His skin is beautiful: pink with warmth and life, so different from the substitutions I wear. My little Flynn, my perfect little blossom not yet spoiled by the garbage we’re planted in. But for how long? Would they wait like usual, or uproot him as a child because of his father? How could they want to do this to a child- to children- to FLYNN?
Don’t look at the window. They’re out there.
With sickening thumps, my heart batters against the glass bottle holding it, and moldy shadows drip closer from the nursery’s corners, drawing fuzzy black rings around my sight. Paper bag lungs crinkle in my chest once, twice; at arm’s length, I press away heavy memories of Johnathan’s voice, but I can’t-
“Just close your eyes and take a deep breath,” the serrated honey of his voice drips between my ears. The throaty musk he always called pine seeps into my throat and makes it reminisce of when it was once flesh instead of plastic. “Fresh air would be better for you instead of this recirculated crap, help you relax a bit easier.” The phantom of his palm presses against my thigh, and a groaning creak rises from the crib.
Shit, not the wood! The rail is a thin smudge behind half-shed tears, every twist another heart shattering crack. No, no, no, it’s one of the only things we have left of him! I scrub my eyes clean, and check, then check again, but it’s okay. The crib is alright.
A lone sigh, a single miniscule measure of relief, escapes before the world and the future and Johnathan’s execution bury me again.
And when the burden settles around my throat, I lift the blue plastic of my palm to find a fresh dent. Damn these hunks of garbage, the plastic nails in my recyclable coffin, and damn the Bureau, with their grotesque mandates, and God
fucking damn their pet cockroaches and the hand that pats their heads for selling out good people. The walls beat and pulse closer with every terrible knock against the glass in my chest, as if attempting to compact Flynn and me into one.
Festering, seething, aching hatred floods across buried nerves like a sea of ground glass. What was it all for? What did following the flow ever bring me? Why couldn’t I just go with him?
Don’t look at the window.
But what about Flynn? He has to wake and age eventually; he can’t remain a baby forever. What parent, what mother, could condemn their child to this?
Tentatively, wanting to stop but unable to, I reach a blue finger out to stroke his forehead. It’s soft, I know it is, but the most I can feel of even my tears is the weakness in these cardboard cheeks.
What am I supposed to do? Please, Johnathan, a message or a sign! You planned for every little thing, except leaving us alone? As my focus lapses, my gaze bolts to the curtains. Pale faded stains paint a serene midnight forest over the dreary backdrop of reality’s plastic skyline. The moonlight presents certain leaves and hides others, highlighting their dance within the wind. How many trips had that cost him? Or the crib? How many nights on the tightrope of discovery?
Perhaps his execution was the message.
“I can’t,” I whisper to Flynn as caustic panic sets my paper lungs alight. But what other choice do I have? What other hope is there for freedom? Just past Johnathan’s fantasy are thousands of greedy eyes and eager hands rattling the chains. They would take Flynn – replace him.
If you really love him…
I add another hand to his forehead as my face crumples in on itself. Like rivulets of salt, tears pour fresh agony into the exposed muscles. My hands move down to his throat, and I find a bitter gratitude for the plastics numb ignorance.
Fly away, little blossom, to better fields than these.