was settling. It was quite old based on what Father told me. He wasn't allowed the freedom of choice in the matter, after all.

'You'll run yourself ragged.'

There it was again, but this time, much more pronounced. What was previously a soft exhale now increased it's volume loud enough for me to be certain I wasn't imagining it. Granted, the last month of isolation could do implacable things to the Human Psyche. I was going insane. But that idea gave way to a freedom I took liberty upon. 

"Who's there?" Scanning the corners of the underlit room , I sat up with an intrigue I had never quite felt before. A yearning to hear the voice again. The mattress beneath me creaked against my sudden movement, but that was all I could hear. 

"Mother?"

The Voice hadn't deigned to offer a response against my chagrin. Gritting my teeth, I fell back into the bed, covering myself with the cream-colored sheets that offered refuge against the cold that surrounded me. 

Minutes passed, and with every second, the idea of an disembodied voice coaxing me awake became more and more ludicrous. I was hearing phantom sounds, maybe even loose conversation from outside. There was no chance I would be so lucky. 

The thought imbued me with an arterial anger. If she was still here with us, why not show herself? What the hell was the point in remaining vague? That's not what I needed right now. Not closure, not assurance, but the confidence she conveyed to me with every word she spoke. 

Tears seamed against my lower eyelids, the pain of her loss truly cementing itself within my mind. I knew she was dead, and that death was the end, but in my mind, I still held a glimmer of hope that what I had experienced had been a bad dream, that the last month had only been it's continuation.

But within that shallow tomb where I rested, haunted by figments of sounds that toyed with my sorrow, I realized she wasn't here. Chastised myself for hoping otherwise. And with that realization came a tidal wave of emotion. 

Crying until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer was all I could do. The Power I was given offered little more than a vague path towards some inconsequential future. Everything I thought about myself and the world I lived in caved under the abject weight that placed itself onto me. 

There was nothing here for me. But, maybe, If I died, I could begin to offer reparations for my grievous sin. 

Yes. That was the way. The only way I could move past this, to offer my condolences in the wake of cowardice, was my death. It was the only thing that made sense in my addled mind. 

Wiping my tears for the last time, I stoop up, a surge of energy exorcising the fatigue of inactivity from my legs and feet. 

It would need to be quick, and clean, with no possible means of disclosure. Surely not here, where Father might intervene. He wouldn't understand. In fact, he might not even try too. I was, in a way, the arbiter of his wife's demise. Still, I couldn't take that chance. 

So, for the first time in a long time, I reached for the door leading out myself, gripping it's handle with an iron hold. 

Today would be the last time I felt so disgusted with myself.