More Childhood Trauma

The boy pulled his hands from his face and dropped them back into the basin, staring back at his reflection. No matter how hard he scrubbed, no matter how many times he splashed his face, he didn’t feel clean. He didn’t -look- clean. The boy’s face screwed up and so did the reflection. Why was it every time he saw himself all he could really see was her. His mother, her youthful glow shriveled into a sickly grey, the lines of pain cracked over her parched skin. His brows creased as that was the natural for someone cringing in pain, but the moment he saw them he panicked and pressed a palm to his forehead. No! Even so, he continued to stand transfixed at the mirror, his mother’s memory vivid in his mind. He could see himself gaining the features she had before she died, the disease, the pain. He washed his face again. He could still -see- it, he could -feel- it on his skin. “Stop,” he whimpered. He scrubbed his face harder, harder till his skin flushed red all over. Why wouldn’t it go away?! Why did it stay there?! Why did his reflection show him things that weren’t there?! 

———

Arin felt a cold shiver down his spine, following the trail of hair clumps down the hall and to the bathroom. He pushed the door open. His heart caught in his throat. Young Kordell stood stooped over the basin, fingers deeply hooked into bloody gashes on his face, staring wildly at his reflection. He raked his face again, and again, hands jerking up and down, wide eyes searching every cut and mutilation on his skin.

“Kordell!” The man’s usually deep, gentle voice spiked in alarm. He rushed over and grabbed his son’s wrists, prying them from his face for fear the boy would make it even worse. 

Kordell didn’t protest, going stiff as a corpse while his father pulled him away. “I can see it—it’s still there,” the boy’s voice hollowed out in horror, “The disease—it’s on my face—it’s on me.”

“No, no it’s all right, you’re safe,” Arin tried to reassure the boy, heart aching when he had a chance to see the jagged nail marks all over. 

“I see it,” he stressed in a desperate effort to convince the man, “It’s—all over! Crawling! I have to get it off!” His voice spiked and he thrashed in desperation, hands straining to reach his face once more to tear at the skin. 

“Kordell!” The man strained to keep from hurting his son while he jerked in his grip.

“It’s gonna kill me—!! It hurts!” The boy cried in hysterics, fresh globs of tears running down his bleeding face. He made another desperate move in his father’s grip. 

Arin grabbed the boy and drew him close, engulfing him in his strong arms. The boy went limp in a heartbeat and sobbed uncontrollably in his father’s arms, bloody fingers gripping the other’s shirt.  Arin bent over his son and held him close, stroking the boy’s head. “It’s okay,” his quiet voice trembled as he repeated it to the boy over and over. The boy’s sobs resided enough for him to bury his face further into the man’ shirt.  He blubbered intelligible words, muffled in the man’s clothes. Arin remained there by the boy, bent over him as an umbrella of protection from the unseen horrors the boy was experiencing. 

“I did...everythin... i’s still there,” the boy drew in steps of an uneven breath. “Why....”

Arin didn’t answer right away, how could he? The only thing he could do was try to reassure the boy he would be all right in the end. Helpless, that’s what he was. Helpless in the face of his son’s pain. Eventually, the sobs and hiccups did subside, and the boy hung limply and silent in his father’s arms. After some gentle convincing, Arin managed to carry his son over to the bed and sat him down, bringing a medical kit with him. He gently dabbed at the cuts with the edge of a cloth soaked in soothing ointment. Even so he found himself flinching every time his son did. His heart hurt. 

“Sorry,” the boy spoke in the smallest voice possible as some clarity settled in. 

Arin used his free hand to place on his son’s head, holding it there for a silent moment and then releasing. 

The boy squirmed uncomfortably on the bed when his father began putting on gauze over his face. “I just...don’t want to get it too...”

His father’s face tightened in pain. “I won’t let that happen,” he spoke slowly.

The boy fell silent again and fiddled with his hands until his father took them and cleaned them off. “What if it happens to you?” He voiced his worries to his poor father once more. 

Arin hesitated. He couldn’t promise his son that it would never happen to him, but he would try with every effort of his being to stay alive for his son’s sake. “I won’t put you or myself into harm’s way, to allow that to happen,” he spoke carefully.

The boy knew deep down that his father couldn’t promise that he would -never- become diseased and die the way his mother did. No one could be sure, even in the safety and comfort of the underground, there always lay the risk that they could become caught up in  a nearby attack and die. Like his mother. For now, though, they were safe, and his father’s reassurance was enough. Enough for him now, to be sure that one day he wouldn’t wake up to his father’s shriveled corpse laying in bed. 

“There,” Arin leaned back from his finished work and methodically put the medical supplies away. 

The boy gingerly touched the gauze on his face, flinching at the soreness. He feared what he may look like if he checked the mirror just then, so he wouldn’t. 

“I know, it’s hard on you,” Arin continued to speak in his slow way, “Right now. I’m sorry...” He placed another hand on the boy’s head, lingering before standing up to take the medical kit back into the bathroom.

The boy truly didn’t mean to give his father any trouble, it’s just, he couldn’t help it. Even now, he could feel the ghost of the disease crawling all over him, tingling his skin. He shuddered, gripping his arm with one hand. 

Arin returned within a minute or two, standing beside the boy, weary eyed. “Try not to pick at your gauze...”

The boy nodded, grip tightening on his arm as he watched his father move away.

“You still haven’t finished that book,” his father offered, through the weariness retaining a sliver of hope for his son’s comfort.

“Right...” 

“Do you...feel like finishing it?” He wanted there to be something to get the boy’s mind off his current trauma but the options were limited. He understood if his son wanted to be left alone but he was afraid the boy might try mutilating himself again.

“Okay.” The boy and his father routinely would read together a certain time in the afternoon. It was their only time truly spent together, after his mom died. After all, his father still had to work, and the boy had to go to school. If his mother was here the evenings would have been filled with laughter and games, but all they had now was a cold shadow of what once was. The boy surmised that, reading books was a way to get their mind off...everything. Perhaps not for the enjoyment anymore, but...it was something they could do together, even in silence. 

The boy and his father traveled together back to the living room. He stole a moment to simply lean against his father as they walked for that short time before pulling away to select a book off the shelf, the bookmarked one. His father did the same, and they settled into their seats across from each other, his father in his chair and the boy on the couch. They read, silently, the turning of pages being the only sound in the room. 

The boy didn’t pay too much attention to the words or the imagery. 

“Kordell?”

The boy only briefly glanced away from the blurry page to his father. “Mm?”

“I love you.”