The Forgotten Son

The Forgotten Son
A Short Story by Teri Clarke

“Everything’s going to be fine, honey,” she cooed, briefly touching his clasped pale hands. They were ice-cold. His cold grey eyes stayed forward, staring blankly at nothing in particular outside the windshield. She gave him a nervous half-smile although he wasn’t paying attention and started the car. Her throat tightened into an impenetrable knot and tears threatened to emerge. She turned her head to the driver’s side window and stifled a sob as she squeezed her eyes shut. Turning back to the steering wheel a second later, she sniffled hard and sighed. Slowly she changed the gears of the old stick shift Jetta and pulled away from the drive of Bellevue Hospital.

“I took care of all of the arrangements while you were, uh . . . gone,” she said lowly as she steered the car towards the off-ramp of Exit 5 on State Highway 287. “The new place is, uh . . . cozy. I think you’ll like it. Different from Brooklyn.” The boy didn’t respond. His fingers continued to fiddle with the thick patches of gauze on both of his wrists, as the world around him did nothing to intrigue or remotely interest him. ‘Must be that damn new medication they put him on,’ she thought angrily. ‘Make him into a zombie.’ Her hands subconsciously gripped the steering wheel harder, shavings of the plastic material gluing to her warm hands. Once again she found herself struggling against tears of frustration. She cleared her throat before speaking again.

“You start school tomorrow, bright and early. I can’t take you, but there will be a bus to pick you up on the main road. I forget the name.” She rubbed the side of her face impatiently and dragged a hand through her greying dirty-blonde hair. She guided the car and merged into traffic with ease. The boy still hadn’t responded. His focus shifted to the passenger’s side window as the new surroundings of a middle-class suburb displayed before him. It reminded him of his first home in Connecticut when he was much younger – when his father was still around. His fingers continued to fiddle with the sore spots on his wrists. It was amazing to him how much four-month old wounds could still hurt as much as the day they were inflicted.

The car slowed and made a left into their future residence. His eyes danced along the tan-brick two story buildings on either side of the car, occasionally losing focus as the car tumbled over a speed bump. Suddenly, the car stopped and made another left into a small parking lot. They slowly rolled past six doors and twelve cars before pulling into a spot, ‘333’ painted in bold white blocks on the black asphalt. “We’re here, “she announced, sighing heavily and cutting off the engine. She went to open her door, then stopped as if remembering a minute detail. “Are you okay? Do you need help getting out?” He looked up at her for the first time since she had come to collect him. He suddenly looked smaller than his slender six-foot frame and much younger than his seventeen years, remnants of a child she once knew. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she watched the curious twinkle in his eyes. Just as quickly the image was gone, replaced by the troubled and misunderstood teen that had come of late.

“No, Mom. I’m fine,” he answered solemnly. His voice came as a shock to her; being much deeper than the last she’d heard it nearly four months earlier. Collectively her son had become a stranger to her. The last time she was in this close of a proximity to him, he was catatonic and incoherent of the outside world. The doctors had told her not to come back, that it would hinder his progress. Little did they know, she’d been through this before, but she was exhausted and frightened for her child. She did what others had told her was best, since she felt helpless and had been fruitless in her own efforts. She watched him now as he slowly turned his heads to the passenger’s side window. He dragged a hand through his coal black hair.

“Okay,” she whispered and stepped out of the car. He stepped out slowly and took in a deep breath, his eyes closing as the cold crisp air penetrated his lungs. He watched his breath condense and whiten as it exited his mouth. He slammed the door shut. “I have your bag,” his mother muttered as she made her way to the white door on the right. She struggled with the keys for a moment and after cussing under her breath opened the door. He noted the black numbers on the door as he walked in after her, the last ‘3’ hanging upside down and holding on for dear life with the weak support of a rusty nail. They tiptoed up the hardwood steps and entered the sweltering apartment. “Aw, geez. I’m sorry, honey. I’m still trying to figure out that stupid thermostat. It’s one of those ancient ones with the knob that always gets stuck.” Her voice disappeared down the short corridor and to the right.

He stood by the threshold of this unfamiliar place and a sudden chill rippled down his spine. A heavy feeling sank in his gut, pulling down his shoulders and turning down his mouth. He turned his head to the right where a familiar kitchen set sat. He shifted his body and walked into the whitewashed room, the harsh fluorescent light making him nauseous.

“Chazz, honey?” his mother called from the depths of the apartment. Her footsteps gently approached him, careful enough not to startle him. “Come see your room.” She was standing right behind him, so close he could feel her nervous heart beating below her tattered sweatshirt. He closed his eyes and turned to face her. She was a beautiful woman, but recent years had worn her down emotionally as well as physically. He had caused her such pain and heartache and tried his best to relieve her of it, but something was keeping him alive.

“I tried to fix it up the way you had it in Brooklyn, but you know me.” She chuckled a little. ‘No, Mom. I’m sorry, but I don’t,’ he thought miserably as he looked down at her. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth seeing his mother smile. It cast a momentary happiness in her sky-blue eyes. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked slightly above him. As she brought up a hand near his face, he flinched and stepped back. Her left hand hung in the air as the heaviness of tension settled in between them, forming an invisible wall. The seconds felt like eternity as they watched each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. The boy was the first to do it by stepping forward and nestling his cheek into his mother’s small soft hand. This time she let the tears fall and the sob escape loudly.

Her hand searched his face with a rough but loving need as it roamed his cheeks, his lips, his nose, and his chin. She smoothed his eyebrows with her right hand and let her fingers comb through his silky black hair.

“My boy,” she moaned. “My baby. What have they done to you?” Chazz pulled her to him in the intense moment and buried his face in her neck as she continued to sob. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought against the pain pulsing in his head just to hold her a little while longer. Then he could bear it no longer; he could feel the syrupy liquid trickling down his nose and his ears begin to clog. He let go of her suddenly and sniffled the blood back hard, turning away from her as if in shame of his emotions. She cleared her throat and shifted from foot to foot.

“How did you get that streak in your hair?” He shrugged and wiped at his nose with the back of his sleeve, finding nothing there. He turned back around to face her.

“Didn’t know it was there,” he said honestly. He avoided her eyes and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “There were no mirrors anywhere I went. For the fear of . . . you know.” She nodded slowly.

“Well, come on then,” she said. “Can’t put off seeing that handsome face for too long.” She turned away from his and he followed in step with her to the back of the apartment. She clicked on the light to the tiny bathroom before entering and waited for him to walk in. She smiled hard as he continued to watch her. “Well, look,” she said chuckling nervously and pointing to the small mirror.

He looked to his right and stared at the person staring back at him. He’d changed drastically from the last time he’d peered at himself in a mirror. His black hair had grown unevenly, the layers cascading down to his shoulders. His face had hardened and become manlier, but his acne, thankfully, had vanished.

He now knew what his mother had spoken of in the kitchen. A chunk of his ebony hair in front of his face had turned a silver-grey, beginning at the very root and ending at the very tip. He fingered it with awe, intrigued by its individuality but frightened of its unknown origins. “I have no idea where this came from, Mom,” he whispered.

“Not a worry,” she said shrugging and squeezing past him. Her hand intimately rested on the small of his back for a brief moment, causing a sharp pain to streak across his chest. He grunted from the sting and leaned against the edge of the counter. “Are you okay, honey?” his mother said dashing back to bathroom. He stood up quickly, fearing she’d touch him again.

“Yeah, just have a little stomach ache,” he said lowly. He nodded over to the toilet and she understood. A frown pulled at her lips and he instantly felt guilty. “Show me my room. Then I’ll take a quick shower and go to bed.” She smiled a little.

“Okay, follow me.”


He was up before her the next morning and began preparing coffee. The smell woke her up and had her hustling to get herself together. He put her coffee in a mug and handed it to her as she dashed out the door, saying, “The bus will be at the corner quarter to eight promptly! Don’t be late!” ‘How ironic,’ he thought smirking and waving her goodbye. He washed himself up and dressed quickly. He carried nothing on him but his keys and an old high school ID from the last school he was enrolled in. Other kids were at the bus stop waiting impatiently and dancing against the unusual bitter winds of mid-March. The cold didn’t bother him one bit; no weather ever really bothered him. He avoided the dark brown eyes that stared at him curiously, wondering who he was and where he’d come from.

“Excuse me,” a gentle voice said to him. The voice was familiar and so sweet to his ears he had to turn to the source. She was shorter than he, standing at about five foot seven, and slightly pudgy. Her skin was the colour of mocha and mark-free besides the raised pale scar under her right ear. Her bright violet eyes shocked him the most. She had his interest piqued. Her left eyebrow furrowed alone, giving her cute face a comical look. He tipped his head to the side in curious wonder.

“I’m guessing you’re new,” she said lowly. He nodded. “Don’t speak much either.” He didn’t answer. She shrugged. “Good luck. This high school sucks and the people are assholes.” She continued to look at him up and down, not really expecting him to speak nor judging him; just . . . observing.

The ride to school was long and too noisy for his liking. Too many kids were acting like pseudo-thugs, wanting to imitate the so-called ghetto images they watched in music videos and listened to in the lyrics of thug-poets labeled rap-artists. Being a new student for the umpteenth time, he followed procedure and began the search for the main office. He tapped the violet-eyed girl and asked her where the office was.

“I’ll walk you there. My homeroom’s that way.” He followed her silently as they wove their way through the students. He avoided looking at any of them, only observed the wide corridors and bright lockers that lined them. As they turned a corner, he accidentally bumped shoulders with a tall black kid. He muttered his apologies and kept his pace up with the girl.

“Nah, yo! C’mere, white boy!” he hollered after him. The corridor became hushed as footsteps rushed forward anticipating a fight. He stopped in his tracks and the dreadful feeling he’d been trying to stifle made itself realized. This kid, along with many others of the student populace, was dying and didn’t even know it. Pity washed over him as he turned around to face the kid and apparent crew. They tried their best to cool the kid down, but his ego would not hear of it.

“Who the fuck you think you is?” he said slowly and moved closer in an attempt to intimidate him. He didn’t back down; he simply met him eye to eye and swallowed the lump in his throat. Suddenly the kid’s shoulders fell and his eyes glistened. His face shifted as if to ask him, “Are you serious?” Then he broke down, turning away suddenly and rushing into the bathroom. The crowd came alive with whispers as he turned back to his guide and urged her silently to continue in their intended direction.

“How was your first day?” his mother asked him from the doorway. He was lying in his bed, wide-eyed from an anxiety he could not displace. She crept into the room slowly and wrapped the robe tighter around her body. “It’s freezing in here, Chazz. Why is the window–?”

“Leave it,” he demanded, the assertiveness in his voice startling her slightly. She stopped her hand in mid-air from pushing the window down and turned away.

“Okay,” she said lowly and walked back to the side of his bed. “How was your fist day, honey? Did you get along well?” He turned on his side and stared up at her.

“Honestly?” he asked cautiously.

“Of course, darling,” she said sitting on the edge of his bed. He knew she was going to run her hands through his hair, so he gritted his teeth to bear the pain.

“I don’t want to go back,” he whimpered as her fingertips connected with his scalp. A searing twinge clutched his heart and intensified each time her flesh came in contact with his.

“Aw, baby, why?” she cooed, thinking the tears were resulting from a bad day.

“The kids,” he whispered, his eyes closing and rolling into the back of his head. “So many of them are dying. There is so much pain in that school.”

“Honey, what happened? What’s making you say this?” she said, resting the palm of her hand on his cheek. She watched his skin flush and felt it heat up under her hand. She removed her hand instinctively. “Jesus Christ, you’re burning up. Let me get you some water and ice.” He was grateful for her alarm and welcomed the break by passing out in a puddle of sweat.


He virtually sleepwalked through the next day at school, violet-eyed girl staring at him intently but not saying a word. He came to realize he shared most of his classes with her, but the only one he truly cared about was the one she came alive in: Mrs. Freeman’s Mythology. He’d watch the way her eyes would light up even more once they entered another world involving gods and goddesses, mortals and immortals, Minotaur and Cyclopes. He found himself wondering if he could bring her the same joy. She wasn’t on the bus after school so he couldn’t ask her for her name. The sinking feeling of disappointment steered him away from the apartment door and out toward the street.

He wasn’t aware of where he was going nor did he care enough to question himself. He let his feet carry him where they wished and it was a long time before they stopped. He looked up in front of him to see a park of simpler proportions. The landscapers let nature design the area, only manipulating it to create a baseball diamond and a basketball court. Gravel designated a parking area for more appropriate days and steel sculptures functioning as playground equipment stood in the far off corner. Two large concrete huts stood as bathrooms, figurines badly drawn on the doors to designate the proper sex for each, and cut the park in half, obscuring the otherwise full view of the playground.

“Far from home, aren’t you?” a recognizable voice said behind him. A smirk pulled at his lips as he continued to stare at the park, his concentration on it completely faltered. She rounded his body and stood to face him, shielding her intense eyes from the bright sun and harsh winds.

“I could say the same for you,” he replied smartly. An unfamiliar sweet nervousness gripped his stomach and fluttered his heart.

“Well, well, well,” she said smiling. “Strange-boy does speak more than three words.”

“What were I’d said to you?” he asked.

“‘Where’s the office?’ ” she said smiling even harder to reveal straight white teeth. He suddenly felt ashamed of himself. Here he was dressed in worn jeans, an ill-fitting black sweater, and Chuck Taylor’s as this beauty before him spoke. He wanted to hide his not-so-white crooked teeth and long unkempt hair under a rock and camouflage himself forever. “What are you doing all the way over here?” He shrugged, his feelings of self-doubt rapidly fleeing him.

“What are you doing here?” he shot back. She turned away from him and looked out towards the park.

“It’s a nice day,” she said, her voice pained. “Decided to take a walk.”

“Me too,” he said sighing and feeling her anguish. He couldn’t quite place what she was feeling, but he didn’t feel the need to either. Silently they walked into the park and towards the playground. She stopped short before they could reach the mangled steel beams and paused.

“I need to take a piss,” she said lowly, not looking at him. “I’ll be right back.” He watched her as she walked away from him and into one of the huts with the badly drawn people. As the door slammed shut behind her, the world became dangerously quiet. The few stubborn birds that had refused to migrate stopped their singing, no restless wind rustled through the trees, and not one human sigh sounded. Something was wrong. His legs felt like lead as he lurched forward to the door, slamming his body against it like a dead weight and stumbling into the yellow-tiled bathroom. All he could see was blood. All over the walls, the floors, the stalls were bathed in a red mess. His foot slipped as he took a step. He looked down to see a splatter of blood underneath the thin sole of his sneaker.

“Oh, God,” he whimpered as he began hyperventilate. He held onto the doorknob as much as he could as he walked into the bathroom further, the useless rubber of his sneakers across the floor over the thin film of crimson liquid. The putrid smell of rotten flesh filled his nostrils and the coppery metallic taste of the blood coated his tongue.

“It’s all in your head, Chazz. Get it together,” he said to himself aloud, but as hard as he tried to blink away the vision it would not disappear. He closed his eyes one last time and let the Latin words tumble from his lips, not aware that he was speaking them or what he was saying. When he opened his eyes again the vision only worsened as he viewed the corpses laying on top of each other, their faces twisted in horror.

Seven girls, all sisters ranging in age from six to fifteen, lay nude on the cold bathroom floor. Each had their throats mercifully slit form ear to ear after enduring being bound, gagged, and raped by two middle-aged men. He knew all of this as he watched their faces display the last moments of their short lives. Suddenly his stomach heaved forward and his bile washed over the blood, erasing it from the floor, the walls, and the stalls. The mirror cleared itself of the bloodied handprints and the sinks returned to their porcelain colour. He swallowed hard and wiped his bottom lip with his sleeve, still trying to regain his breath.

“Chazz? What’s wrong?” the girl asked emerging from one of the stalls. Bile still stung his throat as the memory of the bodies continued to turn his stomach. “Chazz, what it is?” He shook his head profusely for a few moments and refused to look at her.

“How did you know my name?” he asked, still breathless and staring at the tile of the floor.

“From class. That’s what the teacher called you so I assumed that was your name,” she said her voice hinting concern. “Jesus Christ, Chazz, what the hell are you seeing?” He looked at her suddenly.

“Who says I’m seeing anything?” he asked defensively.

“Well, the way you’re staring at the floor makes me think you’re tripping on something,” she returned, her eyebrows furrowing hard. Silence fell between them as he continued to struggle with his breathing. “What is it, Chazz?” He held his breath to control it and rolled his eyes.

“You’ll think I’m nuts if I tell you,” he explained. “Everyone seems to think so.” She guffawed.

“You’d be surprised,” she said and turned to the last sink to wash her hands. A flash went off in front of him and the vision of a middle-aged white man appeared before him. He was washing his hands just as Violet-Eyes was doing right now, but he was washing his hands of the girls’ blood as his partner grunted sick pleasure behind him. The vision cleared and he shook his head. “So what was it? What did you see?” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Seven girls, dead. All laying on top of each other over there on the back wall,” he said lowly.

“Sisters?” she said as she shook her hands of the excess water. “With their throats slit?” He looked at her and nodded slowly. “I always thought that was just an urban legend. Something to keep us from using the public bathrooms where known pervs run free.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Violet,” she said bashfully and walked past him out of the bathroom.


“So do you have, like, psychic powers or something? Some kind of young prophet kind of thing?” she asked cautiously as they walked home. He didn’t realize he had walked this far. He shook his head solemnly.

“More like cursed,” he muttered, pulling his hands out of his pockets and showing her his fleshy palms. A circle of healed skin made a bowl-shaped dip in each of his hands. She gently ran a finger into them and his heart fluttered instead of binding with pain.

“Stigmata,” she said lowly.

“You know about that?” he asked, his voice not really indicating how shocked he was to discover this. She nodded and stared at her boots as they walked along.

“My grandmother was an abbess of her own church,” she said looking up. “She taught me all about that stuff when I was younger. Creeped me the hell out.” He cracked a smile.

“Me too.” Not another word was spoken between them the rest of the way home.


He woke up the nest morning feeling completely drained. His arms and legs felt like lead and he struggled to shift to his side. Strangely his feet were crossed at the ankles and his arms were outstretched to either side of his body. His head throbbed in sync with his left side underneath his rib cage. Suddenly he knew all too well what was happening, but for some reason today felt different. “Mom!” he called as loud as he could. The word itself didn’t taste right in his mouth as he called it. He tried again, this time letting his tongue speak for before his habit. “Mary!” His voice carried throughout the small apartment to his mother’s closed bedroom door across the hall. A moment later she came dashing in breathless and panicky.

“What is it, honey?” she asked desperately. She sat down on the edge of the bed and glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand. “Oh, shit. It’s time for me to get up, isn’t it?” He smirked.

“Almost,” he muttered.

“But that’s not why you called me in here, is it?” she said observantly. “You called me by my real name. I didn’t think you’d even remember that.”

“That’s cuz I didn’t,” he said lowly. A stab of pain ripped through the palm of his left hand, his back arching as his mouth opened wide to release a cry from the depths of his soul.

“Chazz!” she screamed, stumbling off the bed and standing up. Her hands outstretched to him, but the look in his wide eyes stopped her.

“Don’t touch me!” he bellowed, the voice emerging from his throat not his own. It sounded as if though he was being manipulated into another man; a man much older than he, more haggard and experienced beyond his years. Her wide blue eyes traced his long slender arm to land in his bleeding palm, a perfect circle of crimson gushing forth.

“Mom, is there something you need to tell me?” he said, his own voice returning and wavering from the pain.

“Like what, Chazz?” she asked sobbing. “What the hell could I possibly have to tell you?”

“Who am I?” he asked, the age of his voice reverting back to the prepubescent squeak of twelve years old. The doorbell rang. “Answer the door, Mom.” She slowly backed away from him, her eyes never leaving his, until her shoulder crashed into the doorframe and snapped her out of her trance. She ran to the front door and thundered down the stairs, swinging the entrance door open to see no one standing there. The winds had turned to freezing proportions, entirely too cold for it to snow. Nevertheless, she looked up into the grey sky and the first of the flurries rushed down to greet the world. A holler from upstairs pulled her back into the doorway and pushed her body back up the stairs. By the time she reached her son’s doorway he was sitting up holding his left hand out in front of him.

“Get me some gauze,” he managed to say through gritted teeth.

“What? Why? You’re not going anywhere like this!” she cried running up to him. Instinctively she held out her hands to him.

“Don’t touch me!” he repeated in the same haunting voice. He inhaled deeply and tried to regain control of himself. “Just get me something to wrap this up in. There is something I must do.” She bit her bottom lip and fought the tears, then found herself walking into the bathroom and opening the medicine cabinet to retrieve the First Aid kit. Her clumsy hands opened the tin box and pulled out the roll of gauze. Not a word was exchanged between them as she wrapped his wound as tightly as she could. She taped it securely with surgical tape and packed up the kit. She sat down on the bed beside him, careful not to touch him, and kept the silence.

“You know I’m never going to see you again.” She nodded her chin dimpling as she fought more tears. “I love you,” he said lowly, taking her hand in his injured one. He pressed her flesh to his lips and suppressed the stabbing pains that jolted his body. As he released her hand he stood up to get dressed. Mary did not move until she heard the front door slam. Only then did she bawl until her throat could no longer bear the pain.


* * * *
While picking up a few groceries, Mary felt herself being drawn to the dairy section. Feeling slightly silly, she reasoned the subliminal urge by picking up a pint of ice cream to treat herself, but then stopped in front of the milk. Her hand reached out to pick up the half-gallon carton, a hazy black and white photo displayed a teenaged black girl with bold letters above her head: MISSING. She didn’t even realize the government still printed milk-carton ads for missing children. She carefully scanned the girl’s pretty face until she saw her eyes. They contrasted deeply to the rest of her dark skin, signaling that her eyes were lighter than the typical dark brown. Mary desperately searched the writing below the hazy photo for the colour of this girl’s eyes until she found it: violet.

Her eyes then went to the date it was realized the young girl was missing. The letters blurred and she gasped with mixed emotions of pain and sorrow, joy and relief, grief and mourning. She felt almost as if this was her own child torn away from her and into the middle of an evening blizzard. She hugged the carton of milk to her chest and purchased it without letting go. As soon as she walked in the door, she poured the milk into an old plastic bottle meant for recycling and washed out the carton. Like creating a piece for arts and crafts, she took her scissors to the waxed cardboard and carefully cut out the young girl’s photo and information.

She then took the picture to her room and inserted it into the scrapbook made up of the various newspaper clippings about a mysterious young prophet healing the sick and renewing the old.