Soul Bound

Note: This story contains mature themes, mild references to child endangerment and mild psychological distress.

Sleep weak baby of mine. Lie on the cold hard stone. Do not cry. The danger will pass soon; you will never be in danger again while I live.

Listen simple Angels. Take my blood and the blood of my descendant. Extract our souls and tie them tight. Let him feel my protection. Amen. Let him never not know the warmth of his father. Let him feel as I feel. Amen.

The waves crash. We are hit with the spray. The moon is bright. Shooting stars bleed across the sky.

I cut my finger. I draw blood. The child bleeds. We are one. Never will we break.

I come home. The house is empty. My wife is not home. The baby no longer cries. I lay him down to bed and I switch on the TV to see the world. I see people split apart. I see a show where parent and child are strangers and where family is no more than a word. Time flies by.

And, when you are bound to the soul of your kin, that time is treacherous. My wife wonders why my knees are grazed, or my elbow bruised, or why I have a matching scar with the boy. She asks why I stopped drinking. She is impressed by my new calmness - I have not fought in ten years. The child is protected. I am present.

I do not like to drive. When possible, I take the train or the bus. I do not trust taxi drivers. Many people die on the road - It is the leading cause of death in my age bracket. But, sometimes, I drive. Sometimes, there is no choice. And, one of those times, at a crossroads, a fool jumped a red light and my world began to spin and my vision began to blur and pain flared up like rage and I found myself crawling from the car and then I was limping and then I saw the lady who had rammed into me and then she was unconscious and then I was restrained and then I was in the hospital and then my leg was in a cast. And so was my boy. And time was slow again. And my wife did not know what had happened, because the kid had been sitting down playing on his console, but his leg had snapped like a twig. The doctor listened to her sceptically, writing down cryptic notes. Whispering to colleagues. Raising alarm bells. The services came. They found nothing. They do not see the love.

And now we are home and I have put my son to bed. I had tried to protect him, but accidents happen. It is fine. Is it? It is a medical mystery, the doctors now say. My wife looks at me. She asks me what I have done. I say I have done nothing. Nothing happened at the rock by the sea on the night of the shooting stars. But she knows that there is something. Although, it is incomprehensible, because the simple Angels who granted my wish are exclusive. Rational people do not see them. Only we who see in colours.

More time passes. My wife doubts. She natters. Friends begin to move away from me. I am falling. My son is alive. He is protected. We are linked. I can feel that he loves. But she does not.

I no longer have a wife. She has become less rational. She sees through me. She sees my protection as a curse. Yet, my child still lives. We are both healthy. He is a young man now - Top of his class: A future engineer. He and I drink together, sometimes, but I drink alone as well - just a little here and a little there. Harmless. It helps.

But sometimes, when I don’t have that little, my mind wanders to the fact I rarely actually see my son. Because time passes and now he is independent. And I am left to wonder if he needs my protection? My love. But, it is there and always will be.

A year goes by. Then another and then another. I fall further. I go to a bar. A fight breaks out over this and that and I leave this world for a couple of seconds and wake in a hospital room. My ex-wife, who I no longer know, calls to tell me my son had a strange fainting episode, developing bruising around his temple. She asks me again what I have done, and asks for a cure that is not needed. I tell her not to call me. I feel strange things in my chest.

I catch myself praying to the angels that my son no longer needs my protection, but they do not listen. They are simple. This is too complicated.

Maybe I am not sincere.

The doctors speak to me. They say they have found something that should not be there. They blame it on a life not well lived, but put it more kindly than that. What will happen? Is what I ask them. And they tell me to make my peace.

So, I make the call to my dearest son whom I no longer see and who suffers as I suffer and lives as I live.

And on the phone I say a lot and not at all. I tell him to live each day as if it is his last. I tell him youth doesn’t last forever. I tell him to speak as much as possible to those he loves. He does not tell me much but he reassures me he is young and hopes to live for many more years to do such things, and I say I hope so too.

But this year, or maybe next, will be my last. And, our souls are tied tight. His blood is my blood. And he shall never not know my warmth. This curse of ours is all that holds us together: father and son. I like it that way.