Status: In the making.
Not Your Fault
One.
He was born in the arms of an imaginary friend, lost but safe inside his own head. At a young age his mother lost all control. He wasn’t what she had expected, she did her best to love him; she just didn’t know how. He was damaged goods in her eyes, he wasn’t what he was conceived to be. He wasn’t her prodigal son. He wasn’t perfect, and it killed her.
For the first few years he didn’t notice, but as he got older he learned to ask questions.
His eyes pleaded a silent ’Why?’ as a solid hand came down hard across his face. Quick, unexplainable tears brought his mother to her knees. His head found it’s way to her chest and as she rocked them both back and forth her quiet mouth whispered, “I’m so sorry, it’s not your fault. I’m so sorry, not your fault. Not your fault. Not your fault.”
***
“Nathan, your son, he’s uh, he’s different, isn’t he?” The neighbors whispered behind her back. They couldn’t understand or begin to explain what was going through their minds. It wasn’t their fault they couldn’t, just like it wasn’t Nathan’s.
Not your fault. Not your fault. Not your fault.
On a humid summer day, a ten-year-old Nathan sat under a tall oak in his family’s yard. The hot breeze couldn’t help carrying those nasty words to his ears just as he couldn’t help his reaction. He was a silent summer storm creeping up, and if you were close enough, so close, you just might see it erupt. Dried grass mixed with hair of the same sort and the boy’s wrapping paper threatened to rip and burst into flames.
“What a retard! Look at him just sitting there! Come get us retard! Retard! Retard!” they cackled.
It wasn’t his fault. They should have known better. It wasn’t his fault; he hadn’t meant to hurt that boy. He truly hadn’t meant to. Just a little scare; no harm done. It wasn’t his fault, his mother had told him so.
Your grace is wasted in your face,
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck
Learn from your mother or else spend your days biting your own neck
For the first few years he didn’t notice, but as he got older he learned to ask questions.
His eyes pleaded a silent ’Why?’ as a solid hand came down hard across his face. Quick, unexplainable tears brought his mother to her knees. His head found it’s way to her chest and as she rocked them both back and forth her quiet mouth whispered, “I’m so sorry, it’s not your fault. I’m so sorry, not your fault. Not your fault. Not your fault.”
***
“Nathan, your son, he’s uh, he’s different, isn’t he?” The neighbors whispered behind her back. They couldn’t understand or begin to explain what was going through their minds. It wasn’t their fault they couldn’t, just like it wasn’t Nathan’s.
Not your fault. Not your fault. Not your fault.
On a humid summer day, a ten-year-old Nathan sat under a tall oak in his family’s yard. The hot breeze couldn’t help carrying those nasty words to his ears just as he couldn’t help his reaction. He was a silent summer storm creeping up, and if you were close enough, so close, you just might see it erupt. Dried grass mixed with hair of the same sort and the boy’s wrapping paper threatened to rip and burst into flames.
“What a retard! Look at him just sitting there! Come get us retard! Retard! Retard!” they cackled.
It wasn’t his fault. They should have known better. It wasn’t his fault; he hadn’t meant to hurt that boy. He truly hadn’t meant to. Just a little scare; no harm done. It wasn’t his fault, his mother had told him so.
Your grace is wasted in your face,
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck
Learn from your mother or else spend your days biting your own neck