The Mariner

After complaining and whining he’d eventually won his way into their nest. His father was away, out of town for work, an absence that had weakened his mother’s resolve to keep him out. With a warm feeling of safety he’d climbed into the bed, pulling the thick duvet up over his shoulders.

The boy thought it must have been his breathing that had caused the problem, as no other reason could be deduced in his infant mind. Sometimes his asthma made the air struggle as it escaped his lungs, causing a whistle out and a hiss in. This must have kept his mother awake longer than she could bear, and for that the boy was sorry. His mother meant the world to him. Sometimes he would imagine what he’d do if he saw her fall from a cliff; at the thought tears would come to his eyes (even though it were all a fiction) and he promised himself he would hurl his body after her. Better to be dead than to lose his mother.

And thus, the suggestion that he would deliberately keep her up at night was preposterous, and yet he must have, because clearly she’d become frustrated with his wheezing; a pillow was held tightly over his face, hard enough to block out any possible breath.

He wanted to struggle free. His mind and body were already revolting against the suffocation, auto-survival instincts telling him to thrash about, anything to reunite him with life-giving air. It were as if he were deep beneath the ocean, the water seeping into his throat, the pressure pushing down upon his lungs. But still he couldn’t — no — wouldn’t move.

But suddenly, a feeling… A sense triggered by the thought of the ocean, the feeling of water seeping into his lungs instead of the pillow against his face. He hadn’t the words, but later in life he would recognise the peculiar sensation of repeating a moment, the feeling of déjà vu. He had drowned before.

Not again.

Never again.

This time he’d breathe.

He began to push, squirming until his tiny arms found purchase beneath the pillow. Slowly they strained, quivering, infant elbows shaking in the exertion of competing against an adult’s. He wanted to stop, to give in to his mother’s pressure and in that way please her. But that was wrong. He was just a boy. It didn’t matter if he pushed the blame to her. Such blame was too great for an infant. A boy who deserved to breathe.

And suddenly the pillow was removed from his face, tiny lungs sucking in deep gasps of air, and his mother was pulling him into her arms and crying, saying over and over that she was sorry. It was her fault, not his. The blame was hers.

He hugged her back, because every boy loves his mother, and as she soaked his face with kisses he let himself forget the pillow and the pain. He let them go.

No need to take blame when there’s no blame to hold. No need to dream that you cannot breathe.

Because some don’t get a happy ending, but occasionally, just occasionally, they can get a happier beginning.

And for the first time in two or a billion lives, the Cog shifted.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ade Grant was born in Croydon, England and has never fully recovered.

Raised by wild beasts and nourished by the leavings at squat parties, Ade was finally rescued by Doctor Hayes and smuggled to a rehabilitation facility for ex-Croydonites, in a secret Brighton location. Slowly, over the course of several years, Ade was taught the basics of human interaction.

Ade Grant now writes fiction, poetry and politics, and can be found outside pharmacies in London, rooting through bins.

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Buy a glorious hardback edition of The Mariner

Also by Ade Grant

POETRY

Zigglyumph and Other Poems

SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

Rotten Philosophy (Out Of Print)

Copyright

Copyright © Ade Grant 2011

Ade Grant asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. No part of this work may be reproduced, copied or otherwise redistributed without the express permission of the copyright holder. If you want to reproduce, pass on, or quote any part of this text, please apply to zigglyumph@gmail.com

All work contained within is fiction and any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Artwork, used with permission, by Christopher Hayes.

For more information about this book, other works and live appearances please visit www.adegrant.com