Mike v2.0 (A Firesetter Short Story) by J. Naomi Ay

 
     
     
     
     
     
    “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