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~your local angst-y Christian girl~


soli Deo gloria!

Message to Readers

hopefully I portrayed this topic well :)

"You write so beautifully. Your mind must be a terrible place."
Always on the lookout for tragic backstories and broken characters. :D

Art instagram: @therealdoodleninja

HEY! READ THIS! Whether new to WtW or not, it's a super helpful guide to being a writer here by the very lovely Dmoral13!

I also have a contest running until June 30!! #dramatize

you will tear your heart in half | #boredwriter

June 28, 2020



You brush his soft curls, but he pushes you away.
"Stop messin' up my hair!" he whines, little chubby hands reaching up to cover his head. 
You laugh at his pout, and wonder if you look the same when you get upset. You wonder if there are any similarities at all between you and him. You wonder if when people look at you two on the street, they smile to themselves and say, "such a cute pair, that mother and son".
You hope they do. 
Secretly, you hope.
"Arms up," you hold his tunic as he raises his hands, and you dress him, like you've always done. Once the cloth is properly on him, he stares up at you with those dark eyes, a color that's so much like your own, but you know they're not. He is not yours, not really. 
He is only a boy. Just a child who's witnessed too much, who has too much on his shoulders, who has too many hidden scars beneath that soft skin. But you hope that you're the one who sets his spirits at ease, you're the one who can bring a smile to his face.
He doesn't show his emotions. But maybe for you, he would. Maybe for you.
Secretly, you hope. 
"Should I call you 'mama'?" he asks out of the blue and your fingers freeze as you tie the knot at his shoulder. 
You gulp, saliva rushing down your dry throat. 
"Why do you ask?" you shift in your position, kneeling on the floor. 
"The other kids call the person who takes care of them 'mama'," he says. "And they look at me weird when I just call you by your name."
You don't answer. You're afraid to answer. 
"What's a 'mama' anyway?" he looks at you with those big brown eyes and your heart breaks
You steady yourself. "A mama, a mother, is the person who gave birth to you. Everyone has one. She's the one who takes care of you, and raises you, and teaches you many, many things. She feeds you, and she makes sure you can grow up to be the best person you can possibly be. And she loves you." 
Your voice hitches. "She loves you more than anything else in the world."
You pause.
"...a good mother, at least," you add on. 
"So then you're my mama?" both his eyebrows rise and you know that's how he shows his happiness, since he's forgotten how to smile. You know, because you're the one who raised him. 
You avert your gaze. ""
Now his eyebrows furrow. "But you're all those things."
"I...I am," you let out a shaky breath. â€‹She loves you more than anyone else in the world. "Except, I did not give birth to you."
"Oh," he says. "Why not?"
You want to laugh at his innocence, at his ignorance, but your throat is too full of emotions that are slowly suffocating, choking you. 
"I...I can't have children," your eyes release a tear. "I'm infertile."
You know that word doesn't hold any meaning to him. But it does to you. And you remind yourself of your curse, of your misfortune, to want something so badly, but never be able to attain it. 
A child of your own.
A child with your features, a child who doesn't belong to anyone else except you. 
And sometimes you wonder why you took up the job of raising him.
Because everyday he is the reminder of something you can never have. 
Something so beautiful, something so miraculous, something so precious. 
You love him. 
You love him so much. 
"But then...who is my mama?" he takes a step back since you're done dressing him, but the distance between you could may as well been a chasm. 
"Your real dead," you don't bother to coat the truth with sugar and honey because he already knows death far too well. 
The corner of his lips twitch, the only sign of sadness you know he'll ever show. 
You know him so well. 
You love him so much. 
He adjusts the cloth on his shoulder. "Can I still call you 'mama'?" 
Can he?
Will you be able to take it?
Will you let this angel glow brighter, will you let his devil horns grow sharper? Will you give yourself the pleasure of hearing those words come from his mouth and will you give yourself the agony, knowing you will never be his true mother? 
You will never have a child of your own. 
It hurts. 
It hurts so much. 
And yet you will take the pain of tearing your heart in half, just so that you can live your fantasy. 
"Yes," you answer. "Yes, you can."
"Okay, Mama."
Prompt 2 of Just_A_Memory's contest

More tragic tales! Because why not!
Based on two characters from a story I'm writing. 



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