“What am I doing?” the Creator whispered under his breath. He couldn’t even understand his own actions.
Why had he left? The boy was right there in front of him. Why had he left him there? Did he not tell himself he’d do whatever it took to achieve his goals? Was he not the same Creator he was before?
But it had all felt so wrong.
Why? His plans were failing, faltering before it had even started. All because of his emotions. All because he had empathized like the weakling he was. Was he wrong in doing so? Why was he feeling all so frazzled?
“What is it that I’m doing wrong?” He pulled out a photo of Mother. In it, she was smiling that gentle expression he hadn’t seen her make in decades. “All I did was live for you. I brought us out of poverty; I built everything from the ground up. Everything I did was for you, and yet, I’m still suffering. Why? Why is it that I’m still not good enough for you?”
Even before her eventual death, he’d never once believed that he’d connected with Mother on a deeper level. He’d never once understood what was going on inside her mind. After giving it his all, the only thing he’d received were thoughtless, emotionless answers that he could never truly understand…
…
“Mother?” Gunther called out. “Why do you keep staring out that door like that?”
She had placed a chair in front of the patio doors of his expansive mansion he’d finally managed to buy for the family. There were several floors personalized to her specific interests—an entire rooftop solarium full of expensive plant life, a greenhouse consisting of rare, exotic flora a short distance from the backyard, and even an extravagant flower bed near her bedroom.
He’d spread them specifically throughout the mansion because he knew Mother liked looking at flowers, but every day, he found her staring out the patio doors at the well-trimmed but dull-looking lawn. There was nothing there except grass and fences. Even looking out another window would’ve shown a charming, picturesque cityscape. As much as he knew she wasn’t the type to enjoy such sceneries, it should’ve been much more enticing than looking at plain, old grass.
“I like it,” she said. “They’re beautiful. Isn’t that enough?” Her voice was soft, almost like she didn’t even care.
“Why? There’s plenty of flowers to see over on the other side. I have solariums, greenhouses—”
“I like the dandelions, Gunther.”
“Dandelions?” Those common weeds? She liked dandelions of all things? He’d been ordering his gardener to specifically pull them out all this time, and somehow, that was the flower she enjoyed watching? “Of all the things, you enjoy looking at dandelions? I don’t understand, Mother—”
“Gunther,” she interrupted. There was a sternness to her voice that wasn’t present before. “When did you start calling me, Mother?”
“What?” What did she mean by that? “You’ve always been my mother, Mother. What’s so wrong about—”
“I don’t mean it like that.” She turned to meet his gaze. Her expression seemed to show worry. Or was it annoyance? “Why did you stop calling me, Mom?”
“What? What do you mean by that?” He’d never stopped calling her Mother. Ever. What was she talking about?
“Mom. You called me, Mom, didn’t you? In the past.”
“In the past?” Was she alluding to the trivialities between ‘mom’ and mother’? It was more of a maturity thing for him. Why would that be of any importance to her? “What does that even have to do with flowers?”
“It’s not about the—you just—” She turned her back to him and stared out the patio doors. Her shoulders seemed to slump just slightly. “No, it’s fine.”
Gunther couldn’t understand her reaction. Did he say something wrong? All he’d tried to do was make her feel better. Perhaps even make her feel more at ease in this new home. But why did it feel like something was wrong? What had he done that would elicit such a negative reaction? Was it because of his experiments? Was this all because of that again?
“Mother, is it because of the experiments—”
“Gunther.” She looked him dead in the eyes. It was an expression she’d always made when she wanted to drop the conversation. “It’s fine. You’re late for work. Go.”
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
“Right…”
He didn’t understand her. Not one bit.
…
The Creator sat on the couch and washed his worries away with the now familiar taste of cheap tea. In the background, Mrs. Morgan was humming to a song playing through an antique radio while knitting what she had called a ‘covering’ for her son’s skinplate. It seemed like she was enjoying her time well.
“So!” she said. “What happened to the boy? I heard you going out the other day.”
“He’s fine.”
“So you’ve found him! But you haven’t brought him back?”
“I don’t need him.” Mother’s engram wasn’t going anywhere. It wasn’t like he needed Bread now. Perhaps he could let the boy enjoy life just a bit longer.
“Are you sure, dear?”
“I’m sure.” He took another sip of tea and stared at a vase full of artificial flowers in the corner of the kitchen counter. It reminded him of a certain flower…
“What happened that you decided on that?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Oh, something must’ve… Well…” She quietly stopped what she’d been doing and placed her needle and yarn down to the side. Then she pulled off her bracelet. “Do you know who gave me this bracelet?”
It was the same one he’d found on the ground—the one Mrs. Morgan seemed to have been completely panicked about when she couldn’t find it. “No, I don’t believe I do.”
“This was from my son.”
“The doll?”
“My son.”
“Right. Your son.”
She continued, “He gave this to me as a birthday gift. Said I was the greatest mom he could ever ask for.”
The greatest mother… There was a time he’d thought the same. Mother was, in fact, the greatest. She was his hero—the singular person he could look up to and respect. She was someone he could never truly reach.
“But Gunther? How could I have been a good mom if I couldn’t even protect him?” Mrs. Morgan started to tear up. “I don’t deserve this precious gift. I don’t even deserve to be crying like this.”
“Oh.” The Creator wasn’t comfortable with these situations. He didn’t know what to say, so he just muttered back something similar to what Azan had once said at his mother’s funeral. “I’m sure you did your best. He’d understand.”
“Thank you, dear.” She stood up and made her way to the skinplate that had been repositioned above a drawer. And instead of putting it back on, she placed the bracelet gently next to what remained of her son. “I don’t know why, but you remind me of my son.”
“Really?” That was far-fetched. But considering that she couldn’t see, perhaps he really did resemble her son in some way.
“So I want to help you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“But I want to, Gunther. Whenever you feel comfortable, talk to me. I’m willing to listen to whatever’s on your mind.” She walked back to where her needling tools were and grinned that signature toothy grin of hers. “And in no way am I just interested in the gossip!”
There were so many things, so many people he just couldn’t understand. Why did this random old lady care so much about him? What was it that made him similar to her son? He wasn’t even a mod doll.
The Creator noticed the vase of flowers again. Something about it was so irritating to his eyes. Like that skinplate, like his emotions, like Mother… They were all just remnants of his past, always bringing up these confusing memories he could never truly decipher. They were always the same. They were always about—
People.
Of all the things in the world, people were the most complex puzzles he’d ever truly had the opportunity to solve. And he had yet to solve even one. Not even himself. The more he lived, the more he realized how simplistically straightforward scientific development and technology really was compared to the greatest enigmas of life. They were always beyond his own grasps of understanding…
But he suddenly had a thought—
If he couldn’t understand people, all he had to do was find somebody who could. A person who could give him some more insight, more pieces to these puzzles.
He glanced over at the lone figure, still leaned in towards the direction of his voice, eager to hear what he had to say. For once, he didn’t hate that she seemed to care so much about him. For once, he wasn’t irritated.
“Mrs. Morgan?” he called.
“Hmm?” She grinned. “What is it?”
“Could I ask you a question?”
“Of course, dear. Go for it!”
There were so many questions he wanted answered, so many answers that seemed to elude him. He wanted to know everything. But there was one that seemed to permeate through his entire being—a thought he’d always had when thinking of Mother. He wanted to know…
“What do you think of dandelions?”