Chapter Text
i.
5 years old
Thomasville, 1948
Paul was five when he first learned what a soul mark is.
He awoke to screaming. Like every other day. Biting his lip, he huddles under the fraying covers, clamping little hands over his ears as the shouts reach a crescendo.
Flinching, his dark blue eyes widen when he hears a sharp slap — and, a loud thud. Then, finally all is quiet as the front door slams open and shut. Lowering shaking hands to his lap, he swallows tightly, pushing himself out of bed and tip-toeing over to the only window in his room.
Wiping the tips of his fingers through layers of dust, he leaves behind clear streaks of shimmering glass, allowing the weakened watery rays of the early morning sun to filter through.
Paul frowns when he sees his dad stomping his way down the crumbling walkway, messily cursing under his breath as he stumbles past overgrown weeds spreading from beneath their under-kept lawn.
The cloying strands of ivy reach their tendrils out, trying and failing to grasp at the big ankles treading through them. Paul wishes they would rise up and bury the big man under their vines, allowing his presence to pollute the dirt there; instead of the house he’s meant to call home, or, the people he’s meant to love.
His father swats at the broken mechanism holding their withering fence together, resorting to violently kicking at the chipped and flaking wooden door, when it fails to swing open at his command. Twisting his hands in the waistline of his threadbare pajamas, Paul chews his lip, watching intently and counting his numbers softly, until his father claims victory, storming completely out of his sight.
Exhaling in relief, he jumps away from the window, padding barefoot on the chilled oak floors. Leaving his room, he treads down the darkened hallway — his dad never did replace the flickering light in the ceiling from last week.
Maybe once Paul is tall enough, once he is strong enough, he could do it for mama instead.
Speaking of mama, he finds her slim form huddled on the floor of their small and cluttered kitchen. Her pretty dress is already wrinkled, ripped open at the elbow; the hole wide enough to show her pale freckled skin. Her hands tremor when she places them on the floor to push herself up. Gasping, Paul runs over to her, skidding next to her legs on his knees; fighting off the grimace on his face when his skin burns from the friction of the action.
“Ma,” he whines. “You okay?”
His mother sniffles, scrubbing a hand under her dark blue eyes — the same ones he sees in a mirror every day. Huffing a laugh, she smiles, cupping a scarred hand against the apple of his cheek. “I’m just fine, baby. Mama’s okay. Come on now, just help me up, alright?”
Paul stands, wrapping his skinny arms around the circumference of her bicep, attempting to lever her up with his limited body weight. He pants breathlessly, and slips and slides all over the floor; but his mother is steady, stabilizing her other hand on the counter to get her bearings back. Once she’s on her feet, she blows out a long breath, wiping her hands along the stained apron tied at the width of her hips.
Narrowing his gaze on her left cheek, Paul frowns, pointing his hand to his own face and saying, “Mama, you’re hurt. Right here.” He may only be five, but he’s fallen on enough rocks at the quarry in town to mark up his legs with the same exact boo boos that look like that.
Bruises.
And, the bruise looks painful, dark purple, almost red at the center; spreading waves of lighter blue along the edges of her cheek before coming to a sudden stop right below her eye. Her shiny black hair is long, and usually tucked into a bun at the base of her neck, with not a strand out of place. Right now though it looks a right mess. Frizzy and out of control, as if someone pulled it this way and that.
Paul tries not to glare at the picture of his father on the wall nearby.
His mother just smiles, tucking his unruly curls behind his ears and leaning down to kiss his forehead. “I’m fine, sweetie. Now — you must be hungry, huh? It’s time for breakfast.”
The rumbling in his stomach makes itself known, loudly, and unable to be ignored. His mother’s high pitched melodic laugh fills the kitchen, brightening it from its previous melancholic state.
Like a rainbow after a rainstorm.
“I-I guess I am a little hungry.”
Mama smiles, lips softening at the sheepish look on his face. Mussing his hair one more time, she winks at him, nodding for him to go sit at the table. Following her suggestion, he giggles, skipping over and climbing onto a rickety chair. There’s old bottles and sticky round circles staining the wood; but, his mother comes over and sweeps everything away, efficient and no-nonsense.
Scrubbing the table with a cloth, she hums under her breath as she makes his breakfast, filling their little shabby house with the comforting smell of scrambled eggs and mouth watering bacon.
Paul’s stomach growls louder, nearly drowned out with the sounds of his mother’s singing and the popping sizzling noise of the meat cooking. But— Mama hears it. She always does.
“Almost ready, baby.”
Humming the ABCs to himself, he kicks his legs under the table, swinging them back and forth in the air. He can be patient. Mama deserves that. She deserves everything good.
Their stove turns off with a click, her fingers quickly extinguishing the blue flame below the burner. Paul turns, licking his lips as thick pillows of steam rise into the air. The eggs are bright yellow and soft looking, with a thick wad of butter melting on top. The bacon is crispy, just the way he likes it, leaking rivers of tasty greasy fat along the edges of the plate.
Mama sets it in front of him, taking the chair opposite to him. He waits for her to serve herself and frowns when she just rubs the back of her neck, spinning her small cup of coffee in her other hand.
“You’re not eating?”
She startles at his question, locking his eyes across the table. Giving him a small shrug, she says, “I’m not hungry right now, honey. You just eat, okay?”
“But, Ma—”
“Paul,” she grits out, wincing when the action pulls at the bruise on her face. Exhaling, she softens, reaching over to stroke the back of his hand. He turns his wrist, locking his little stubby fingers between her longer and slimmer ones, and holding on tight. “I promise you, baby. I’m good right now. I got my coffee,” she laughs, tipping her head playfully towards the mug, “That’s all I really need in the morning. But, if it will make you happy, then I swear I’ll eat later, deal?”
Lowering his shoulders, he smiles up at her, eyes full of nothing but love for her. “Deal.”
Mama squeezes his hand, ordering him to, “Okay, now go on. Tuck in. Before it gets cold.”
Releasing her hand, he does what she says, picking up the fork and shoveling buttery rich eggs into his mouth at a rapid pace. Reminding himself to swallow, he carefully watches mama sip at her coffee, blowing a cooling breath over the swirling vapors curling above the cup.
She drinks it dark, with no milk or sugar. And, it smells bitter enough that Paul's face always sours; feeling absolutely revolted every time he inhales a whiff of the stuff.
He swears when he’s as big as mama one day that he’s never going to even bother with the disgusting sludge. It can’t be that good, he wonders to himself, not something that smells like motor oil or gasoline.
Chewing on his bacon, he studies the bruise on her cheek again, spotting a darker line amongst the sea of maroons and deep violet. It’s thick, heavier looking, like something struck her harder than she was anticipating.
Something like a ring.
From his father’s hand.
I hate him, Paul thinks viciously, ripping his teeth harder into the fatty meat, shredding it into clumps between his molars.
Swallowing the lump of food caught in his throat, his eyes glimmer with a glossy sheen, little lips quivering as the weight of their lives fall heavy on his rounded shoulders. Tapping his fork on the half-empty plate, he whispers, “Why do you let him hit you? Hitting’s not nice. He hurts you, mama.”
Mama freezes, tucking her chin down into her chest. Her messy hair flows over her shoulder, covering the damaged cheek from his view. She won’t look at him, and he tries not to cry at that. Thinks he fails, if her own tears are anything to go by.
What he doesn’t see, or doesn’t realize — is, that his mom is ashamed. Ashamed of how weak she is. How afraid she is to admit that maybe love isn’t strong enough to conquer all. It’s not what she wants to teach her son.
“I—” she stutters, wiping a delicate hand under her leaking nose. “Your father is just going through a hard time, baby. And, we need to support him right now. The war, it-it—” her words fade, and still she doesn’t look at him.
Paul nods, taking another bite and letting it go. Scrubbing his face on his sleeve, he swipes the traitorous tears away, shoveling everything down deep inside. He knows this, he does, but —
Mama twists back to look at him, thumbing his chin in a firm grip. She nudges him to face her, and he does. Her lips tick, firm and determined as she gazes at him. “I’ll never let him touch you, Paul. I can take whatever he throws at me, but, he won’t touch my baby. I promise you that.”
But, that’s the problem. He’s too weak to help her. Can’t do anything to stop his dad from hurting her. He doesn’t want her to be hurt. Doesn’t want her protection if it means she can’t protect herself.
He needs to be bigger and stronger and louder and, and —
Sighing, he nods in understanding, accepting the fact that mama is right; at least for now. Paul just needs to keep being patient. And— one day, he’ll be the one protecting her.
He’ll make sure of it.
Mama smirks, gently moving a strand of loose hair off his face, cradling it in the smooth creases of her palm. Paul loves her hands, they are so soft and smell so good and they never would hurt him.
“—t was the last of the eggs,” she adds, taking a sip of her cooling drink. “What do you think, baby? You up for a trip to the market?”
“Yeah!” He shouts, standing on the chair and throwing his hands out in celebration. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”
Mama’s unrestrained laughter fills his soul, warming him from the tips of his hair all the way down to the bottoms of his feet. Paul smiles, because he loves making her laugh. She needs to do it more.
Leaning forward, she grasps his wrists, tethering him back to his seat. Arching a brow, she points to the plate, saying, “Finish your food, mister. I don’t want no crankiness now, ya hear?”
Paul giggles when her Georgian twang comes out, copying her until she shushes him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls one last time, thickening his accent the same way she does.
She rolls her eyes, pushing the plate closer to him until he gets the memo. Shoving the rest of his food into his mouth, he catapults off the chair, kissing her bruised cheek so lightly he’s sure she can’t even feel it — if not for the soft glimmer in her eyes — before running back to his room to get dressed for the day.
They have a market to get to.
“—see, we need milk, eggs, some cheese. Baking powder and baking soda. New flour. Hmm, we’ll get some apples,” Mama mumbles to herself, crossing out some stuff on her long written list. Paul walks faithfully by her side, one hand fisted in the folds of her dress.
A different one from the morning. One with no wrinkles or ripped holes in it.
His other hand trails over the cans on each aisle, fingering the rounded edges or crinkled tops and deciding in his head which one is neater to feel.
“Paul,” his mom growls, tapping him on top of his head with her pencil. “Don’t be touchin’ those. If they fall over, we’ll be in a heap of trouble, ya hear?”
“Yes, mama.”
Pulling his hand away, he tucks it into his pants, shuffling his feet and matching the pace his mother sets. They move along the aisles leisurely, stuffing their wicker basket full of everything they need. Paul glances around, seeing Ms. Loretta at the counter chatting with Mrs. Aplefin, both smiling wide as the latter’s groceries are rung up. They’re deep in their conversation, gesturing wildly out the small store’s shiny front windows.
Frowning, Paul glances in the direction they are, his hand falling from his mother’s skirt when he sees two young adults embracing tight enough for the whole world to see. The man and woman pull away from one another, kissing boldly, locking lips in a frantic dance. His lips pull up in disgust, gagging at the action, wondering why that stuff can't be better kept private.
He’s five, give him a break.
Besides, his parents never kiss. Not anymore at least. Not since his father came back different from the war.
Something strange about the couple catches his eye though, wiping the grimace off his face, and replacing it with curiosity. Squinting, his eyes widen when their pressed palms almost glow, illuminating them with a subtle shade of rose.
What could cause that? Paul wonders.
Both sets of hands finally separate, each palm now boasting a striking color of fuchsia pink that radiates out from the centers. What the heck is—
“Paul,” his mom calls from the checkout counter, and he jolts, shaking his head free of the anomaly in front of him. Jogging towards his mother, he takes his place at her side, smiling shyly up at Ms. Loretta.
“Hiya, Paul!” Ms. Loretta drawls.
“Hi,” he whispers sheepishly, hiding his face in the folds of mama's skirt. His mother smirks, nudging him before turning back to the counter to unload their groceries.
“Nice day today, Ms. Loretta.”
“It sure is, darling,” the owner croons, her dark weathered face crinkling with a bright smile. Her mocha eyes dart over his mother’s face quickly, twisting in a frown when she spots the poorly hidden bruise on her cheek. “You alright there, Marjorie? That looks like a nasty mark there, sweetie.”
His mother blushes, brushing long strands of midnight black to cover the injured side. She smiles tightly, shrugging. “All good, Ms. Loretta. Just took a tumble into a doorknob this morning,” she chuckles lightly, lying through her teeth. “You know how clumsy I can be.”
Paul frowns hard, huffing under his breath.
Ms. Loretta chances a glance at him, studying the severe look on his little face and probably having no problem putting two and two together. Ms. Loretta was smart after all. Shouldering in a heavy breath, she looks back at his mama with a sympathetic smile and says, “I sure do, baby.” Nodding to herself, she orders them to wait a minute and turns around, rummaging through one of her drawers. “Aha,” she crows, holding up a small metallic container.
Placing it among their other belongings, mama’s mouth sets in a firm line, shaking her head in response. “What’s that?” She asks, lips quivering in hesitation.
Ms. Loretta looks at her gently, grabbing a hold of mama’s hand and squeezing it with her own creased one. “Just some herbal cream for ya, sweetie. It will clear up that face of yours in no time, ya hear?”
“What’s in it?”
“Oh, just some arnica montana — good for blood reabsorption, some witch hazel, and a touch of calendula to help reduce the inflammation. Nothin’ too crazy. It’s all natural, honey.”
“That sounds great; but, uh, I-I can’t afford that, ma’am. I can barely pay you, for what I got today.”
Ms. Loretta sets her back straight, pinning mama with a stern glance. “It’s a gift, baby. Free of charge. You just take care of yourself and your little man here, deal?”
His mama gazes down at him, winking, tucking an unruly black curl back in place. Nodding shyly, his mother smiles at Ms. Loretta, thanking her for the kind gesture. “Deal. And, thank you so much, truly. It means a lot to me.”
“You’re very welcome, darling. You ever need anything, you come right to Auntie Loretta, you understand me?”
Nodding once more, his mom pulls out some ration cards and cash to pay for their groceries, chatting amicably with Ms. Loretta. Paul twiddles on his feet, rocking back and forth as impatience flutters along the tips of his fingers. The urge to move is almost impossible to ignore and he shifts away for a second, touching the tips of some beeswax candles, just about a foot away from his mom.
“—all the commotion out there before?” He hears his mom ask, and Paul strains his ears to pick up the conversation again. His fingers twitch along the wick, twisting it and smelling vanilla honey waft from the center of the wax. His shoulders droop in relaxation at the scent, and, for the thousandth time in his short time on this earth he wishes that he was big enough and had enough money to get his mama something that smells this sweet.
“Ah—” Ms. Loretta gasps, hand fluttering over her grinning mouth. “That young guy and gal out there, you mean?”
His mama nods, glancing out towards the gathering crowd of people. Seems like their whole tiny town is surrounding them now; forming a circle and loudly chanting and cheering for the duo. Paul shivers, thanking God that he isn’t the one garnering all that unnecessary attention.
“I never would have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Ms. Loretta tells her in a quiet voice, tone full of awe. “Those two young’uns were just strolling along the street, minding they own business, and then — bam!” She claps, squealing softly. “They ran into each other on accident, hands brushing and grasping onto one another. Less than a second later, they palms started to shine. Bright damn pink!”
Mama’s eyes blow wide in shock, mouth trembling with surprise as she covers them with her slim hands. “You mean they’re—” she trails off, a sheen of tears building in the corners of her eyes.
Ms. Loretta nods fast, neck rolls bobbing as she stutters out. “T-they’re soul marked.”
“Wow,” his mother whispers. Her blue eyes shutter with joy, and she sniffles, wiping her nose delicately with a lace engraved handkerchief. “Haven’t seen one of those around these parts in a long long time, is all.”
“Don’t I know it,” Ms. Loretta winks, finishing packing up their food in sturdy brown bags. “Soul marks are rare as anything, if you’re lucky enough to be blessed with one, you gotta hold onto it as tight as you can.”
Mama nods, smile placidly in place, fooling everyone except for Paul. He always notices the difference from her real ones, and this one has a distinct sadness to it as it stretches the fine wrinkles near her chin. Gathering the bags up, she thanks Ms. Loretta again, turning to call out for Paul, “Come on, baby. Let’s get these home before your daddy beats us there. I’ll see you next time, Ms. Loretta.”
Paul waves goodbye, thanking her quietly for the medicine. Ms. Loretta winks at him, waving rapidly and wishing them a good rest of the day. “Like I said, Marjorie. You ever need anything, you just come to Auntie, okay?”
Lifting her chin in acknowledgment, mama tells him to head out first, and he does, reaching behind him to hold the door open for her. His biceps shake with the weight of the wooden door, almost slipping from his grip too many times to count.
Leaning down to kiss his head, she thanks him quietly, giggling at the warm hue tickling his cheeks. Slapping his hand across them to wipe the glaring redness away, he sticks his tongue out at her, laughing when she swats his hair.
Threading a little arm around her waist, he tries to help her hold up the groceries, giving it his all as they skip along the path, laughing while they make their way back to their crumbling home, with the overgrown lawn and rickety fence.
Maybe dad will surprise us tonight, he thinks hopefully, looking up at his sun flushed mother. With her beaming smile and freckle spotted skin. With her wild black hair and matching blue eyes.
Maybe.
Later that day
His dad doesn’t show his face that night, probably too busy sucking beer down at the only bar in town, losing track of the time— like always; but, Paul counts this as a win. Mama and him eat their dinner in peace, stealing food off one another’s plates, trading hearty laughs and screaming yelps when one accidentally drops some peas all over the floor. They run around and play hide and seek, crouching behind second hand furniture or under half-broken tables as they take their turns at winning.
Mama gives him a warm bath (a treat for them since she finally paid off their overdue water bill), letting him play a little longer than she usually does, before dressing him for bed. Once he’s all tucked in, clutching his ratty stuffed bunny in his arms, she joins him, perching on the lip of his blanket.
The lights are dimmed to a low amber, and his window is cracked open slightly to let in a small breeze. The cicadas chirp among the forest, making music as the sky turns from sunburnt orange to hazy lavender, eventually ending in a cool navy. Just dark enough to allow the first twinkles of creamy stars to pop out amongst the night.
Paul yawns, burying the side of his head into his pillow. His mom’s soft tawny voice glides through his ears as she reads him a bedtime story, one hand shifting through the strands of his hair, lulling him to sleep. She smells good, like fresh air and mountain herbs. A byproduct of the cream slathered over the top of her bruised cheek. Paul spots the small green pieces of arnica, the little yellow dots of calendula, and he traces them with his eyes, watching how the dark bruising has already seemed to lighten with the medicine.
“—and they lived happily ever after. The end.”
He blinks sluggishly, twisting his head to stare as mama quietly shuts the book, tucking it into the drawer of his nightstand. She leans down, breathing him in, pressing kisses all over his face. “I love you, Paul.”
His throat is tight, and he swallows hard, finding the courage to reach out for her hand, grasping onto it firmly. “Stay, mama. Please.” He begs, tugging her back onto the edge of his mattress.
Mama sighs, smiling but folding in next to him until her arm is tucked under his shoulders, pulling him into her body. “Just until you’re asleep, kiddo.”
Sighing, he leans his head to rest over her heart, listening to the smooth lub dub of it echo beneath his ear. His own heart matches her rhythm, their breaths synchronizing with one another. Chewing on his lip, Paul hesitates, ticking his eyes up to look at the smooth lines of his mom’s face, counting her freckles.
“Mama?”
“Yeah, baby?” She asks, tucking her head down to meet his own.
“What’s—” he starts, pinching his cheeks in thought. “What’s a soul mark? Like, what does it mean?”
“You were listening in on me and Ms. Loretta, huh?” She laughs, tucking him tighter under her arm, flicking his nose lightly. “I forget you got ears like a dang bat sometimes.”
Paul giggles, burying his face in her chest. “So— what does it mean?”
Her breath rushes in and out with a heavy exhale, lifting his head along with it. Sighing, she rolls her neck, slouching against the back of his bed. “Soul marks are special, baby. A one in million kind of thing,” she starts, stroking his hair softly.
“Special, how?”
“It’s like,” she sits up straighter, meeting his eyes with her own. “Like, when the universe decides two people belong to one another— fighting over the laws of space and time, life will find a way to make it happen. But, it’s rare. Not everyone gets a soul mark. And — like I said earlier, I haven’t seen one around here in a long long time. Not since I was young girl myself.”
“Do you have a soul mark, mama?” He asks innocently, gasping when he considers. “Was dad your soul mark?”
His mom laughs, patting at his frowning brow. “No, baby. I was never fortunate enough to get one. But—” she hesitates, kissing his forehead. “Your grandparents, my mother and father, were.”
“They were?” He asks, eyes soft when he sees mama’s glisten in remembrance. His mama’s parents had moved on from this world before he was born, but in all the stories she tells him, he knows they must have been amazing people. He doesn’t know his father’s parents, unaware if they’re gone too, or, if they just want nothing to do with him. Paul guesses he’ll never be sure.
“Yeah they were,” she chokes out, a tear running to her chin before falling on the blanket wrapped around them. “They loved each other so much, baby. So much so that when my mama left him behind, my daddy followed her less than a day later. Their love was eternal. The brightest scorching red I’ve ever seen between two soul marks.”
“Red?”
His mom maneuvers them on their sides, lifting his palm up to meet her own bigger one in the middle, pressing them together. “I only really knew my parents color. But— I know the stories. The legends say, that when a soul marked meets the one destined for them; when their palms connect for the very first time, they both radiate a specific color. The color represents the kind of bond forged.”
“Anyone can be soul marked?” He asks, mouth dropping open at her nod. “Not just like — gross couples, or, all that?”
Her mouth lets out a small chuckle, hands tugging him in. “No, baby. Anyone can have one. Like, if your palm turns bright pink or red, it usually symbolizes a deep passionate kind of mark. Those are typically reserved for the romantic soul marks. However—” she adds, cradling him close. “The color of soft yellow, or, gleaming white: can represent a deep friendship type bond. Or, even the rarest kind out there: the bond between a parent and child. One that's different from the typical love every parent has for their child. No, this one is deeper, all-consuming in every way. One that radiates the purest blue. The ones that promise trust and reliability, the ones associated with calm, with peace. The ones that give us wisdom and can even carry some melancholy along the way. That one is the rarest. I don’t think I’ve ever read a case that documented it.”
Tangling his fingers between her own, he snuggles his head under her chin, tumbling her words around in his head. “Blue? Like, the color of our eyes?”
Her deep laugh fills his chest, soothing him as sleep begins to pull him towards oblivion. “No, honey. Lighter. More like, a gorgeous cerulean sky on a summer day. Cloudless, and, with the warm sun shining its brightest.”
“Wow,” he mumbles. “That sounds nice.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“How do you know if you have a soul mark, mama?” He slurs, blinking heavily. “Can you feel them?”
Another sigh leaves her, shaking his frame slightly. She presses another kiss into the dredges of his hair, whispering, “The stories say that you don’t get your mark until you meet them, in person. The palms need to connect for the bond to officially form; but, I’ve heard rumors over the years that the stronger and more powerful the bond is — I’ve heard you can feel their pain, just as they can feels yours. Even years before you ever meet in person. It’s kind of sad in a way,” she muses, rocking him to the hum of the cicadas. “But, also kind of beautiful. Don’t you think?”
“Uh huh,” he mutters, shutting his eyes in contentment. Warm and safe in her arms as she sings him to sleep. “M’ma?”
“Yeah, honey?” She whispers, pausing his favorite lullaby. Something about lemon drops.
“Maybe,” he mumbles, rubbing his head into her collarbone, nose pressing firmly against the fragile thin bone there. “M’ybe, you’re my soul mark. You can be mine, okay? When I’m older, and stronger. And then — I can protect you from daddy.”
He struggles to open his eyes when her breath hitches sharply under his ear. Her arms shake violently as she pulls him nearly on top of her, crushing him in. Wetness falls into the strands of his hair, and, he rubs his hand clumsily along her ribcage, trying to comfort her tears. To make her happy again.
“Don’ cry, mama. Please.”
Paul hears her sniffle, burying her bruised face just above his hairline, pressing kiss after kiss there, shushing him softly. “I just love you so much, Paul. I love you, baby. I hope if you ever get a soul mark, that, you hold onto them as tight as you can. That you can love them half as much as I love you. Okay?”
“Love you, too, mama.” He sniffs, feeling his own eyes leak in response to her pain. Loosening a breath, he snuffles, lowering his ear back over her heart, lulled to sleep between its even beat and her low voice crooning into his ear.
He’ll be patient, he decides. He’ll show her that just because he’s not her soul mark now, doesn’t mean it won’t change in the future. Nothing is written in stone. Paul will find a way to keep his mama safe, even if it's at the expense of his own.
He can’t wait to prove her wrong.
Paul Hudson was five years old when he learned what a soul mark is. When he spent his days and nights dreaming and wondering what his might be like should he ever meet them. When he still hoped with whatever childish magic he had left, that, maybe there was something good waiting for him beyond all the shit thrown his way.
But — dreams can shatter.
Because, he is ten years old when his heart implodes forever. When his soul becomes shadowed with the beginnings of loss. When his mother breaks every single promise she ever made to him.
Doing the one thing she swore she would never do.
Leave him.
“I’ll never let him touch you, Paul. I can take whatever he throws at me, but, he won’t touch my baby. I promise you that.”
He is ten years old when he realizes that no matter how much someone loves you, they can still decide to leave you at the end of the day. Leave you with the monster responsible for running them off. Leave you, as if you’re nothing.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he crouches in the recesses of the cracking stone shed, tucking his arms tight around his knees. Paul can hear his father screaming his name, kicking the watering can, and ripping his hands through the slithering vines.
Holding his breath, he waits and waits and waits. Until the boot laced stomps fade away from his hiding place, and the outside grows quiet.
Sniffling, he wipes his face with his blood stained sleeve, scrubbing the salty marks off dirt speckled cheeks. His arms tremble as he loosens them, glancing at the rope like burns on his hands. He wishes his mother was still here, tugging him in close, keeping him safe.
But, she’s not. She never will be again.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I need to go. I need to. I’m dying here, honey.”
“Mama, wait. Please. Take me with you! Mama!”
“I love you, Paul. I love you so much, baby. I’m so sorry.”
“Mama! Don’t leave me! Please!”
Blinking numbly, more tears run down the length of his face, dangling before they fall into the moist dirt, darkening it further with the silent ache of his abandonment. Tilting his head against the rough craggily stone, he holds up his reddened blistered palms; studying the marks with nothing short of grief.
His dad hadn’t liked when Paul had asked him what was for breakfast that morning; using his superior strength to immediately shove his son down to the floor, angrily whipping the soles of his palms with a piece of broken wicker basket. The same one his mother used to carry when they shopped at old Ms. Loretta’s store.
The punishment was harsh, but, Paul just bit through his lip, holding in the screams that wanted to erupt, refusing to give his old man the satisfaction of hearing him cry.
His hands are scarred now, ruined. Bright red and throbbing as the sting begins to settle in along the nerve pathways. His soul mark would hate holding onto to that, probably cringe at the ugliness bestowed upon them.
Fisting his hands in the roots of his hair, he pulls slightly, grounding him in the present.
Setting his shoulders, Paul frowns up toward the peeling stucco that makes up the roof of the shed, mind and body filled with nothing but rage and bittersweet resolve.
It was decided in that moment, that Paul Hudson hoped he would never get a soul mark. That he didn’t want one, no matter how wondrous and special his mother had always made it seem.
Whoever it would be, would be better off without him, anyway.