I had given much thought on what I should give my mother for her birthday. My mother the word sounded strange to me. It could be said that I had used the term before. It is just the face that in conjured in my mind was not my mother but another the woman who I had believed was my mother until the day I killed her. My biological parents Deirdre and Alex had lost me quite by chance. My mother did battle with the mirror demon named Lucy and sent little baby me away to protect me. Being her intention to come and collect me when it was safe. Fate it would seem had other plans. During the fight, my mother was injured that injury caused her to lose some of her memories. She had blank spaces in the events in her life. In addition, I was among them.
Now no mother or should I say good mother would want to forget their child. Moreover, in Deirdre’s case, this was horrible. She believed that couldn't have children. It was suppose to be very hard or impossible. However somehow I was born. A chance to have something you never thought you could only to lose it I can't imagine what that would be like. It seemed to me fate played a cruel joke that day.
The hardest part is trying to connect to them this late in life. I want to love them as I loved my other parents. However, some part of me is unsure if I will ever feel the way about them that I do for my adopted parents. A stab of guilt strikes me if I even deserve another chance. I had destroyed two families already. Perhaps I should be alone. Maybe this is my penance to find my real family and always remain distant from them. I was an outsider even among those that wanted to love me. I have spent the last few years of my life as an outsider. Why should this be any different?
Shaking off the thought, I will not weigh this day down with fears and regrets. I shall not let anyone in on these feelings. It would only hurt them and that I do not wish to do. Therefore, I shall focus instead on my present. I brought a plain purple scrapbook plain because I really was unsure of what kind of design my mother might like and purple because it is Alex...my father and my favorite color. Even though I don't know hers and she mine, at least she knows his. Therefore, I figure that is close enough. The cover of the book also has gold letters done in one of those fancy scripts which name I always forget. It reads My Memories. It is my plan to use this book to somehow document my childhood. In this way, I hoped to give her a small piece of the past. In addition, I hoped it would be a way to connect.
To be honest I was unsure if this was a good idea. When I had tried to talk to my family...my adopted family, it only seemed to make him angry. However, she believed her mother might like this bit of sentimentality if she made sure to exclude certain things. Perhaps I really should have just gone with jewelry.
Picking up the book, I open up the first page and wrote, First year. Placing a picture of one year old me on the page, I begin to add details. I continue this page after page year after year. I put pictures where I have them. Drawing those, I do not. I piece of hair from my first haircut. I drew a drawing of my dog, Charlie, which I had named after Charlie Brown. I talk about how I never really crawled but sort of scooted across the floor on my butt. Or how I used to believe that raccoons were demons in disguise I actually still rather believe this creepy little creatures. How rainstorms scare me, and make me want to hide.
A picture I drew of my special place from when I was eight. The tree house my father built for me...not my father. I place story after story of my other life in the book. Trying desperately to relate to my mother, I hoped to show her who I was. In addition, perhaps, to show her that I did have a good life despite everything because I feel as if a mother would want to know that. By now, the tears are streaming down my face. So many memories, each one bringing up the faces of those that loved me. The people I had killed. I shake the thought off again. I write about meeting Ashir in the woods and his changing me.
I am only up to about thirteen at this point and I pause. The rest I cannot write. What if she hates me? If she finds me to be a monster, at times I think I am. So many thoughts and memories close in on me. I skip some pages trying to regain control. Skipping to the end of the book, I draw pictures of Deirdre, Alex, Grace, Nathaniel, Medina, and I those people who I have met connected to my mother.
Staring at the book, the tears were streaming down my face. I realize I can't do this. I take the book and throw it in the trash. I think I will go with the necklace instead. I wipe away the tears and refuse to give in to the guilt and pain. Walking to the door, I depart for the store.