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Dossiers of Divicsi: Eclosion
Good Memories, Bad Days

Good Memories, Bad Days

“The Makobi festival, named after the great explorer Nafimm Makobi, is the annual demonstration of peace between the native Sorissian settlers and the colonists of the eighth- century. It is the most celebrated occasion of Sorissu Continent, on an equal scale to the Bagiraek New Year and the Mors Zeriah-Festival. Unlike them, however, the festival adheres to a strict order. First, starting the festival at midday would be the annual bull hunt. Hundreds of wild Marime-Beasts would be released, then driven off a high ledge where they would fall to their deaths in imitation of the Paku—of how a single herd’s demise had paused the conflict between the natives and the settlers. Their remains would be harvested, cooked, and made into a city-wide feast. Truly a sight to behold! However! The main attraction is yet to come! Right after the noon feast, when the sky has darkened, people would take their flares, climb to the highest peak they can find, and shoot it into the sky while making a wish. It is said that the flares would carry their imbued wishes all the way to Hemani herself, and the wishes would be granted after some time. While not all of us are of the Nnussa faith, simply doing the action of participating would provide plenty of stories for your kids! In fact, I mysel—”

Willard stared at the blonde hostess on the television screen, annoyed at her enthusiasm. None of them actually cared for these festivities, and that made him even more annoyed when she smiled. She was young, the curves distinct along her tight suit, though she looked visibly uncomfortable to be in it. Here was probably someone who was trying to make a name for herself, but was instead being a tool for someone else. Bagiraek Cable NewsTalks were all the same.

“—en. Late in the evening, there would be parades all over the streets. Giants floats would cruise the air, and magnificent bonfires—thousands of them—would be ignited. Thousands of tons of firework would be released, illuminating the sky as if it was bright morning.”

The hostess was about to keep going when the screen flickered, glitched, then abruptly turned into static. Willard, not bothering to fix it, rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. The rusted pipe above groaned, telling him that Samwell was taking a bath. He stared at the pipe aimlessly for several minutes, then let his mind wonder off again. How long has it been since he had last spent this much time idling? It was one of those times when one comes into a room, stops, and forgets why they’ve come. It was his seventh day home after returning from the hospital, and he didn’t feel like doing anything. The company had granted him ‘honorable discharge’, making him officially jobless; Adrian had botched his apology and lashed out at the principle again and Mia returned home so late in the evening and left so early Willard could hardly see her, let alone question her. Mother was the only one still with him.

Willard turned and looked sideways at the windowsill, listening to the ‘tap tap tap’ of hail on the glass surface. He knew he couldn’t afford to dawdle any longer. Procrastinating even a few seconds now would require a whole lot more making up in the future, especially with the Shades now watching him. He’ll need to think of something. An excuse. He would never forgive himself if he allowed them to take Mia. Not even if they were correct. But for one reason or another, he couldn’t make his body move. It was as if all the missing rest over the years had finally caught up with him, chaining him to the ground. He’ll need to force himself up again and start looking for new jobs, but not now.

It’s not procrastination if you’ve never had a chance to procrastinate, right? It’s just a well-deserved rest.

He heard the doors slide open with a creak, and the clanking sound of mother’s wheelchair. Usually he would’ve put up an act to cover his fatigue, but now he found himself too lazy to do any of that. So there he stayed, head facing the window, waist twisted and right leg slumped over the left.

Willard half expected mother to say something but was instead forced to endure the cold silence. He tried to imagine what mother would say to make him get up. Probably something deep and touching, a powerful sentence with powerful words, like she usually did.

“Did you know there has been an arsonist attack on the National Museum of Galith?”

Huh?

“The worst part is, it appears that they weren’t even armed. The culprit was a small civilian mob.”

Willard gave a weak ‘hmph’.

“Do you remember that Museum, Will? The one with the dazzling red roof.”

“...Yes.” Willard rolled over again and faced the ceiling, the giant scarlet dome of the titanous building appearing vividly before him. The museum could have easily fitted two Giant Land Urchins in it and have plenty more to spare. Those were good times. Fabulous times. The happy memories they left behind when they fled the continent, the ones he had a hard time remembering now. Willard wondered why she had decided to bring it up.

“I remember holding you on the edge of the big bell tower. You wanted to climb over the railings,” she chuckled.

“And we grabbed a Sorissian Fried Roll right after we went down,” Willard smiled, though still staring at the ceiling. The memories came back, not in the way of recitation but in the form of muscle memory. A jerk in the head, and a new piece previously forgotten came back.

Weird.

“Oh! You remembered that!” mother said, surprised.

“It was much tastier than the real thing.”

Both of them burst into laughter until all of the air was squeezed out of Willard’s lungs and he had to curl up into a ball to breathe again. He pretended that he laughed too hard, though he wasn’t sure if she bought it as she suddenly stopped laughing as well. For several seconds none of them spoke, as Willard felt the life slowly coming back into his lungs.

“You say there were arsonists?” Willard propped himself up against the wall.

“What? Oh, yeah. Terrible,” mother said, wiping something off her eyes, “they say half the museum collapsed.”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“They must have had some pretty PLIACH thermal-extinguisher-systems installed,” Willard chuckled.

“Don’t say that. People died.” A stern look came over her face as she stared right into Willard’s very soul. Willard had expected her to know he wasn’t serious. But considering the minuscule amounts of time the two had spent together after father left, it was only reasonable of her to worry.

You two are not that close anymore.

“It was such a tragedy. They say the entire underground archive was burned through,” mother sighed, “and that includes the first ever trans-species pact between us and the Jugang.”

“Why’re you so fixed on that old thing? That happened like, five-hundred something years ago.” Willard stretched his right arm across his shoulders and tried to scratch the scar across his back, but only managed to tickle the uppermost stitches, making them even itchier. He liked to think of himself as a pragmatist, so he couldn’t empathize with mother when she mused on things so irrelevant to their own lives. Or maybe he didn’t want to.

“That document was the only evidence ever stating we were allies with them,” mother said frowning. “Your children would have to live in a world of even more uncertainties.”

My children? Willard wanted to chuckle, but swallowed them. Self deprecation breeds suspicion, after all. He still didn’t know why mother had started with this, but if she wanted the talk to be this way, then he’d humor her, nonetheless.

“What makes you so sure you’re right?” he teased.

“I’ve told you many times.”

“That was just a bedtime story, ma.”

“You just don’t want to admit something so...entirely unexpected had happened to you, that’s all.”

“No, I just don’t want to pretend I was saved by an alien murder-beast when I was two,” Willard laughed.

“Will! They are not killers.”

“Whatever, ma.”

The two kept silent for some time. Then she spoke again.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise.” There was a tinge of regret and a fistful of sorrow in her voice, like a toddler apologizing to his dearest friend when the time came for them to move away.

Whatever that promise may be, Willard had long forgotten. But he didn’t want to show it, so he said what he would’ve told her either way.

“That’s alright, mom. You shouldn’t blame yourself for anything.” He beamed at her. It seemed to hit right where Willard intended, as a smile of relief came over her.

“Thank you. I promise you this time I’ll take you to the second highest peak of all of Bagiraek.”

Willard didn’t like the way she was talking to him. It made him feel like a child, and this allowed all the unnecessary bits of happy memories back into his mind. He adjusted his arm again and tried to scratch the scar, but failed again. So he started rubbing his shoulders against the back wall in an attempt to ease the itching, but to no avail.

“Here, let me,” mother said, rolling her wheelchair to one side. Willard crawled over and sat before her. Slowly, she peeled Willard’s shirt away. Willard stared into the end of the room as her hand slid down his back. Down the bruised shoulder blades, down the boney spinal columns, and down the deep stretch marks where he shouldered the mining sacks until they finally reached the ugly, horizontal scar that ran like a thin noodle across the middle of his back. Instead of scratching it like he expected, she placed both hands on it, making its refreshing coolness seep into Willard’s body. He could feel her tremble slightly but couldn’t bring himself to turn and face her. So instead, the two of them kept silent as she gently caressed his back. Finally Willard, feeling too bad for his mother to see her son’s broken body, pulled away.

“Sorry! Did I hurt you?” Her voice was filled with apology and worry. Willard winced. It was the last thing he wanted to hear her say. The apology twisted itself into several strong fingers around his neck and choked him.

“No, ma, not at all. I just...remembered something.” Willard gave her his best, most confident smile. It was a poor imitation of his childhood grin, but it was all he could give her. He pulled his shirt back on, donned his old jacket, and stood up. The two stared at each other, then Willard threw himself onto her. Rather awkwardly, as his leg was obstructed by the wheelchair handles, but he managed to wrap his arms around her.

“I love you, ma.”

Hold her for as long as you can. It might be your last hug, after all.

“Oh! Wha-? Why’re y-?” Mother’s voice was filled with surprise, but Willard also heard a weak sob between her laughs.

“Say you know it.”

“But of course I do.”

“Say it.”

“......You’re my son, Will. Everything you’ve done, every breath you take...that’s proof enough that you love me. And I’ll be here, by your side, because I love you. Always.”

Willard’s cheeks reddened. He didn’t know why he suddenly did that, nor why he insisted on her saying it. But he needed it.

“Feeling better?” She kissed Willard’s forehead.

“Yeah,” he whispered and curled up into a ball, his body against her wheelchair and his head resting on her lap. It brought him several moments of the blissful past he had long abandoned.

Then Willard remembered something.

“Ma.”

“Yeah?”

“Who’s Manolo?”

“How did you...?”

“Some Bagiraek folks came and...well...we had a conversation.”

“Conversation?” Mother seemed surprised. “That’s good! New friends?”

“I wish.”

“…well...Manolo is...your father’s family name.”

Willard’s breath quickened. Father.

Willard had always tried to believe that he was dead, even after Mia’s revelation. And in a sense, he was, at least to Willard. Learning this made Willard tense up, as if someone had forcibly jammed something into his already crumbling identity.

“Oh. Forget I asked, then.” Willard shrugged. It was another piece of information that would tease him for as long as he lived.

“Will...” mother started.

“Forget it. Please.” Even though he was burning with the desire to know what happened, Willard also felt like he would have cursed if she said anything else about him. To his surprise, she was silent. Then he heard her chuckle.

“In time, Will. You’ll understand.”

Willard buried his face in her lap. Sometime afterwards he would need to leave. To feel the freezing breeze across his cheeks, and to grip the cold hilt of drillaxes once more. But not now. Now, he could stay like that, cuddled in mother’s arms forever.