8 Distress (2/2)

He started muttering something to himself. Somehow, I knew what he was saying.

”I'm sorry Oscar. I'm so sorry.”

He stood up and leaned over the cot, planting a kiss on my forehead. I felt something wet drop onto my head. Father gently wiped it away. He took one last look at me, then left the room.

Emotions welled up in me. I realised how callous I had been. To me, this was a fantasy world, and I was its protagonist. But to my parents, I was family. I was their only son.

Every painful trial I put myself through was a terrifying ordeal for them. I couldn't even tell them what I was doing. All they could do was pray for me to be okay.

I needed to talk to them, but I was long way from being able to speak. Until then, I had to communicate in another way. I had to tell father it would all be okay.

I needed to go to him. My body was feeble, but I needed to move. Most babies wouldn't be able to crawl for months. But I wasn't like most babies.

I pushed myself against the back of my cot and tried to sit up, but my body flopped forward. I had to use all my strength to achieve anything.

I pushed myself back up again and grabbed onto the wooden slats with one hand. With the other, I reached up. I wanted to push open the latch that locked the side.

It took some attempts, but I flipped it open. The side fell with a crash. I kicked myself over, rolling off the cot. I fell to the floor with a thud.

I saw a crack in the door and tried to head for it. But my limbs just scraped uselessly on the floor when I tried to crawl. I needed to use my head for this.

I lay spread-eagled on the floor and pulled my body forward with all four limbs. Even though I used all my strength, I only managed to shuffle a few centimetres. It was progress, nonetheless.

If I could push my mind and soul to cultivate, I could at least do this. I moved slowly, taking my time with each shuffle. It took minutes for me to reach the door and squeeze through.

The door to father's study was ajar and light crept around it. It only took seconds for mother to walk there, but it took an hour for me. An hour of gruelling exhaustion.

I finally reached father's study. I was lightheaded, thirsty and tired, but I couldn't stop there. I scraped through the doorway and looked for father.

The normally tidy study was a mess. Books were strewn across the floor, their pages ripped out in frustration. There was a stack of dishes in the corner, and the food on it was barely touched.

Father lay slumped backwards on a pile of books. I could see his face better now. He looked like he had aged years and had heavy bags under his eyes. Tears had marked furrows down his dry skin.

Questions flooded my mind. What had brought him to this state? Was my condition that serious? Was there another reason? But I paid them no heed.

I shuffled over to him. I couldn't climb up the stack of books, so I tugged on his drooping hand instead. At first, I used one arm, but he didn't wake.

I gripped his fingers with both hands and pulled with all my might. His arm shifted, and he woke up. With bleary eyes, he looked down at his hand. He was startled at the sight of me.

I looked at him and smiled. I wanted to tell him with my actions that whatever was going on, it wasn't his fault. I wanted to tell him that I cared for him.

He cracked a plaintive smile, lifted me up, and placed me on his chest. He spoke two words to me, and I knew what they meant.

”Thank you.”

Soon after, I fell asleep in his arms, exhausted beyond belief.