Member-only story
Short story
The Child
What a special bond we have with the ones who raise us
The tiles on the floor of my room usually look perfectly flat, but upon close inspection, or by the chance glint of light off a scratch-like ravine on the surface, you notice that it’s not quite as smooth as it initially appears to be.
There’s so much texture to the world to be appreciated if we just stop and look. I’ve missed the texture in so many people — gotten just a passing impression of them. It begs the question of how few others actually even know me.
I wonder if mother and father know me. They care for me and feed me, so they must know me. Why else would they do it? It’s true that our communication is sparse. But they took me in at such a young age I can hardly remember it now. I do my best to make them proud, but they’ve sacrificed so much for me, to have reared me and provided for me all this time. It’s hardly something I can ever repay in full.
These quiet mornings always leave me pensive. I don’t love work, but there’s something even more dissatisfying in these idle times. It’s tranquil, and thought-provoking, but the restless energy — the craving for actualization — it makes me feel useless.
Well, it should only be a few more moments now before mother or father come to open…
