Mike v2.0 (A Firesetter Short Story)

  Mike v2.0

  A Firesetter Short Story

  By

  J. Naomi Ay

  Published by Ayzenberg, Inc

  Copyright 2015- 2016 Ayzenberg, Inc.

  060516

  Cover design by http://www.selfpubbookcovers.com/woofie_2015

  Cover art by © Can Stock Photo Inc. / TsuneoMP - spaceship

  © Can Stock Photo Inc. / rebius - smoke trail

  © depositphotos.com / diversepixel - space background

  Also by

  J. Naomi Ay

  Firesetter series

  A Thread of Time (Book 1)

  Amyr’s Command (Book 2)

  Three Kings (Book 3)

  Exceeding Expectations (Book 4)

  A Cosmic Dance (Book 5)

  The Two Moons of Rehnor series

  The Boy who Lit up the Sky (Book 1)

  My Enemy's Son (Book 2)

  Of Blood and Angels (Book 3)

  Firestone Rings (Book 4)

  The Days of the Golden Moons (Book 5)

  Golden's Quest (Book 6)

  Metamorphosis (Book 7)

  The Choice (Book 8)

  Treasure Hunt (Book 9)

  Space Chase (Book 10)

  Imperial Masquerade (Book 11)

  Rivalry (Book 12)

  Thirteen (Book 13)

  Betrayal (Book 14)

  Fairy Tales (Book 15)

  Gone for a Spin (Book 16)

  “Duck!” someone yelled, and I did.

  Unfortunately, I was a fraction of a second too late. With a resounding thunk, the ball collided with my head, or perhaps, it was my head which collided with the ball.

  “I hate baseball,” I muttered, right before the world went dark. “I will shoot myself before I ever play this game again.”

  I heard someone scream. I heard what was most likely a collective groan reverberate across the stands. This was followed by the most severe pain I had ever experienced in my relatively short life.

  Before I passed out, I recall writhing upon the ground, clouds of dust and sand wafting around me and into my nose.

  “Not only do I hate baseball,” I declared, probably only inside my brain. “I hate all of them. Everyone. Everywhere. I hate my life.”

  “How ya doing there, Mike?” I heard the coach's voice. “You didn't see that curve, now did ya, pal?”

  No. I hadn't, and I decided, I hated him most of all. When I was King of the World, I would sentence him to the gallows.

  After that, my father must have arrived, although I have no memory beyond the horrific pain in my head. My father, as he always did, had been sitting in the stands, cheering me on no matter how haplessly I played. And, I did play haplessly, for I was easily the worst player on the team. Despite my father's lectures, despite the private coaches and tutors that were hired to drill me and instill me with proper skills and sportsmanship, the ball connected far more often with my head than with bat or glove.

  Immediately, I was whisked into the car, whereupon I was flown to the nearest hospital, which happened to be in the oldest part of the city. There, I lay immobile for days while the crack in my skull healed and my brain swelling abated, or so they thought.

  Of course, I didn't know this until I awoke a few days later, confused, hungry, and very annoyed.

  “What's the matter, dear?” my mother asked, her hand clutching mine, the faint lavender scent of her perfume drifting across my nose.

  “Everything!” I wanted to vehemently proclaim as if it were all her fault.

  At eight years old, I still assumed my mother was in control of the universe, or at the very least, my universe. If I had been hurt, surely, it had been at her behest. After all, I had never wanted to play baseball, not for a minute.

  I had never wanted to leave my home. I had been perfectly content in my life, despite my lack of friends or even acquaintances my age. However, it was my mother who had insisted I venture out of my safe space and beyond our walls. Probably, she had only intended for me to take leisurely walks, while my father was insistent that I needed a team and a sport.

  “I’m totally blind,” I declared in the politest tone I could muster considering the circumstances I was in.

  “What do you mean?” my father asked.

  “I mean, I can’t see a damn thing, more or less.”

  “Oh!” my mother gasped, her hand quickly drawing away as if my infirmity was contagious. Probably, she placed it over her heart, as her posture shifted away from my bed. “Thunk?” She called my father, her voice sounding choked and far away.

  My father’s footsteps crossed the room, away and back again. He cleared his throat, stalling, unable to respond. Most likely, he was confused, as he made this noise three times. In the meantime, I lay there in darkness, listening as his thumping, awkward gait carried him to my side.

  “Look at me,” he ordered, now in his most commanding tone, declaring this of me as if I had been faking my infirmity. “Open your eyes, Mikal and look at my face. See here. Do you see this brown spot on my nose?”

  Mikal, he had called me by my given formal name, something generally reserved for occasions of either grandeur or punishment.

  Did he think I was fooling? Could I be faking this trauma, and if so, for what possible purpose? I had more than enough attention, and surely, there had to be an easier way to quit that blasted baseball team.

  “I can’t see anything,” I repeated, recalling the particulars of my father’s nose from an earlier viewing. “I’m sorry, sir. The spot was quite large, was it not?”

  “Oh!” my mother gasped again.

  This was followed by another cough from my father’s throat. “Indeed, it is quite large. Are you absolutely certain of this, Mikal?”

  Yes, I wanted to scream, the spot is enormous. What would it take to convince them of something plainly obvious to me? My eyes were open, but registering nothing, save the darkness.

  “Please, will you get a doctor?” I shrieked. “I should very much like to see!”

  Probably, my condition was temporary. Probably, it was a result of the swelling and pressure in my brain. Unfortunately, no one knew for certain, and neither did they know how to repair me. As to this revelation, I can only assume I was in shock, else I might have bolted upright in the bed and started screaming. Instead, my parents did the screaming for me.

  “Have you no doctor here who understands these things?” my father demanded.

  “But, he’s my son!” my mother cried, as if her esteemed position should have shielded me from this pain.

  “So sorry, Ma’am, Sir,” a polite voice tried to explain. “Often these things happen and resolve themselves in due course. Give it some time.”

  “Time?” My father gasped, as the doctor exited, or so I assumed from the footsteps that carried him from the room. When the door was safely shut, such that no stranger would overhear, my parents began to quarrel, blaming each other for my failings.

  This was a fairly common occurrence in our home, although it was something only my grandfather and I ever witnessed. Most of their arguments tended to center upon me and whether or not I was being raised correctly, or overly pampered, or conversely, overly neglected.

  “You and your bloody baseball!” my mother shouted, her fists most likely flailing at my father’s chest.

  “You can’t coddle and baby him forever,” my father retorted. “If he is to become a king, he must first become a man.”

  “And, you think baseball will do that? Instead, it has made him a cripple just like you! One would have thought you had learned you lesson after having a ball thrown at your head. But no, you must repeat it with your son. My son has been hurt!”
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br />   With that, she departed, her tiny footsteps stomping across the room. This was followed by the sound of a door opening and shutting with an angry force.

  “Now Sara,” my father mumbled, his voice directed at the floor.

  For a moment, he did not speak, and neither did I. With my mother’s departure, the angry wind had been sucked from all of our proverbial sails.

  “I am sorry,” my father declared eventually, his voice now directed at the door.

  “I am sorry, too,” I replied. “It’s all my fault.”

  Clearly, I had been proven a failure at his favorite sport, having no natural skill nor instinct when it came to bats and balls. However, I also had no desire to remain my mother’s pampered prince, an effeminate baby coddled and cuddled as if my every breath was sacred.

  Seeking to prove myself as a man, as a prince and future king, even though I was only eight years old, I had bought into my father’s promise of the benefits of baseball. Of course, at the time, I had no clue I would end up blind and utterly useless, hating everybody and everything associated with the game.

  “It shall be good for him,” my father had insisted. “No, it shall be great. Baseball is, after all, the sport of kings.”

  “No, it’s not,” my mother had snapped. “My grandfather, the Great Emperor, loved football more than anything.”

  “Drinking and smoking are the sports of kings,” my own grandfather, the Imperial Prince added, he being an authority on those, and many more vices.

  “You’ll be fine,” Father said now, although his voice lacked anything remotely close to certainty. “Temporary. Only temporary. We must focus upon that.”

  Focus, I tried, concentrating on the darkness in my brain, despite the dull ache that mocked my medications. I wondered what fine would be in this new nightmarish world. Would I end up ruling from a throne I would never again see? Or, would my birthright be whisked out from under me, the blind King Mikal, forever displaced by some scheming politician and political party?

  “I am so sorry, Mike.” My father’s rough hand reached out to caress my hair, tugging gently at a wayward curl as he was wont to do. His hands were always chapped and calloused despite being a pampered Prince-consort himself, due to the rubber handholds on his crutches. “My little man. I never meant for you to be hurt. You know that, don’t you? I would give anything to make you whole again. If I could have taken your place, I would in half a breath.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “It is my fault altogether. I was the one who enrolled you in the PeeWee League. I was certain you would enjoy playing with the Mishnese Hummingbirds, learning important skills, the camaraderie, the friendship of men and women in arms.”

  “Yes, Father,” I said again, despite having acquired neither the skills, nor the camaraderie, nor a friendship of anyone.

  “I always loved playing the game myself, back when I could. Hard to imagine me your age, I suppose, imagining me able to run, chasing a ball. Indeed, there was a time I did not have these blasted braces upon my legs.”

  “Yes, sir.” Quickly, I feigned an enormous yawn before he launched into another story of a neighborhood park filled with children from identical houses on a suburban street.

  My father had also been hit in the head with a baseball, leaving him comatose for weeks, subsequently damaging his brain and nervous system. Only after years of rehabilitation did he regain both his mental faculties and motor skills, although most of the time, he still struggled to walk.

  “Perhaps, you shall be visited by an angel, as was I.” He said this nearly completely under his breath.

  My mother scoffed whenever he related this silly tale, while my grandfather usually swore, mumbling something along the lines of, “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  “You believe me, Mike, don’t you?” my father always said, to which I humored him and nodded, while knowing full and well that angels didn’t exist.

  Now, I yawned and made a groaning noise, preferring not to hear this story yet again.

  “Ah, I see you have grown weary,” he said, taking the clue. “Well, I shall be leaving you to rest, unless you wish for me to stay?”

  “No, Father.” Turning my face into the pillow, I pretended to snore.

  “Are you certain? It’s quite alright. I can sit here as long as you desire.”

  I didn’t respond, but instead made a concerted effort to keep my breathing steady and even.

  He sat for a few more moments, his gaze intent on my face. Even though I couldn’t see him, it was almost as if I could feel his eyes upon my skin. Eventually, he rose to his feet, thumping across the room, his braces clanking.

  “Goodnight, sweet Mikal,” he whispered. “Tomorrow will be better.”

  I wasn’t certain about that. In fact, I was resolved to the prospect of tomorrow being worse, as would everyday after that forevermore.

  My father had been born and raised on Earth, in a town that seemed straight out of ancient film, while my entire life had been spent in the Imperial Palace. Although, the Palace wasn’t the original massive structure once occupied by my mother’s predecessor, my great-grandfather, the Great Emperor, it was still quite impressive, especially when compared to my father’s childhood house.

  Built entirely of marble stones that cast a pink shadow across the valley when the sun set, in the moonlight, our Imperial residence rose like a giant monolith nearly as high as the stars. Whilst the interior was no longer trimmed in gold or crystal as in the Great Emperor’s days, it was still quite luxurious, a fitting residence for the Empress Sara and her consort.

  Having lived there since my first breath, I had no conception of the world beyond those palace walls, nor did I understand the people to be anything beyond subjects of my future crown. Thus, my father forever made it his task to keep me humble and human, even though, technically, I was only sixty-two and one half percent human, twelve and one half percent Xironian, and twenty-five percent Rehnorian.

  In addition to my parents, my mother’s father, the Imperial Prince lived with us. Steve, as we called him for a reason that was never fully explained, was the eldest son of the Great Emperor. Throughout his life, he had been a colossal screw-up, such that for a time, he had been banished to a frozen planet on the outer banks of the Empire. When he returned, he had continuously lived in fear of execution at his father’s hand.

  “You think you’ve got it bad,” he’d tell me, whenever I complained about my schoolwork or having to eat my peas. “If I dared to open my mouth and object to anything my mother said, my father would glare at me with his silver eyes and threaten to send me flying across the ceiling.”

  “Oh, he never did that,” my mother scoffed, glaring at me with her own bright blue eyes. “Eat your peas, Mike. They’re good for you. Full of fiber. Afterward, I expect you to finish your math problems.”

  “How do you know? You weren’t there. Just because Senya turned into a marshmallow around you, doesn’t mean he wasn’t a vicious bastard around me. He was.” Steve leaned in closer, nodding to me as if I was complicit in some sort of scheme. “He was a great king, though, a great emperor when he wasn’t mad out of his brain. You’ll be a great king, too, Mikey. You stick with me, bud, and you’ll be called the Great Emperor, version 2.0.”

  Usually, at this, my mother sighed dramatically, and my father rolled his eyes. We all knew Steve was pretty mad out of his brain, too, but we all accepted it, and did our best to ignore him. At the time, Steve was something like a hundred years old, and he was allowed to act and say bizarre things despite how annoying and embarrassing he could be. To that end, I did my best to avoid him whenever he came around.

  “What’s up, junior?” he would call, offering a hand for a high five, a fist to bump, or if his sciatica wasn't acting up, his butt.

  “Nothing, Steve,” I would mumble, and hurry off before he trapped me in an endless conversation about the past. “School. You know, I’ve got to study.”

  “Well, that’s a fine pickle you�
�ve got yourself in,” Steve announced, shuffling into my hospital room. A chair scraped against the floor, followed by the sound of his body collapsing into it. “Oof! Are you awake, Mikey? It’s me, Steve, your grandfather. Remember me? How’s about I take you to a baseball game?” Then, he started laughing, a cackling sound intermingled with his usual hacking coughs.

  I had been asleep, but there was no point in telling him that now.

  “Hi Steve.”

  “Oh, so you do remember me. Good. Your brain isn’t completely fried. Can you see anything yet?”

  I opened my mouth to explain that my world was still completely dark, when more footsteps crossed the floor, along with a gust of very flowery perfume.

  “Oh!” a high feminine voice proclaimed. “Sir! I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

  “That’s alright, sweetheart,” Steven insisted. “Too bad you can’t see this dish, Mikey-boy. She’s a real looker.”

  “Oh, Sir!” She giggled nervously and touched my arm with her soft hand. This was followed by a not-so-soft poke.

  “If I was only eighty years younger,” Steve chortled. “I’d let that nurse poke me. But, I’ve had my share of hospital rooms. Yes, I have. You couldn’t pay me to swap places with you, junior. Did I ever tell you about the time my father beat the bleeding shit out of me? I was in the hospital for a month after that, but I learned my lesson. Yes, I did. I didn’t have another drink for at least the next ten years. Well, maybe eight years. Six tops. Although, I did have a beer or two in between, and occasionally, a glass of wine. Can’t go through life without good wine. Trust me, Mikey-boy. I could have stopped any time I wanted, though. Really, I could have.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the nurse said politely, her hand still clutching my arm, the viperous needle still drawing an obscene quantity of my life’s blood.