"Sunlight" (official prologue-"Photographs" NANOWRIMO HAS BEGUN)

Photographs

                The house stood empty on an empty street, soft lights occasionally displayed. Through the front door, and down an empty hall, with empty picture frames, and frames turned downward on misplaced display tables, there is another door. Beyond that door, is a downward staircase, unfinished wood all the way to the concrete floor below. The boxlike basement reflects its contents—boxes. It seems that all the empty walls had been stripped away and piled just over six feet beneath it. Within those boxes—some dampened cardboard, others neat pine crates, contain small medals and trophies, which could only belong to a child, haphazardly among three soccer balls, a basketball, and one American football, all in varying degrees of inflation. Others contain a tall woman’s clothing, scrubs, and jackets. Others still, the clothing of a small boy, which could fit up to a young man of 15. A few articles of medical wear in slim men’s sizes, and a suit.

                Yet the most fascinating boxes contain blank canvases, and unfinished paintings, draped over the sides, long frames jutting out at unstable angles. And beneath these paintings, lie three eloquent photo albums.

                One contains shots of nature, common trees and grass and flowers, juxtaposed with known world wonders, waterfalls, dirty streams, and deserts. Candid photos of strangers, both in comfortable, familiar suburban neighborhoods, typical Western scenery, still others of those in devastated and desolate lands, rummaging through rubble. The photographer herself makes but a couple of sparse appearances in this album,  a beautiful young woman with a mess of wild, but tightly wound black curls, the clothes she wears indicating a traveler’s comfortable and functional wardrobe. In one hastily shot image, she appeared to be clothed in a nurse’s uniform. The images in this album may have some sort of overarching theme, if one were to take his or her time flipping through it; they were not unlike the striking abstract paintings. Tragic and euphoric, chaotic and breathtaking, but incredibly human, and very real, but with a very specific purpose, to specific individuals.

                The second album is thicker than the first, its pages crammed with images that, while still beautiful, were significantly less formal. The woman appeared in many more of these pictures, often accompanied by a similarly young man, only a few inches taller than her, his sandy hair shaved close to his head. Some of the settings in the first album were shared with those in the second album. There was clear difference between when one took a photo of another, and when they were pictured together. There were very few shots of each individual. The album also featured captions, such as: “Soren and I in Morocco, 1988!”, scrawled in barely legible, small, cursive script, beneath an image of the young couple in the backdrop of an African sunrise. The photographs were interspersed with quotations and torn portions of unsent and blank postcards. The last image in this album was a single, unsent wedding invitation.

                Further beneath, is the most recent album. The couple was present in only a few images now, the only consistent presence being first, an infant, and later, a gangly young boy with shaggy dark brown hair. He was pictured in soccer uniforms, with a team, from the age of four until he was at least 16. He was seen with some sort of ball in almost every photograph, and very few featured him with people other than teammates, or the couple, who had aged ever-so-slightly. There were photos of him kicking a soccer ball from behind, action shots, with captions just as present as ever. One page featured one such action shot, the young boy in his early teens, alongside a browning image of the man standing in a football uniform, helmet in hand. The caption read, “(I know it is cliché, but) Like father, like son…” The boys on the teams kept changing. And a photograph of another house, or an apartment door, or any variety of housing, would continue to show up, taking up a single page, every few pages of photographs.

                The album ended with many empty pages. The last one filled was a candid shot of the boy as a young man of 16 or 17 years, wearing a rare smile, with a joking friend at his side.

                Across town, was another home. With yet another corridor, to another basement, though these stairs were finished, smooth, glimmering mahogany, at least in texture and color. And this basement was filled with abandoned toys, a rocking chair, a dollhouse, Lego sets, plastic tubs of a long-forgotten childhood…

Sunlight (Chapter 5- "Familiar")

The last time, the ambulance came too late. The last time, he rushed to help his father into the car, he put the key into the ignition and drove, and drove, hardly able to keep his composure, narrowly avoiding the potential earthquakes on either side of him, as they rushed by.

The last time, it was only the two of them, holding her hands, trying their hardest not to cry until they were home, a task of which they failed to accomplish. The last time, all he could see were brain scans and all he could hear was quiet words, all muffled by angry tires and shattering glass, and crunching metal. The last time, they weren't sure why.
This time, his gaze was fixed on the road, his head was still pounding, the images were still vivid, but the complicated light with her hands on the steering wheel was at his side.
The caregiver had been called home to her children sick to their stomachs and lungs; he heard coughing on the phone as she hurried out, he heard the desperation in her eldest daughter's voice.
He understood. Her family came first.
Damir shut his eyes tightly, papyrus fortifactions to prevent the lightning strike. The fire was lit. Inside him were smoldering ruins; rubble filled his bones, sank him into the sea.
The brake, the tires scraping against pavement, sounds like amplified claws on chalkboards echoing in a canyon, spiraling, past her face, the ditch, through the glass...
His eyes shut then as well. All else was clear...
...sounds like a softball hiting a brick wall, shatter-sounds immediately afterward, inflated airbags, something piercing skin, sharp pain, the deafening sounds of crumpling metal throughout... a single voice... deep sanguine warmth leaking... 
It would never end.   
A pause in movement.
"Damir?" she whispered.
"Damir, come on... we're here..."
He stared ahead, seeing, hearing, feeling, sharpredcrackshatterscreechthnkshoutscreechstabpierceredredred...
The water ran in the shower. She was by herself, she was alone.
"Damir..."
The woman laid on the hospital bed, silent and sleeping, chest rising and falling and falling once more...
"Damir..."

Tears.

Her hand reached his shoulder.

"Come on..."

He heard breath catching, a torn sob. His own or hers?

The lock popped up. The woman had been sitting right here.

The sunlight traveled from driver's seat to passenger's door, taking the handle, opening it. Damir could hardly comprehend the blue-gray eyes upon him, her hand taking his. He left the vehicle, with his arm under her. He had heard the sirens as his father had arrived. He saw the lights. Was his father already inside?
He could not prepare.
Somehow, the young woman brought them both through the door.
"Damir," she whispered again. They were at a station, a counter, a woman with a computer...
"Soren Pax," he choked. "We... we need to see him."
"Are you family?"
He could only nod. Amira pulled him closer; he noted her arm around his waist. He noted the feel of the winds and the rains and lightning inside, tearing apart all that once was; even stone ruins breaking. Ache. Needles and bruises up and down his leg, it felt, while the rest of him crumbling ruins with rain and thunder and lightning and wind slamming upon them, so many tiny pieces.
Again down a hall. Again on an elevator. Up the floor. The sun his support, the eye of the storm, however small. Down another hall. More swirling white coats, pastel scrubs, a blur...
On another bed. Another face, more eyes shut, more whirring machinery... more, more, more, more... the same.
He stared down at his father.
They sat down, a unit, two chairs by the bed. Time reduced to insignificance. Sky outside going from dark, to darker, rain ending, but dark sky remaining.
Blurs of colors and white.
The blur of different colors faded after time. The blurry mouth of the doctor, saying words he already knew.

He did not hear them. He felt the stone turn to sand, felt the rain-swelled ocean sweep him away. The sun warming the water. Her arm around him.
"We'll... give you some time alone now."
Doctor voice, so quiet. The words he'd heard before. The sights he'd seen before.
He knew what she saw too.
He looked down at his father, felt the ocean from his eyes, washing sand. His breath catching along with hers, her arms around him, her tears falling, shared saltwater, undrinkable, falling, an ocean created.
Sand built up in a castle, warmed by the sun, lifted, standing. And then his hand touched his father's face, warmth to fade soon. Oceans rising.
The moon changed the tide, but the sun warmed the waters. Her arm was around him, holding him, keeping him from falling apart.
But he had long since been the pebbles and rubble, gravel and grit, for generations.

Sunlight (Chapter 4-"First")

Many years before, and about five states away

"Damir, we need you to sit down for a second, okay?" the man shouted to his son, who continued to ignore his call to him. The five-year-old's focus was fixed only upon the geometrically-patterned ball of black and white that he wove wildly down the living room floor, narrowly avoiding paint-splattered cardboard boxes, the coffee table and the boxy television upon the worn wooden floor.

"Damir," the boy's mother called. "You can practice later, outside, okay?" she said, hurrying toward him before he could reach her easel. He hardly noticed it as he continued to weave through the small living room, until his mother caught up with him, placing her hands strategically on his small, thin shoulders, while his father scooped the ball from the floor.

"It'll only take a couple of minutes. But Mommy and Daddy have something really important to tell you about right now. Can you wait a couple of minutes?"

The boy crossed his arms, his lower lip sticking out in a childish scowl.

"Please, Damir. We promise," his father chimed in. "I'll take you out to the field if you just let us talk a minute..."

At that second, he scrambled from his mother's grasp and onto the couch, his arms uncrossed, upright and as mature as he could possibly manage to look as a five-year-old.

"Okay. What seems to be the matter?" he said, abruptly precocious. The parents shook their heads. They could tell he only had one thing on his mind--he didn't even try to meet their eyes, his gaze fixed on the prize held under his father's arm.

"Well..." his mother began, taking a seat next to him, her husband following suit. Each parent sat at either side of their young son. This was a bit difficult to explain, and they could only hope it wouldn't cause him too much trouble.

They had been here for two years. And three to five were important years, they recognized. But work was work. Service and others were always their priorities.

And here was another.

"Do you remember where we used to live, Damir?" the husband continued for his wife.

The child shook his head.

"No, not really," he said, still eyeing the soccer ball.

Mother and father met eyes, sharing in their uncertainty of how to continue.

"Damir..." she started again.

"Yes, Mommy?" he replied this time.

"Your daddy and I have jobs that require us to move to a lot of different places..."

He nodded, and for a brief moment, they believed he already understood.

"Mmhmm," he said. "Can we go to the soccer field now, Daddy?"

He turned toward his father, and his best friend in his arms.

"No, not yet, Damir... what your mommy and I are trying to say is..."

"We're going to have to move again, Damir. To a new town, and a new house..."

The husband looked to his wife, and his eyes questioned whether they should tell him so bluntly right now. The child gave his mother a puzzled stare.

"You're... you're going to need to go to a new school, and..."

"But mommy, soccer..."

"I know, I know, sweetheart, but we have..."

"I don't wanna go!" he shouted, and leapt of the couch, reaching for the soccer ball. His father held it away, wincing. This was exactly what they were afraid of.

"Sit back down, Damir," his father requested, firmly.

"No! I don't wanna leave, Mommy. I don't wanna go, Daddy. I wanna stay here. I wanna play soccer with the other kids, I wanna stay at Kid-nergarten, please, I don't wanna go..."

He looked up at them desperately. One could not aptly predict the emotions of a child.

His mother drew in a deep breath. "I know, I know, sweetie... but you can play soccer and go to kindergarten at... your new... school," she began. Moving was not easy, not for anyone. Both parents had the same thought, as they considered the times they may need to have this conversation with him again. But how would he react then?

Their little boy turned away from them, sitting down on the floor with his legs crossed.

"I don't... wanna... go..." he said, through sniffling. His mother winced. She hated tears. She couldn't imagine crying for something like this, however, even as a five-year-old...

His father immediately noted her expression, and sat down on the floor next to their son. He put his arm around him, releasing the ball.

"It'll be okay, son. Your mom's right... you can join the soccer team at your new school. We'll get you new cleats and a uniform and everything. And you'll meet lots of new friends to play with..." he said, in a gentle tone.

Their current neighborhood was quiet and well-groomed, but the small family were the only ones on the block with a young child.

The little boy sniffled one more time, before glancing up at his father. And then the soccer ball.

"C'mon. We can go to the field. The big one."

His son seemed to lighten a little.

"Okay," he mumbled. He brightened when he stood, taking it upon himself to gently kick the ball toward their door. The man briefly glanced at his wife, who finally stood from the couch. She reached into one of the boxes, and pulled out her brushes.

"Thank you," she murmured to him.

"It's okay," he said, as reassuringly as he possibly could.

"Come on, Dad!" the child shouted, already halfway out the door, the excitement having returned to him. The man smiled weakly, while his wife pulled out her canvas, and the father followed after his son.