Read Online Mike v2.0 (A Firesetter Short Story) by J. Naomi Ay - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: J. Naomi Ay
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an easier way to quit
that blasted baseball team.
“I can’t see anything,” I repeated, recalling
the particulars of my father’s nose from an earlier viewing. “I’m
sorry, sir. The spot was quite large, was it not?”
“Oh!” my mother gasped again.
This was followed by another cough from my
father’s throat. “Indeed, it is quite large. Are you absolutely
certain of this, Mikal?”
Yes, I wanted to scream, the spot is enormous.
What would it take to convince them of something plainly obvious to
me? My eyes were open, but registering nothing, save the
darkness.
“Please, will you get a doctor?” I shrieked.
“I should very much like to see!”
Probably, my condition was temporary.
Probably, it was a result of the swelling and pressure in my brain.
Unfortunately, no one knew for certain, and neither did they know
how to repair me. As to this revelation, I can only assume I was in
shock, else I might have bolted upright in the bed and started
screaming. Instead, my parents did the screaming for me.
“Have you no doctor here who understands these
things?” my father demanded.
“But, he’s my son!” my mother cried, as if her
esteemed position should have shielded me from this
pain.
“So sorry, Ma’am, Sir,” a polite voice tried
to explain. “Often these things happen and resolve themselves in
due course. Give it some time.”
“Time?” My father gasped, as the doctor
exited, or so I assumed from the footsteps that carried him from
the room. When the door was safely shut, such that no stranger
would overhear, my parents began to quarrel, blaming each other for
my failings.
This was a fairly common occurrence in our
home, although it was something only my grandfather and I ever
witnessed. Most of their arguments tended to center upon me and
whether or not I was being raised correctly, or overly pampered, or
conversely, overly neglected.
“You and your bloody baseball!” my mother
shouted, her fists most likely flailing at my father’s
chest.
“You can’t coddle and baby him forever,” my
father retorted. “If he is to become a king, he must first become a
man.”
“And, you think baseball will do that?
Instead, it has made him a cripple just like you! One would have
thought you had learned you lesson after having a ball thrown at
your head. But no, you must repeat it with your son. My son has
been hurt!”
With that, she departed, her tiny footsteps
stomping across the room. This was followed by the sound of a door
opening and shutting with an angry force.
“Now Sara,” my father mumbled, his voice
directed at the floor.
For a moment, he did not speak, and neither
did I. With my mother’s departure, the angry wind had been sucked
from all of our proverbial sails.
“I am sorry,” my father declared eventually,
his voice now directed at the door.
“I am sorry, too,” I replied. “It’s all my
fault.”
Clearly, I had been proven a failure at his
favorite sport, having no natural skill nor instinct when it came
to bats and balls. However, I also had no desire to remain my
mother’s pampered prince, an effeminate baby coddled and cuddled as
if my every breath was sacred.
Seeking to prove myself as a man, as a prince
and future king, even though I was only eight years old, I had
bought into my father’s promise of the benefits of baseball. Of
course, at the time, I had no clue I would end up blind and utterly
useless, hating everybody and everything associated with the
game.
“It shall be good for him,” my father had
insisted. “No, it shall be great. Baseball is, after all, the sport
of kings.”
“No, it’s not,” my mother had snapped. “My
grandfather, the Great Emperor, loved football more than
anything.”
“Drinking and smoking are the sports of
kings,” my own grandfather, the Imperial Prince added, he being an
authority on those, and many more vices.
“You’ll be fine,” Father said now, although
his voice lacked anything remotely close
that blasted baseball team.
“I can’t see anything,” I repeated, recalling
the particulars of my father’s nose from an earlier viewing. “I’m
sorry, sir. The spot was quite large, was it not?”
“Oh!” my mother gasped again.
This was followed by another cough from my
father’s throat. “Indeed, it is quite large. Are you absolutely
certain of this, Mikal?”
Yes, I wanted to scream, the spot is enormous.
What would it take to convince them of something plainly obvious to
me? My eyes were open, but registering nothing, save the
darkness.
“Please, will you get a doctor?” I shrieked.
“I should very much like to see!”
Probably, my condition was temporary.
Probably, it was a result of the swelling and pressure in my brain.
Unfortunately, no one knew for certain, and neither did they know
how to repair me. As to this revelation, I can only assume I was in
shock, else I might have bolted upright in the bed and started
screaming. Instead, my parents did the screaming for me.
“Have you no doctor here who understands these
things?” my father demanded.
“But, he’s my son!” my mother cried, as if her
esteemed position should have shielded me from this
pain.
“So sorry, Ma’am, Sir,” a polite voice tried
to explain. “Often these things happen and resolve themselves in
due course. Give it some time.”
“Time?” My father gasped, as the doctor
exited, or so I assumed from the footsteps that carried him from
the room. When the door was safely shut, such that no stranger
would overhear, my parents began to quarrel, blaming each other for
my failings.
This was a fairly common occurrence in our
home, although it was something only my grandfather and I ever
witnessed. Most of their arguments tended to center upon me and
whether or not I was being raised correctly, or overly pampered, or
conversely, overly neglected.
“You and your bloody baseball!” my mother
shouted, her fists most likely flailing at my father’s
chest.
“You can’t coddle and baby him forever,” my
father retorted. “If he is to become a king, he must first become a
man.”
“And, you think baseball will do that?
Instead, it has made him a cripple just like you! One would have
thought you had learned you lesson after having a ball thrown at
your head. But no, you must repeat it with your son. My son has
been hurt!”
With that, she departed, her tiny footsteps
stomping across the room. This was followed by the sound of a door
opening and shutting with an angry force.
“Now Sara,” my father mumbled, his voice
directed at the floor.
For a moment, he did not speak, and neither
did I. With my mother’s departure, the angry wind had been sucked
from all of our proverbial sails.
“I am sorry,” my father declared eventually,
his voice now directed at the door.
“I am sorry, too,” I replied. “It’s all my
fault.”
Clearly, I had been proven a failure at his
favorite sport, having no natural skill nor instinct when it came
to bats and balls. However, I also had no desire to remain my
mother’s pampered prince, an effeminate baby coddled and cuddled as
if my every breath was sacred.
Seeking to prove myself as a man, as a prince
and future king, even though I was only eight years old, I had
bought into my father’s promise of the benefits of baseball. Of
course, at the time, I had no clue I would end up blind and utterly
useless, hating everybody and everything associated with the
game.
“It shall be good for him,” my father had
insisted. “No, it shall be great. Baseball is, after all, the sport
of kings.”
“No, it’s not,” my mother had snapped. “My
grandfather, the Great Emperor, loved football more than
anything.”
“Drinking and smoking are the sports of
kings,” my own grandfather, the Imperial Prince added, he being an
authority on those, and many more vices.
“You’ll be fine,” Father said now, although
his voice lacked anything remotely close
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