THE CHOSEN ONES

Chapter Two

"Doctor! Nurse! My son—he’s awake!" his mother’s voice sliced through the still air, thick with both excitement and desperation. It was so scarce for her to react this emotional. She stumbled back, scrambling to her feet, hands clasped together like a woman who had just witnessed a miracle.

The boy’s eyelids fluttered as his world slowly came back into focus. At this point, the mother went out to evangelize the good news to the doctor. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow, and the sharp scent of antiseptic filled his nostrils. He tried to sit up, instinctively willing his legs to move—but they did not.

A sickening dread coiled in his stomach. His legs refused to obey him, as immobile as stone. His breath quickened. Maybe this was a dream. He had to wake up. He shut his eyes tight, forcing himself to jolt upright—but the moment he did, his lifeless legs reminded him that they were no longer his to command.

No… no, this can’t be happening.

"It hadn't been this bad…" he murmured, voice hoarse.

The soft hiss of the sliding door interrupted him. His mother stepped in, clad in a long-sleeved whitecoat with her name and title clearly embroidered on it like a beacon shining in the dark, unmistakable and proud.

Behind her, the doctor followed, his stethoscope swinging gently against his chest.

His mother’s eyes locked onto his, unreadable yet heavy with something he couldn’t place.

"So, you've been keeping this from me, haven't you?" Her voice was sharp, cold—an accusation wrapped in quiet disappointment.

He clenched his jaw. His fingers curled into the sheets, a silent act of resistance.

"But Mom—"

"Did you think I wouldn’t notice?" she cut him off, her voice a dagger cloaked in silk.

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His shoulders slumped. He knew that look. That tone. It was not anger—it was something worse.

Defeat settled over him like a thick fog. His mother wasn’t just questioning him; she was confirming something she had long suspected. And whatever it was, he had no way to fight it.

_______________________________________

Elinqua had grown up in a family where divorce was not just common—it was inevitable. His ancestors severed ties before their marriages could even birth children, as if shackled by a cycle they had no control over.

As he lay on his small living room sofa, his mind drifted through the echoes of his lineage, sifting through memories like brittle pages of an old book. He had been born into a bloodline that defied the natural order. A family where time stretched unnaturally long, where bodies refused to rest beneath the earth.

The memory came without warning—his great-grandmother, Eunice, kissing his forehead when he was still just a boy.

"You and these jumbled books on your bed," Eunice had sighed, shaking her head.

"Jealous that I read more than you ever did?" he had teased.

"You little punk." She had laughed, but her amusement faded quickly.

Then, her expression shifted—serious, searching.

"I’ve noticed you've been… withdrawn. Thoughtful. More than usual." Her fingers lightly brushed his hair. "You know I’m here for you, right?"

Elinqua hesitated. "I was just wondering…"

"Wondering what, my love?"

"How long you’ll live before you die."

A slow smile crept onto her lips. "So, what you’re really asking is why we don’t die young?"

He nodded.

Eunice let out a small chuckle. "So, you want your mother—raised to the power of three—to die, is that it?"

"No! That’s not what I meant!"

"As if I didn’t already know where this conversation was heading," she mused.

"But I need to know," Elinqua pressed.

Eunice’s expression darkened. "We’ve talked about this before, child."

"But—"

"I’ve told you time and time again—‘It doesn’t matter, child. You will discover the answer when the time is right.’ But you refuse to listen."

"But ‘it doesn’t matter’ holds dozens of matters!" he argued, voice rising.

"Enough!" she snapped.

The room went silent.

"You need to come of age before these mysteries reveal themselves. Until then, simmer down."

With that, she stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt.

"But, Mama—"

"Good night."

She left, slamming the door behind her, leaving Elinqua alone with his spiraling thoughts.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, running through every possibility, every question that clawed at the edges of his mind.

His thoughts fast-forwarded, skipping years like stones across water, until they landed on his grandmother—Lois. The only thing he knew about her was that he didn’t know her.

Her face existed only in the unmoving frame on the wall. The same expression. The same distant eyes.

Why had she died just as she was coming to see him for the first time? Why then?

A frustrative tightness clenched his chest.

"Why does this keep happening?" he murmured. "Why won’t they give me the answers?"

His mother had done the same—changing the subject, dodging his questions.

Always evading. Always hiding something.

"I need to understand!" Elinqua shot up from the couch, the weight of his unanswered questions pressing against his ribs.

"I don’t even know why my mother and her mother before her divorced at the peak of their twenties… and now this?" His voice was raw with frustration.

His gaze landed on the framed portraits of his ancestors—each one of them alone. No husbands beside them. No fathers in sight.

The truth was staring him in the face.

They were hiding something.

Something big.

And he was done waiting for them to tell him what it was.