Zane Abel D12 [FIN]

Mama used to tell me to never change for anyone. If only she saw me now. I left the person I used to be behind the moment I stepped out of the door of that old home, like a coat that someone simply shrugs off without a second thought. Except, unlike that coat, I second guess my self with every move I make. Doubts that forever encase my mind, swarming like bees upon my thoughts and leaving it almost impossible to see clearly.

Behind the doubt, though, I seem to always find myself back where I started: A rather anxious and worried state of mind that send me off again, upon a tiresome path that continuously beats me down. This place is not exactly a physical place, but mental; a place that is just a memory. This memory focuses on a family that used to be - before life fell down upon it and shattered the picture it was framed in - perfect. When one takes out the poverty the family lived in and the immense threat that they would not have a home the next day, it was completely perfect. It was the type of family that could not be broken; where even in the darkest of times, there was a hand to grasp ahold of.

Yet, when the hardest event of all fell down upon the family, it wasn't from the lack of a hand to grab onto that I left, but from the mindset that that hand held no other purpose but to give me hope. I didn't need hope. They needed me. So I left that old life behind and set out, my hand falling from their outstretched grasp and crestfallen gazes. I put on the determined look that completely masked my feelings, the strength of actually having a purpose in life forcing my head to stay propped up.

Then, the weight of my responsibilities began to fall in place. Like the long hair that began to grow down, my chin too found a place against my chest. I wasn't giving up, but simply acknowledging that what I was using all of my strength and energy to do was barely helping my brother get by. That hand still remains outstretched, yet it always remains one step too far, as if to tease me with what I could have held on to. I have to keep moving, though, and put on the face of the man that I was forced to become, the thought of my brother's lifeless form the only thing that keeps my legs moving.

I want to be a role model for him; for the children that have lost so much and cling on to me for hope. I picture each of their faces as my family - and in the slums, aren't we all part of a dysfunctional family, linked together by an understanding of pain?, and I find myself helping them as well. I always manage to steal a little extra; try a little harder to give them something as little as a slice of bread, yet symbolizes something much more. Hope. It's another weight upon my spine that continues to curl, yet this time I welcome it. I'm no longer the boy that shied away from the pressure, but a man that embraces it, not for myself but so that no one else has to feel this pain.

I care too much. Mama once told me that this is a weakness of mine. I have too much to lose. I know this is true, for with each thought of my brother lying cold, six feet beneath the ground is enough to send me crumpling upon the ground, with all hope of life swept away. I'm glad she can't see me now. She must see the WANTED papers; see a slight resemblance in the haunted face, yet what she remembers is the smiling face of a care-free boy. I just hope I haven't changed too much, that if the day comes that I should finally reunite with her, she only feels disappointment.

The life I left appears in my mind as a brighter, happier world, one where I can actually feel the warmth of home - most likely a false feeling that my lonely mind has replaced, for I recall almost freezing to death one year in that wooden shack. Yet, the more I force upon my tired mind the memories of that life that lurks so far behind my wandering steps, I realize the warmth that is emitted from my memories is the cozy and safe feeling of a home. A perfect family in the truest sense.

My Papa was a hard-working man. When I was younger, and my small feet fell perfectly behind him, and my eyes constantly remained upturned in the mindset that this man could do no wrong - the simple form of youth's innocence - I was told that I resembled him completely. After these beautiful words met my young ears, I recall sitting before a dusty mirror, my bony fingers attempting to comb my hair in the same direction that he wore his. A painful memory to recall, this one, for every time I see my reflection now, I see how far I have drifted from his calm and composed appearance.

Mama loved him the most of all, though. I remember peeking through the door to the small family room with my brother, watching as Papa held out his hand to her and brought her into his chest, instantly beginning to sway to a music that was not there. At that point of my life, the vision was immensely revolting (once again an example of the innocence that all children possess in the early stages of life, something that leaves far too soon), yet now when I look upon it; the way Mama's head fell softly upon his shoulder and her eyes closed, her hard features of worry finally morphing into an indescribable softness, I realize the true meaning of love. Maybe that's why she broke so completely at his disappearance, the lines of her skin deepening to appear as cracks in her skin, like shattered glass that could fall apart with one nudge.

No one knows where he went. I didn't even know where he worked, the topic completely banned from the house when we were younger. It was at that moment, when the chair he used to sit in began to collect a thick layer of dust, that I realized how little I even knew about him. I was only twelve; my brother Hayes at the young age of six. The perfect memories immediately began to fall apart as the snow began to cover up the last tracks of Papa's feet. Mama watched every flake fall upon the ground that night, refusing to move until the last drop of snow had completely covered the last marks he had left upon the world.

Life after Papa was dim. Words were barely spoken within the walls of the shack that had begun to fall apart, as if one word would be an insult to the man that loved for the house to be filled with happiness and activity. Why do something that Papa loved so much, when he wasn't even there to experience it with us? I didn't tell Hayes, but I believe when Papa left, he took a part of Mama's sanity with him. I can vividly recall the sight that scared me the most, where when I peeked through the same door as before, I saw her swaying from side to side, hands held out to clasp onto the firm hands that weren't there. Except this time, Papa wasn't the only thing that wasn't there. Despite the lack of music both times, this time the room actually was quiet.

That sight changed me. I instantly took up the spot that Papa had left behind and provided for them. I even combed my hair the same way as his. I may have resembled him, but I lacked the gently composure that he held, for instead of a stable living ( I imagined his job was a stable environment?), I took up the job of stealing. My appearance at school dwindled down, a common sight for boys at that age of fourteen, and was seen more in back alleys. I remember the first time I dropped food upon the table in the kitchen, the sunken eyes of Mama widening slightly in disbelief and her mouth almost opening to ask a question. But instead of words came tears from her eyes, and a strangled breath of guilt and shame.

I danced with her. As her spine curled with the weight of a million emotions, I gently took her brittle hand and led her into the same room. As shivers of sorrow racked through her fragile form, I swayed with her across the space that Papa once moved across. Words were not needed to express how we felt at that moment, for the emotions were heard in the music that could only be heard by us. Sorrow, grief, shame, anger, defeat, hope.

The song was beautiful.

After that night, Mama came back to Hayes and me. She told me not to steal again, her hands that were tightened upon my bony shoulders literally shaking me until the promise was heard barely from my mouth. All promises are broken, eventually. Life was still hard, yet the essence of family began to fall back into place. Hayes and I developed a bond that could not be broken, an unspeakable bond that linked us together through an understanding of grief and pain. I lived to protect him.

All happiness must come to an end. The instant life began to gain the light that had left when Papa was gone, a dark cloud came to consume the rays of comfort and joy. The first sign was when the once dark skin of Hayes developed a sickly white color, with blue lips that no longer smiled. We couldn't afford a doctor. It was a haunting experience where we simply sat by the bedside of my brother, listening to the raspy breath and the coughs of a child that was once filled with optimism and light. I saw the worry in Mama's eyes, yet this time she was filled with a determination that wasn't there last time. She hoped. I acted.

The sight of my brother's weak form in bed sent shivers down my spine morphed me into a being that had lost all hope of ever experiencing happiness again. But he could. I refused to let Mama see another child die, for the lines that crossed her skin like patches upon clothes were tearing at the seams. The last memory I shared with my family was a simple kiss upon Mama's cheek and a tight squeeze to my brother's freezing hand - a tightened grasp that I held for what seemed like an eternity, as if his touch would stop the room from spinning around me and keep me rooted to where I belonged.

I left that night, though, without another word. My eyes were cast forward as I walked the alleys, yet each step I took in the snow seemed to be another weight that threatened to pull me to the ground. I remember the tears streaming down my face and the tightened feeling of anxiety and anguish rushing through my veins like a snake, threatening to immobilize me completely. Yet I kept forward, with one simple turn of my head to see the same tracks that my father had left behind in the pale ground.