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)

“D
uck!”
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!”

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.