Chapter 6
The cold wind swept over the cemetery, mingling with the torrent of rain, but it did little to calm the fire burning in his heart. His mother —the only person who had ever truly mattered to him, the only reason he had kept going was gone. And no amount of money could bring her back. The doctor's words still lingered in his mind: she had suffered a relapse, succumbing to an overdose that had ultimately led to a complete organ failure.
Many years has passed since Rhysand last saw his mother, but his actions were not without purpose. He had contacted the hospital and arranged for her admission to rehab following a severe breakdown stemming from her chronic drug addiction —an addiction he had been trying to help her fight since he was just five years old.
Rhysand was just three years old when his parents got divorced. He had seen his father only thrice and could barely even remember what he looks like. The only memory he has of his parents as a family was of his father yelling at his mute mother in their cramped apartment, swearing to cut ties with Rhysand and leave her to care for him alone. Rhysand had been too young to understand the reason. All he remembered was his late mother lighting up a cigarette and seeking solace in drugs after the argument. There were no explanations, no one to offer him compassion, no one to calm his young and confused mind.
No one cared!
Rhysand's childhood was a brutal awakening, literally. Every day, after his mother divorce from his ex-step father, he'd rise before the sun, the 4 a.m. darkness a precursor to the long, grueling hours ahead. At just eight years old, he'd lug a sack that seemed to weigh as much as he did, his hand clutching a bottle of water like a lifeline. It was all he had to sustain him— no breakfast, no warmth, no comfort. Just the cold, harsh reality of survival. And as he trudged through the day, his belly would gnaw with hunger, the water sloshing in his stomach a poor substitute for the meals he desperately needed. Yet, he'd keep going, driven by a resilience that bellied his tender years.
With a determined stride, Rhysand would always navigate the narrow alley of the city's slums, his eyes scanning the ground for any scrap of value. Empty cans, discarded polythene bags, and twisted metal scraps; nothing was too insignificant to collect. Every find was a tiny step towards paying for his mother's medication, covering the bills, and putting food on the table. She had always been the one to care for him, but her fragile health had forced her to rely on him especially after her divorce with his ex-step father. The weight of responsibility settled heavy on his small shoulders, but he refused to let it break him.
"You should go to him. I'm sure he can help us out with some money at least. You don't have to be stubborn like your father, Conrad," his mother had once told him after he returned home from work with a swollen face following a nasty encounter with some bullies who were also scavengers like himself. He had lied about it to his mother, blaming the poor ground he claimed to have slipped over.
"No, mother. I'd rather die than go meet Kruger," little Conrad had retorted.
"Why is that son? I know you both didn't get along quite well but he's not who you think. He is kind...in his own way."
Rhysand would often scoff, skipping the question knowing there was no point answering his mother. If only she knew what kind of man she had once married to. "No, mother. It's because he's Kruger." the last word would often drag on his lips.
The black blazer Rhysand was wearing soaked up the rain; his hair and body completely drenched. The fresh rose flower bouquet he had been holding got heavy against his hold, reminding him of reality.
"Farewell, mum. I love you," his tears mixed with the rain as he crouched down by her grave, placing the flower against the plaque he had had specially designed for her. "I'll miss you," he kissed the plaque.
~
Thunderclaps roared, mingling with cobwebs and dust as they welcome Rhysand to the same abode he had lived his early life. He had bought the apartment in his mother's name from the owner even before her death. He had kept it clandestine between he and the landlord, hiding under a good Samaritan pretext.
As an addict under intensive care and watch by the hospital, Rhysand knew his mother needed a place to keep her head in. After he left to the Island, he made sure to always keep in touch with the hospital concerning his mother's health. He would often hire cleaners and cooks for her all through her recovery journey, keeping a close eye on her from a distance even though speaking to her was the only thing he ever wanted to do.
In the one room apartment, Rhysand picked and cleared his way through the scanty webs with his hands. He felt nostalgia hit him as he caught a frame on the shelf in his mother's bedroom. It was a picture of him and Connor—his first month at work—at the pizzeria. He chuckled as he picked it up. He had taken the picture with Connor's phone as he had no means for that. His mother felt proud of him and wouldn't stop ranting about wanting that in a frame. To his mother, it was his first job but to Rhysand, it was just one of the many.
After Rhysand stopped with working as a scavenger following heavy threats from the bullies, he knew he needed other source of income to cater for him and his sick and addicted mother. He had gotten a job before working at the pizzeria, oblivious to his mother. It was a street vending job of selling ice creams to passengers by the roadside but fate had had other plans too.
Rhysand was accused of stealing by the owner of the factory after he returned from his job one day. That night it happened, he took longer to finish all of the ice creams because selling all means more money. The owner claimed he had forgot to put his money in the drawer the night before the morning of the allegation and no one seemed to be around except Rhysand. He tried to explain to the owner that he had only got back that late because he still had much in stock but that only earned him a merciless and swift dismissal.
Many a times Rhysand would have to beg with just any random person on the street, not for money, but for a source of income. Majority of the time, the response would be promising only to be rejected upon hearing his age. Most times, he would get spat on with coins tossed at him by those whom he would often call generous whenever his mom asks. At least, they were generous enough to spare some coins despite the vile act that came alongside it. It was much better than what Kruger had asked of him; what he had done to him.
With eyes red-rimmed from the tears he'd shed and those he was fighting to hold back, Rhysand's hands moved with a quiet reverance as he packed away the few precious remnants of his mother into a box. The frames, worn and faded, held the only glimpses of a bitter life. His fingers lingered on a small, yellowed photograph—the only one he possessed —of his mother cradling him in her arms on the day of his birth. His father was nowhere to be seen, a telling absence that seemed to echo through the years. The ache in his chest deepened as he thought of all the milestones he'd missed, the memories he'd never made with his mother, and the childhood that had been stolen from him. The divorce, the struggles, the hardship —it had all forced him to grow up too soon.
As he gazed at the photograph, he felt the weight of what he'd lost, and the tears he'd been holding back began to fall.
Soon, after Rhysand had tidy up the apartment and done packing, he curled up into a ball on the bed, tightly wrapping his arms around his mother's frame as he got overwhelmed from the flashback again.
"I'm so sorry mother," he said amist heavy sobs. "I'm so sorry for leaving you. I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me."
Rhysand drifted into deep slumber as he stayed curled up on the bed with the frame still in his arms. But it wasn't long until his sleep got interrupted by the smell of cigarette wafting through the air.
How strange?