The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 20

Lucas let his arms slump down. Each knuckle and finger throbbed from clobbering the invisible prison wall. There was no way out. Defeated, he lowered himself to the floor as the last of the blue bolts fizzled across the magical prison cell.

His plan had to be successful. If it failed, well, he didn't want to think of the consequences. Although the lifeless flowers invariably hinted at the likely outcome.

As he rubbed his hands, bruises forming, pushing away the throbs and zings coursing through, certain bothersome questions swelled—would Mr. Moore kill him? How about torture? His gut twisted. He'd fight back. He wouldn't simply turn over and die. Believing the notion comforted him a little before this self-serving embellishment was dashed. Something worse struck him. If he was killed, would his mother miss him? If he was dead and out of the way would she celebrate his departure? After all, her perpetual source of trouble would be gone. If only he could bite his thoughts into silence the same way you do your tongue. As if by some improbable grace, a sharp grumbling in his belly opened up a much needed distraction. A second grumble followed and suddenly the idea of eating the burnt toast didn't seem so bad. He located a chunk of peanut-buttery crust wiping away the few remaining ants and stuffed the broken portions into his mouth. The salty peanut butter mixed with the charcoal consistency threw his tastebuds into a foray of disgust. But he chewed vigorously, trying to hold the food in as the creeping impulse to spit it out grew. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was back home, eating a juicy steak, or a real pizza slice but all this accomplished was affirming how badly he missed his mother. At this point, resisting the force of these insistent thoughts was futile. He slumped back, and let whatever dismaying thoughts flow. He was back in the kitchen. There his mom was smiling with a sauce stained apron, hand making pasta, rolling meatballs and crushing whole tomatoes. He missed her cooking terribly, something as routine as food on the table, how he took it for granted. It anguished him to consider this. And the longer he thought about her cooking, the more he realized what he was missing wasn't the food but the love. The time and effort she took to measure out ingredients properly, the selfless tending to his likes and dislikes, pouring soda to desire, making sure he was never without any nourishment, ignoring her own preferences. It wasn't just preparing food for her, it was an indispensable conduit to which the faith of her love and devotion for him could shine through. Mired in his youthful folly, he'd only ever saw it as plain old meal time. Another meaningless daily function that mother's perform. A time to eat and get out—at times having the decency to thank her, if he remembered, before storming off to get into more trouble. Had his anger towards her blacked out such a clear truth? That preparing meals and feeding her son brought her the purest of joys—what mother doesn't like to see their kids filled and satisfied with bread crumbs on their lips or smears of pizza sauce on their shirts. He never once heard her complain about cooking. Everything she did, was it from this same place of pure love? Sitting in this putrid prison cell, clearly recalling the instances when he'd scold her when something tasted bad. He'd let her hear it loudly. How horrible that must have made her feel. His eyes blurred with tears. For the first time he began to feel the true weight from the trouble he'd gotten into acting out, all the extra stress he piled on his mother, suffocating her love further. He spit out the part of sandwich, and laid flat gazing up through the rafters, trying to picture a clear blue sky but seeing only a massacring red storm with black lightning bolts darting rapaciously down towards his chest. She was probably celebrating his absence. And why not? He pictured her dancing in the wide open living room popping champagne, throwing every picture of him in the trash, erasing every trace of that bad son. He squeezed his eyes closed. What did it take to be a good kid? Someone worth loving? The fact he didn't have an answer felt like a judge and jury rightfully condemning him to be locked up in this dingy basement forever. But it was something he'd never really thought about. From his early childhood up until now everything had been a blur of relentless pain that he simply reacted to, however poorly. A tear trickled down the side of his face, racing down in a crooked pattern before collecting on the floor. If he ever got home, he promised to savor every meal that she'd ever put on a plate, eat every bite and clean all the dishes without so much as a puff of complaint. He'd never play his music loud again, in fact he'd throw the radio out if she wanted. Maybe, just maybe, that was a start towards being a good son. Yes, a start was good but not enough.