Summary: Short story. "I'd never be her son. I was my father's son, the
Duke's son."
THE DUKE'S SON
She was always looking out the living room window. My mother, that is. She'd spend hour after hour of the day seated in her oak rocker in front of the rather large window that looked out over the flat plains covered with wildflowers and tall grass. She would rock back and forth, back and forth - never speaking, never moving. She was constantly lost in thought - in another place, another time, another world altogether.
As a boy, I'd tug at her dress and plead with her to come outside and play with me. She would smile halfheartedly and sigh, explaining that she was "much too tired to get up." So I'd lie on the floor near her feet, just to be close to her. I became used to the sound of her perfectly rhythmic rocking in the living room.
She soon fell sick . . . and for some reason, she was never happier.
She was in a terrible state - and after a full week of restlessness and pain, my father argued with her that she should allow him to call the doctor to check on her. But, she stubbornly insisted that she was certain the sickness would pass soon. Despite that it was clearly obvious she was so gravely ill, she assured us that she was just fine.
The last time I saw her alive was the night before Father found her stiff and cold in the early morning. I had gone into her bedroom to say goodnight. Heaps of blankets were piled atop of her shivering body, her fiery hair was untidily pulled back in what appeared to be a wild, messy braid, and her ghostly pale skin was slick with a cold sweat. I stood silently at the foot of her bed and waited patiently until she acknowledged my presence. I caught her eye soon enough and she whispered hoarsely, "Do me a favor, won't you? Try not to grow up too much like your father." A strange smile crossed her lips, like what she had said was some sort of private joke.
Following her death, I returned to my spot on the floor near her rocker. It was so oddly unusual not hearing the familiar sound of her rocking. I curiously stared at her motionless rocker. I'd never noticed that the cushions - faded and flattened - were a floral pink pattern, secured to the rocker by means of neat bows. I ran my finger over them, wondering if my mother's hands were the ones that had tied the bows.
I'd suddenly realized that I couldn't remember what her hands felt like in mine. She'd never held me, avoided touching me. And was it grief I saw in her eyes when she looked at me? Perhaps it was because I so greatly resembled my father. I had acquired his blonde hair, his eyes, even his awkward smile.
Only a fool would fail to see that she wasn't happy with my father. Even as a child, I sensed there was something much more deeply concealed between them that disturbed me. But why should I have been condemned as well?
Did I love my mother? No. She had never loved me. I was never her son. I was merely a product of her misery. She wanted nothing to do with me. I'd never be her son. I was my father's son, the Duke's son.
A/N: Thanks for reading, please review!!
THE DUKE'S SON
She was always looking out the living room window. My mother, that is. She'd spend hour after hour of the day seated in her oak rocker in front of the rather large window that looked out over the flat plains covered with wildflowers and tall grass. She would rock back and forth, back and forth - never speaking, never moving. She was constantly lost in thought - in another place, another time, another world altogether.
As a boy, I'd tug at her dress and plead with her to come outside and play with me. She would smile halfheartedly and sigh, explaining that she was "much too tired to get up." So I'd lie on the floor near her feet, just to be close to her. I became used to the sound of her perfectly rhythmic rocking in the living room.
She soon fell sick . . . and for some reason, she was never happier.
She was in a terrible state - and after a full week of restlessness and pain, my father argued with her that she should allow him to call the doctor to check on her. But, she stubbornly insisted that she was certain the sickness would pass soon. Despite that it was clearly obvious she was so gravely ill, she assured us that she was just fine.
The last time I saw her alive was the night before Father found her stiff and cold in the early morning. I had gone into her bedroom to say goodnight. Heaps of blankets were piled atop of her shivering body, her fiery hair was untidily pulled back in what appeared to be a wild, messy braid, and her ghostly pale skin was slick with a cold sweat. I stood silently at the foot of her bed and waited patiently until she acknowledged my presence. I caught her eye soon enough and she whispered hoarsely, "Do me a favor, won't you? Try not to grow up too much like your father." A strange smile crossed her lips, like what she had said was some sort of private joke.
Following her death, I returned to my spot on the floor near her rocker. It was so oddly unusual not hearing the familiar sound of her rocking. I curiously stared at her motionless rocker. I'd never noticed that the cushions - faded and flattened - were a floral pink pattern, secured to the rocker by means of neat bows. I ran my finger over them, wondering if my mother's hands were the ones that had tied the bows.
I'd suddenly realized that I couldn't remember what her hands felt like in mine. She'd never held me, avoided touching me. And was it grief I saw in her eyes when she looked at me? Perhaps it was because I so greatly resembled my father. I had acquired his blonde hair, his eyes, even his awkward smile.
Only a fool would fail to see that she wasn't happy with my father. Even as a child, I sensed there was something much more deeply concealed between them that disturbed me. But why should I have been condemned as well?
Did I love my mother? No. She had never loved me. I was never her son. I was merely a product of her misery. She wanted nothing to do with me. I'd never be her son. I was my father's son, the Duke's son.
A/N: Thanks for reading, please review!!