touched. I felt so sick, that I had to let him though. I had never lost this much Blue before.
He touched my forehead and said something under his breath. I felt Blue retreat back into my skin and to the back of my head. After a moment, I could move again. I looked at him thankfully. “Thank you… I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Blue can also be used to do small things like that… like opening doors without touching them or healing small wounds. I find these things more useful than the memories…” He shrugged. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m alright. It was kind of you to help… and to help me loosen up.” I smiled.
He returned the smile. “You’re welcome.”
I tried to get up but fell back down. Micah came to my rescue. “I’ll help you up,”
Embarrassed, I allowed him to help me up, and I leaned on his shoulder. He led me back inside and I collapsed on my bed. “Thanks again,”
Micah looked at me worriedly. “Can you die from Blue…?”
I thought about it a moment. “Well… I don’t know. I guess I never really thought about it.”
“Never thought about whether you might die?” He said disappointedly.
“It might be a blessing… just to be free from this curse. I’ve always wondered what it’s like to feel normal.” I admitted tiredly.
“You shouldn’t say things like that…” Micah murmured solemnly.
“Nobody would notice if I were gone…”
“I would notice!” He said firmly.
“Why?”
“Because… because you’re my friend.” He babbled, stammering along.
“I don’t even know you…” I said sleepily.
He was quiet then, and before I knew it, I was asleep.
When I awoke, I heard Micah scribbling something on my desk. I jumped out of bed and ripped the pen from his fingers. “Don’t touch that!”
He held up his hands. “I’m not touching your journal, I’m just writing something else!”
“Like what?” I demanded, reaching for the piece of paper he was scribbling on. He grabbed it and crumpled it in his hand.
“None of your business!” He replied hastily.
“This is my house. I have a right to know what you’re doing in it!” I retorted.
He frowned and then looked to the side—annoyed. He handed me the paper. I un-crumpled it and saw one word written on it. Syli.
“Who is Syli?” I prompted.
“My Mother…” He said, not meeting my eyes.
“Why are you writing to your Mother?”
“Because I’m not going back there, ever!”
I sighed. Not this again. “You can’t stay here. I said you can only stay for as long as I can stand you, and you’re already getting on my nerves.”
“I know… I’ll behave.” He said forlornly.
I leaned against the wall. “Well… you can try at any rate.”
I closed my eyes for many minutes, and I heard him humming something. I squinted ahead thoughtfully, almost getting sleepy. At first, I seemed to be put in a rather deep reverie, thinking about past moments in my life. Flashes of my parents and growing up, falling in love, learning to write, running—and—
My eyes opened wide and I sunk to the floor, clutching my head in my hands. “Stop humming that song!” I yelled.
Micah was befuddled. “What did you see?”
“I… remember…” I said quietly. “I remember!”
I jumped to my feet excitedly and shook his shoulders. “I was a good person in my last life! Me and my daughter were so close were so close… I was a knight, and I worked hard each and every day to make sure my wife and daughter were well off… those other memories must have been fake. I still have some gaps, but I remember…”
Micah looked at me with wide eyes, something dawning on him. “A knight? My father was a knight in one of my past lives… what was your name?”
“Syli Gregoir. But I only had a daughter in that life, no son…” I said, immediately dismissing his probable thought.
“You can be a different gender in your past lives. And… my Father’s name was Syli Gregoir.”
I was in disbelief, but I looked at him lovingly. Could someone I love truly be in this life? Could there be a reason to go on? I looked at him with tears brimming in my eyes. My trembling hand reaching towards his face. “Can you truly be… my child? What was your name?”
He shrank back a little, turning his head to the side. I didn’t know why. Then he looked me straight on with tears in his own eyes. “Elizabet Gregoir.”
I smiled so largely I thought my mouth would fall of my face. I threw my arms about him lovingly. “My child…”
“But remember what I said… people change, I’m not her anymore.” He murmured.
“You have her spirit…” I said simply. “That’s enough for me.”
“Really…?”
I opened up. He was my son, like Elizabet was my daughter. In the past, she was always happy, going out of her way to make me presents, and she always smiling. She was what made everyday worth living. But she only lived until she was fourteen. I couldn’t remember what happened to her….
“You died because I wasn’t there for you… I am so sorry.” I said while taking a walk with him the next day.
“There was nothing you could do… it was a disease…” He said distantly.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
He gave me a sidelong, awkward glance. “No… I’m okay. But you only like me now because of her. I’m not her…”
I grabbed his shoulders. “That’s not true. You are different from her, and I love those differences. You’re a lot more stubborn, for instance—and sillier… and more depressed. You’re more like me—but you… you have a chance to be happy. I want you to be. I failed my daughter; I should have been there for her…”
He smiled forlornly. “Yeah…?”
“I haven’t seen a real smile out of you yet. I’ll drag it out of you,” I nudged him playfully.
“Maybe… but I know I can’t compare to her. I’ve disappointed you already.” He said sadly.
“You are her, silly. Nothing can change that. There are just certain things that are different.”
“I can’t measure up…” He sighed. “Before you knew I was her, you were disappointed in me. She was a great person—a wonderful artist, a caring daughter… she took care of her Mother and did her studies both at once.”
“It was wrong of me to treat you as I did—you deserved better—but I liked you even then. Come now, there must be something you’re good at, something you wish to do in your life.” I smiled encouragingly.
“Well…” He said awkwardly, embarrassed. “I really like—writing—Mom never liked that idea though…”
I was worried. I’d forgotten all about his Mother. It brought me back to reality. In truth, I had no claim to this child, however much I wanted him. But, if he didn’t want to go back, and his parents didn’t come to get him, I could raise him myself. I chose not to even mention it. “If you like writing, I’d be happy to assist you with any story you wish to write. I’m very good at it.”
He looked shocked, like no one had ever taken in interest in anything he’d wanted to do. “You would do that…? Thank you Ezra.”
That would be one thing that always bothered me—he didn’t call me Father, and he never would—but I wanted to be as close to him as possible. And looking at his genuine, excited smile, I was on my way to that goal.
A week passed, and I had almost completely forgotten about Blue at the back of my head. I helped him with his writing, and I was almost shocked at how talented he really was. There was a whole brilliant world in his head, and millions more like them. In anything else, he seemed distant—distracted—but when he was writing, or talking about a story in his mind, he was completely focused and talkative. Most importantly, he was happy.
The theme of
his story was change. It was about an old man, set in his ways. The old man thought the world was going to pieces around him—everything was changing, technology was evolving along with people—even his own daughter cut ties with the old man because he would not accept anything new. And at the end of the story, the old man realizes that the world is progressing at a reasonable state, and it was him that stood still—because he wanted to live in the same world his late wife lived in. But he lets her go and moves on, so he can repair relations with his daughter.
It was a concept so engrossing, and told to me with such passion by my son, I found I was transported into that story. I felt the things the old man felt, and I loved that world. I was really there. I was proud of my son.
“He wants to be with her,” Micah explained. “But his pride and his love for his wife won’t let him move on…”
I blinked twice thoughtfully as he finished explaining. I smiled. “Beautiful.”
“You think so…?” He grinned happily. “You’re not just sparing my feelings?”
“If it were bad I’d tell you. Stories are very important to me because they help me to escape Blue. When I’m reading a story… I’m free.” I said honestly. “My writing is always bogged down in realism and chained to reality… I much prefer stories like yours that are creative and free of chains.”
“You really like it?” He said almost incredulously. “Nobody ever…”
He was almost in tears, and I threw my arms about him. “I never want to see you cry. I don’t know what anyone else told you, but even if they didn’t like it, you should always be proud of your work and stand by it. This is your creation—something from
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