Samuel

The prison was empty; I didn’t know where my son was. My mind was racing. I pressed my back up against the red brick wall. As I slid down, I could feel the rough edges peeling away at my dead skin. The moon hung heavy from the window where my husband and daughter stood fearfully. I dug my nails into my scalp, feeling the curls tangling with every move. Samuel. My sweet boy.

I pictured his face. Every day, I imagined him as he was as a child. Quiet, calm, picking at his scabs on his first day of school. Clinging, breathing in the scent of my freshly washed skirt. Scared to leave me, yet excited to begin new endeavors. As a mother, I often got lost in the irises of his eyes. They mask the stench of alcohol, the allegations, the harm he caused. So much beauty. My Samuel was wrongly treated by this cruel, despicable society filled with cults and miscreants.

Looking into my daughter's eyes, the saturated green jewel tone from her irises faded much like her smile. She too, had wondered if her brother could be so misguided. I looked to the heavens. Please God. Take me instead. A good mother always puts her child first, I had learned.

My husband helped me up. His hands were strong, yet soft and tender. I mustered up enough courage to ask the question that had been gurgling in my throat the moment I heard the news. It was burning. My words wanted to get out, much like an innocent person wishes to escape the cold bars of prison.

“Have you killed my son?”

As if a slide show was playing in my head, my memories of him came to life like holograms in front of me. That face. That beautiful face.

One of my fondest memories was with Samuel at the beach, where we went after school was let out. We buried our feet in the sands of time, watched the waves crash against the shore.

Without saying a word.

My memories were interrupted by my husband’s elbow in my rib, alerting me to pay attention. I listened to the guard’s uneven voice drone on, yet I fixated on the light patch on his wrist. I imagined his pores were little holes I could fall into and never emerge.

The cell for punishment. Where my son had been taken. Relocated. The anger inside me was unbearable. I grabbed the guard by his shirt.

“Take me to my son.”

My voice broke.

The gravel road we drove on was uneven. Each bump reminded me I would soon be reunited with him.

The next time I saw Samuel was him emerging from the cell. Broken. Remorseful. Shattered. Had I finally seen my son through clear eyes? His smooth, pale skin dirtied by the dried crusted blood. His eyes were throbbing. It was now my turn to run to him and breathe in the pungent scent of sweat and metal. His vulnerability escaped along with a tear down his cheek.

Had they destroyed my son? Or had they taken off the mask he wore so proudly?

I pushed back, and stood there waiting. I expected him to shrink into his own body. 4 feet tall, plump face and rosy cheeks. Nothing happened. All I saw in front of me was a man. A man who had made many mistakes in the past, most of which I’ve overlooked.

A changed man.

Reviews

[Olivia Danielle]

Her son was taken to prison. Days later when she went to visit him, she realised he was taken to another place for punishment. The punishment cell really changed him and now the mother sees him in a different light. Thank you for asking!

[ca.shorty]

Deep story. Made me sad. I have one question. Did she die to go see her son or did he come back from the dead?