The sound of rain hurts his ears. He winces conspicuously, and hides his head between his twisted knees, and bent arms. I rush to the window, and lock it, and pull the heavy curtains over it, blocking out any sound that might reach his too sensitive ears. I feel much calmer, as he straightens up, his distorted face, trying hard at something resembling a smile. A feeling rushes over much like one feels when a heavy burden is taken from their shoulders. Although I love the sound of rain very much, I must make this one more sacrifice from him. I slowly walk towards him, careful not to make any loud noises, and he cringes as I near him.
He is an ugly child, but I still love him very much. After all, he is mine. His eyes are bulging, and a thick yellow crust outlines them. They are always watering, and remain a pinkish color all the time, and to make it all worse, they are tilted opposite eachother. His nose is wide, and thick, and takes up a good portion of his face. Thin, white flakes are always peeling off of the bridge of his nose. He has a cleft lip, and deep laughing lines around his cheeks, which is ironic, because he cannot smile.
I reach to touch his cheek, the only undamaged part of his body, and he wags at me with arms too thin for any human. My eyes try to avoid his crooked fingers, but one cannot miss them, and suddenly, I’m depressed. Why is it, that the one child which had all the problems God could give, was given to me.
“Darling, it’s because He knew that you were the only one who could love, and care for him as much as you do!” My mother used to tell me this her every living day. Just two months ago, she left to meet her maker. And for me, this fact was difficult to comprehend, after all, she had been with me, and my child all the time. Helping us get through every day of life.
I hear him whimper, and he is squalling in his chair, his thin legs, and bulgy knees wiggling, his arms trying to reach my face. I near him. He winces as he puts his hands on my face, and gently makes an attempt to wipe my tears away. He falls off his chair, and I catch him by his waist, and lift him back into his chair. His eyes are even wider now, from surprise. They are a sharp blue, the color of his father’s eyes.
My husband, was a nice fellow,logical, rich, but very picky about his social status. He was careful to choses his words out in public, and often would send me to affairs scripted on what to say, and how to respond. He would tell me what wines to drink, which people to talk to, who to ignore, and who to treat with acidic satire. I didn’t like it much, but I listened to him, for his sake. Well, the day William, my child, was born, he took one look at him, and told me;
“You know we cannot keep it.”
He spoke about my child as if he were some diseased rat. I told him I would not abandon William, and, quite on the contrary, would raise him with love, with an attempt to make him a fine man.
That very instant, he stormed out of the hospital, with his expensive Giorgio Armani suit flying behind him, and his Berluti shoes clicking sharply against the floor.
I remember that night, because as I cried, the vile scent of sanitation equiptment, and medicine, clogged my senses, and had me vomiting everywhere. That night, everything was going wrong.
Thunder rumbles outside, and he sits up in his chair, as if suddenly interested by some new idea.
“Ssssss...” He makes a sound which I have never heard him make before. “Ssssss!”
I look at him, ignoring the fact that he is trying to get something across to me. It’s hard to believe this is a eight year old child in front of me, crippled, and bent like a paperclip. I want to cry, but something new has formed inside me. A renewed hope. And now I am proud to be a mother of this child. Of my William, because his being with me, and my being with him, shows that we both have the capability to fend off all the problems life hands us.
“SSSSSSS!” He yanks himself off his chair by flailing his arms, and he lands on his knees. Slowly he begins to crawl towards the tightly closed window. I’m worried that the sound is irritating him, so I draw the heavy curtains closer. He yells loudly, and shakes his head, repeating the hissing sound. Puzzled, I pull the curtains apart, and am surprised to see him try to smile. “Sssss.” He repeats. And I understand now. He wants to hear the rain. I grin and push the window open. The patter of raindrops fills our dimly-lit room, and I can see William bobbing up and down, hissing in joy. I reach out the window, and let the rain fall onto my hand, and lean forward to let the rain splash onto my face. William sees me doing this, and crawls up to the window, and sticks his weak hands out. I help him stand, his weight leaning against my leg, as I balance him by holding onto his shoulders, and as the rain splashes on us both, I cry, my tears amalgamating with raindrops. For the first time, I cry in joy. I cry at a brand new day, and a brand new hope, which shone on a dark rainy day.
