Immortality isn't as great as some people make it out to be. It's a boring life of living and never dying. Pain's still there, but does it really matter when you're immortal? It's an unnecessary thing at best once you realize that you can never gro...
"Death does not mean the end - it is just the beginning of a greater purpose, of another possible life in a realm we may never know. Though I cannot fully speak for this phenomena, I do know that it is important for us to bring a story to a close. No matter how painful."
— Unknown
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A BELL RINGS. Both mother and son could not help but to look into the distance, where the lone church stands right at the front, pass the bustling cars that move back and forth down the road. The bells come to a stop within a matter of moments, much to the child's disagreement. "Mama, why did they stop?" He frowns when he could only hear cars and people talking. He quite liked those soothing chimes.
The mother consoles the boy. "Well, it was just an announcement. Whenever the bell rings, it means that mass is starting."
"Mass?"
"Mass," she repeats, tugging on the child's arm. A sign to start walking, a sign that means they must cross the road. The mother whispers a word of warning as they walk on the white lines painted on the road — the colorless rainbow, as the child puts it. "Mass is like a big meeting between people. They go to the big place over there and then they pray to God. People who go to bread also get to sing songs."
That doesn't answer his question in the slightest. The child could only tilt his head further. "God? Why are they praying to him? Is it because he's dead? Didn't you say that people pray to people so people get iternal reepoos?"
Laughter tears itself out of the mother's throat. It's soft, audible enough for only the son to hear. They reach the other side without any damage, their next destination being their family favorite.
"Joy bee!"
"It's Jollibee, honey."
"Jollibee!" The child laughs. He practically bounces between steps and even almost running off to the restaurant were it not for the mother's strong grip. Laughter is all you hear as the pair continues on venturing onwards, putting aside the honking cars and tires rubbing against the asphalt. The question of God leaves their minds completely, but not on their tongues. It's the boy who says it first, with the pure curiosity any child has at the age of four. "Mama, who is God?"
She ponders the question. "God... is almighty. No one could ever kill him."
"No one could... kill?"
"That means he'll never disappear from anyone's side." The woman crouches down to the child's level to simply brush the bangs out of his bright, shimmering eyes. They're the same color as an endless abyss, but they're the brightest thing that the mother has ever seen in her entire life. "God is always there, watching over us even if we're all alone. He's always there to take care of us."
The boy's eyes practically shimmer, hands going limp by the sides of his body and legs losing their bounce. For a moment, the mother thinks she said something wrong, but the tiny wish he gives could say otherwise. "I wanna be God! If it means I don't leave mama, then I wanna be not killed so I can take care of mama!"
"But, if you become God, then I'll leave you first." It's the sad truth.
The child's eyes widen and, soon enough, he's clinging to the mother's skirt. "No, don't leave! Then I wish mama and me would be God, too! So I can take care of mama and never leave her!"
No reply comes, there's only laughter. They don't bring the topic back upon realizing they've already reached the interior of the designation. With a pat on his head and a plea to stay put, the mother moves away, towards the line. To order food, the boy notes how she falls behind some other people. He's left alone by a little table at the entrance of the restaurant, with nothing but the groceries and his plastic light-up ball to keep him company. He bounces it once, twice, thrice. Then, he decides he's bored with just bouncing it. The boy throws it, right at the front of the door that just swung open to reveal more customers. It drops down the stairs leading up to the front and into the sidewalk.
And the boy's eyes go wide with terror. He can't lose that ball — mama gave that to me! He drops from his chair and runs pass the guest that is still holding the door open, down the stairs and into the sidewalk to chase the runaway toy. It lands in the middle, thankfully, giving him leeway to pick it up.
The sound of the horn is the only warning he gets — on the road from his chase, in the middle of cars speeding left and right. A truck keeps on slamming the horn, ripping the calm air of the highway with hurried shrieks of their horn that overlaps a child's screams.
It's a mess a minute later. A ball bounces back onto the sidewalk, to the feet of a mother all alone in the world. Her cries filled the stagnant air of oil and blood, no amount of doctors on the scene or a twitch of a child's hand could ever bring her out of the agony of seeing her own son disappear before herself. She weeps and calls out for her lost son, yelling his name at every given moment.
The word itself rips her throat apart, curling in on itself from the pain — of what? How is she hurting? Where is she hurting? The one that's supposed to be yelling is the kid, shouldn't he?
One last cry fills the putrid scene, the howls of people losing their own filling the streets while the tiny plea of 'help' is unheard among the wave of mourning.
