Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael Read Free Page A

They see him coming, except for Rael, and the two observers stop their laughing, as if they have just been caught with their hands in the bread box.  Just as Jame begins to call out to his son, Rael tightens his hand into the hardest fist it can form.  The flesh around the knuckles would have turned pure white if not for the gray of Rael’s skin.  Orf doesn’t even see the blow coming as Rael brings it straight up in between the older boy’s legs, planting his fist hard into Orf’s testicles.  A great gust of air blows from Orf’s lungs as he suddenly deflates, his face turning as red as a beet, and the big boy crumples to the ground, groaning in a fetal position.
     
    *               *              *
     
    “How could you let that happen?” Rael’s mother asks.  Her name is Neria, slender and tall for a Western woman with long, dark hair that seems to enjoy curling up at the ends. 
    Rael sits on the floor of the living room, still cradling his wrist.  It’s not broken, but it still hurts along with the nasty bruise that’s forming on the left side of his ribs.  His father brought him home, now dried tears having cleaned tracks in the dirt on his face, and his mother immediately demanded to know what happened.  Jame had told her, and she wasn’t happy about it.  So, Rael sits and listens to his parents talk as the smells of steam and fish fill the house.
    “He just asked to play with them,” his father answers as he turns a spit.  A large fish is impaled upon it over a black iron pot of boiling water.
    “They beat him with a stick!  Then they beat him up!”
    “One boy hit him with a stick, and the same boy hit him once with his fist,” Jame explains calmly, but the difference is lost on Neria.  “It is important that Rael learn to stand up for himself.  At times in life he may have to fight.”
    “And this was one of those times?” Neria asks, but it sounds more like a sneering accusation.
    “It was.”
    “And how did our son do?”
    “He lost,” Jame replied, and he looks at his son.  Rael hangs his head a bit at the words, but glimpses a brief smile on his father’s face as he continues, “But he acquitted himself well.”
    After they sup, Jame leaves the home to head for the docks.  He always checks on the boats one last time before the summer sun goes down, and tonight is no different.  Rael is left inside with his mother, helping her with the duties of cleaning up after the meal.  He doesn’t mind it most nights and especially tonight as he wants to talk to his mother.
    “Mother, why do they hate me?” Rael asks.
    “Who?”
    “The other children and some of their parents, I think.”
    “They do not hate you, son,” Neria replies without looking up from the stoneware plate she rinses off.
    “I’m pretty sure they do,” he argues somewhat glumly.
    “Rael, proper words,” she admonishes.
    Rael doesn’t know much about his parents’ past, and they never make a point of discussing it.  However, he know they are not from the island, not originally, but he’s unsure as to whether they settled here before or after his birth.  He does know that they abhor the speech of the islanders – their slang and enunciation.  For whatever reason, they were raised to speak a certain proper way, and mispronouncing words or combining multiple words into a single or new word is simply unacceptable to them.
    “I am sorry, Mother,” he answers, and he returns to his question, “but why do they hate me?”
    “Perhaps some do,” she says with a sigh, “and that is wrong.  It is because you are different, and there are many in the West who fear those who are different.  They should not, for it is wrong, but you cannot change what people think or feel, no matter how hard you try.”
    “That is unfair,” Rael nearly cries indignantly.
    “Yes, it is,” she agrees, “and so is most of life.”
    “I don’t want,” Rael starts, and he corrects himself