Noah- Second Fortune

When I was young, my family had a peculiar way of life. Due to my father's job, we were forced to move from one town to another every few years. It was a constant cycle of impermanence, never allowing me to form lasting memories or forge deep connections. I was adrift, flowing like the waves of the sea, unable to find my anchor.

Our household was far from idyllic. My father toiled away all day, only to return home and drown his sorrows in alcohol or engage in heated arguments with mom. I never experienced the warmth of a loving home or the tender embrace of devoted parents. Each time we left a town, I had to bid farewell to the things I held dear and the friends I longed to keep. Yet, in the end, I was left with only my troubled parents as companions.

I'd never really seen the colors of the world as it had to offer. It's a truth that often weighs heavily on my heart— that this vast world we live in doesn't truly need anyone. It doesn't hunger for the presence of parents, teachers, role models, friends, or even grown-ups. And it certainly doesn't need someone like me. In the grand scheme of things, the world remains indifferent to our existence. It cares not who thrives or succumbs to the hands of fate. The sun rises just the same. It's a cold and desolate realization.

Yet, paradoxically, it is within this solitude that we find an inexplicable yearning. We want to need... and be needed, to forge connections that defy this bleak reality. Deep down, we long for those moments when we can lean on others and offer our support in return. There's a desire to encounter someone who depends on us, to become an indispensable part of another's life.

After all, our happiness comes from the kindness of those around us.

It was my first weekend in Camden. I was sitting in my room, attempting to lose myself in a book, when the intrusive sound of the television downstairs grated on my nerves. My father was drowning himself in alcohol, and his foul mood permeated the air. Frustrated, I stormed into the living room and abruptly switched off the TV. 

It's been like this for as long as I can remember. Every single weekend, it's the same old story with my dad. When I was yound, he would never take us anywhere, never plans anything fun or exciting for the family. Instead, he just drowns himself in alcohol and zones out in front of the TV.

It's was frustrating... really frustrating... hearing my classmates talk about where they went to with their families on the weekends. I can't even remember the last time we went out for a hike or had a picnic in the park. I miss those times, the times when he used to be present, engaged with us. Now, it's like he's checked out, disconnected from the world around him. And it hurts, it really does.

I've tried talking to him about it, but it always ends in anger and defensiveness. It's like he doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to acknowledge how his behavior affects us all.

He looked at me with a furious gaze. "What the hell do you think you are doing, Noah?!"

"Tell me first, why are only drinking and watching TV on a weekend morning?"

His response was immediate and heated, "Then what should I be doing, huh?" He erupted in a fit of rage, while I tried to avert my eyes away from him. It only seemed to foul his mood even more, as he hurled a beer bottle directly at my face. Fortune favored me for the first time, as the bottle shattered against the wall behind me. 

I fled the living room, my father's enraged shouts following me from the living room, while mom arrived at the corridor.

"Noah, can't you tell that your father is in a bad mood this morning." She said, while drawing a long breath, "He's been drinking first thing in the morning. I wonder what's got into him lately..."

This has become a common scenario in our house lately. It seemed to be a recurring scene – Dad's temper flaring up like a storm, his anger charging at us unpredictably, while mom trying to keep things together by taking everything on herself. Unable to endure it any longer, I reached the decision – I needed to break away.

The town library stood in close to our house, and it had been the only place I had explored since arriving here. The library enveloped me in a cocoon of serenity, its hallowed halls offering respite from the chaos that often plagued my life. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, respecting the sacredness of the space where stories were revered and ideas took flight.

While I was sitting at a table and my mind adrift, a small boy approached, clutching a picture book in tiny hands. With an innocent smile, he asked if I could tell him a story.

I swiveled my chair around, redirecting my focus to the other side of the table, while the kid sat right in front of me. After that kids walked in one by one, and before I realized I was sitting in front of a packed crowd. 

When I was a child, mom used to take me to the library, where I would listen intently as the librarian spun tales of wonder and enchantment with picture books as her canvas. For me, storytelling was an escape from reality, a momentary release from the burdens of my own existence. It allowed me to lose myself in a multitude of personalities, to traverse infinite realms of characters and find solace within an infinite sense of self. With no friends to call my own and the knowing that I would never have the chance to establish lasting connections due to my father's restless career, I had resigned myself to a life of solitude.

The story as about a girl cursed by a wicked witch, condemned to speak words that only caused pain to others. It recounted her fateful encounter with a young prince, blind and confined to his balcony, who expressed his emotions through the sweet melodies of his violin. Despite their limitations, the girl and the prince found solace in each other's presence, forging a unique bond that transcended their individual hardships.

I flipped through the pages, going on with the tale. 

"The blind prince would play his violin every afternoon, accompanied by the chirping birds from the forest, his only audience except for the vast blue sky."

"But why doesn't he just go and play outside?" A kid from the middle raised his hand.

"I mean, he is blind, so he can't play..."

"But he can still do so many things even if he can't see. He could do so many other fun things too."

"That's not the problem here, I guess. Maybe his parents don't let him-"

"But that's not fair." He humped, "Poor little prince."

I can understand where the kid is coming from, the unfairness he feels about not being able to play outside with others. Whether it's due to blindness or his parents not letting him leave the castle, it all seems unjust from the reader's point of view.

However, within the prince's world of limitations and unfairness, I believe he must have discovered his own glimmer of hope. After all, happiness comes from kindness shown to us by those around us. In the prince's case, I am certain that the presence of the young girl had an impact on his life. Just by listening to him play the violin every day and simply being there with him, she was able to save him, even without her knowing it.

Maybe I'm the same as the prince. It may seem as though the unfairness of the world too has enveloped me, leaving me stuck and unable to break free.

"The end..." As I concluded the tale, applause erupted from the children, their innocent hands coming together in melody. In return, a subtle smile adorned my lips. The arch of my mouth echoed the innocence radiating from their faces. Their smiles, gentle and pure, seemed to possess a magical power, breathing life into the very essence of my being. I guess I was saved by the smiles of kids today.

I looked around the fringe of the crowd, when I noticed a boy and a girl, both around my age. The boy joined in the applause, but the just girl stood still, her radiant hair dancing playfully in the gentle rays of light, her eyes fixed upon me, sparkling with intrigue.

That's how I had met Iva—and the second time fortune had favored me in my life. Up until now, no one had looked at me the way she did. 

She wasn't like anyone else who came up to and talked to me. Her gaze penetrated beyond the surface, seeing me in my entirety, and embracing that very essence. Through her presence, the facade I had encased myself in became glaringly apparent She made me rebel against my own existence.

And that was enough for me. Meeting her in the library that day had taught me: it's never too late to start in believing in 'fateful encounters' or 'new beginnings.'  Maybe I knew it. I knew it all along, but never realized. In the same manner that rejection finds its place within our world, there are also individuals who will extend their hand out for you too.

Over the time I had spent in Camden... she stayed friends with me. With her smile and eyes that held a hint of starlight, she infused my days with a newfound radiance, displacing the bleakness that had clouded my existence. 

I understand that mere sentiments alone can elevate someone in our eyes, and I am aware of the risks that come with placing too much hope in another person. However, to me, Iva was like sunshine. If I had been trapped in a thick pile of snow for what felt like an eternity, she was the radiant, life-giving sunshine that thawed the frozen landscape of my heart and mind. A fresh and jaunty springtime, that's what she was to me.

"Noah Aubrey... Um... Mr. Aubrey, are you awake?" A faint voice called out to me, gently pulling me out my dream. Startled, I opened my eyes to find a nurse standing by my bedside.

"I'm sorry to wake you up. But you should have your dinner too. You need the energy," she said.

"Thanks. I will," I replied, my voice still bleary with drowsiness.

As she began setting down the tray of food, her gaze met mine, and I noticed a puzzled expression on her eyes. She softly asked, "Um... Mr. Aubrey, why are you crying?"

I was taken aback by her observation, and instinctively, I touched my damp cheeks, realizing then that tiny drops of tears were streaming down my face. "Why am I crying?" I murmured, more to myself than in response to her question.

"Did you have a bad dream or something?"

I searched my mind, desperately trying to recall any details that might explain my emotional state, but to no avail. The memory eluded me, slipping through my fingers like a wisp of smoke. "I don't know. I can't remember. My head just feels heavy..." I said, feeling the weight of my heart faintly visible in my voice.

Despite my earnest efforts, I found myself unable to summon even the slightest recollection. Instead, all that enveloped me was the oppressive weight pressing upon my heart, a burden that seemed to stifle my emotions. Why am I crying?