I wanna fly

His mother died slowly.

It had started years ago when they arrived in that small town in the middle of nowhere where everybody knew everybody. They -Matthew and Mother, Mother and Matthew- were unwanted outsiders in that small world. If they wanted to become part of it, they would have to change to meet the expectations of the insiders. And how harsh they were, Matthew could testify. It had been hard.

People asked questions, blunt interrogation, and expected him to have all the answers.

Say, Matthew, how did your mom buy such a nice house if she doesn't have a job?

You really don't know who's your dad? 'Cuz I know mine, even if don't live with him.

To be accepted, one should be ready to suffer.

Matthew Williams, from all of his seven years of age, learnt to speak with their accent, learnt to smile and nod even if he didn't understand. He wanted to be part of the group, even if it meant calling soda 'pop'. He wished for friends and happiness and love in that tiny town named Rainbow*.

He learnt to love the ice and the snow that piled up in winter. He understood it was preferable to love it than to hate it. Sometimes, he did grumble when he had to shovel it to clear a path through their garden. Everybody did though, so it was okay. When the vast majority did something, he copied. It was safe to do since everybody did it.

He was a child. It was easier for him.

His mother, he had noticed, was not eager to learn. She wanted to be left alone, in her little house in the middle of nowhere. She disliked the attention they received upon their arrival and afterwards. The small pout that she unwillingly offered to any people who asked question they shouldn't have asked was a distinct sign of her displeasure.

Matthew, being the good little boy he was, did his best to comply with her desire. He never invited friends in his house, even dissuaded them from coming over. He unconsciously wondered if she would notice and pat his head; maybe even kiss him for being good like he had seen other moms doing. How sweet it would have been to be so close to her!

No. He was asking for far too much. Just a slight smile would be perfect. Sunk in his cocoon of blankets on his sagging bed, he tried to imagine that small quirk of her red lips, but his mind did not comply. He couldn't picture it.

He had never seen it.

Matthew put his cold hands on his eyes to block the grey light that passed through his covers. He closed his eyes again and concentrated. Knitting his brows, he tried to envision her lips forming a perfect arc, a discreet dimple appearing on her left cheek and her blue eyes joyfully lighting up.

The only thing he could clearly see in his mind was her pout, -delightful, adored expression-. One he himself seldom saw.

Matthew gave up when darkness completely settled in his cold room.

In the end, his mother never remarked those efforts. She never patted his head, kissed him or smiled. Matthew simply tried harder.

He knew his mother loved him. She made his lunch every day, washed his clothes perfectly and read him story before sleeping. He couldn't have a better one.

So he did not complain when he threw up for the umpteenth time his lunch, a tasteless, rocky sandwich. His classmates kept glancing at him mirthfully, silently whispering in his back why he couldn't just ask his mother to make his lunch. He had told them he cooked for himself to be more self-aware. (He had looked up what it meant in the dictionary before blurting it out.) That complicated word left an odd after-taste in his mouth, something like salt and dirt. His teacher had stopped starring at him so much after.

His clothes were always crumpled and smelled weird and he always smiled, telling any person staring a little too long at them of his imagined adventures outside. His books on nature were of great help to make it seem believable. Sometimes, if the weather permitted it, he would even roll on the hill next to his school to show his adventurous (stupid city slicker) nature. His classmates said he was weird, yet followed him on more than one occasion. Their game ended the day Matthew was called to the teachers' room and came back with lines to write during the breaks.

He often kneeled behind her rocking chair at night, hidden in the darkness. He didn't fall asleep easily in his cold and dark room, so he often found himself in that tiny corner. He strained his ears to hear her soft murmurs. It was educational, he mused. Hearing stories from all around the world was quite enlightening. Furthermore, he could practice his French. He just wished she would sometimes take another topic: he had had numerous nightmares about murderers and Death.

But... It was the only times his mother's voice became clearer, lighter as she spoke in her maternal tongue.

As she loved him, it was only natural to love her in return and do his upmost to please her.

Matthew had the best grades in his class. His teachers praised him and sent congratulating messages to his mother quite often. Matthew is an outstanding student. You can be proud of his continuous efforts. Once, he almost got selected for a national competition in mathematics. Almost selected, because he mucked up the last exercise. He hadn't dared to ask his mother if he could participate. He wasn't certain his mother would have accepted getting out of the house to bring him at the competition's venue.

Anyway, Matthew preferred the stickers he would receive for being a good boy. He could put them everywhere in his house. They were colorful. He thought that perhaps, they would destroy the gray and let only colors stay in his abode. His mother would notice them, and maybe, just maybe she would smile.

They sadly peeled off and turned colorless.

Matthew, to constantly remind her she had a loving son, made her presents in his free time. He gave her different things he had found beautiful. Shiny rocks, blooming flowers, colourful leaves...

All of them ended in the bin. Matthew smiled, grinned, cried, whimpered and tried harder.

One day, it all stopped. As usual, he came back from school quite early. His classmates called him a mama's boy and jeered when he left the hockey ring. His team hadn't wanted him to quit so early. They were sure to win with him. Without him, not so much. They promised candies, a sleepover and even help for the next homework.

Matthew didn't want sweets or a sleepover and certainly not help from kids who normally asked for his aid for complicated homework.

Seeing his mother was more important. Perhaps, today, she would look at him? Wednesday was a good day. He had a feeling it would be a good day.

Therefore, he skipped and bounced on the snow, his boots making muffled sounds against the iced path, skates tied to his backpack. He opened the front door, hands tingling and stiff. Light briefly invaded the house and illuminated the sparse furniture before he closed the wooden door. Matthew found himself in a familiar twilight as he discreetly made his way through the house.

As usual, his mother did not answer when he rasped his knuckles on her door. She would come out eventually, he thought. Two hours later, she was still buried there.

Matthew had tiptoed several times near her door, never having the courage to open it. He simply breathed there, not loud enough to be heard but still there. He had never been allowed in her bedroom. The young boy had no recollection of such a joyous event. He had glanced at it though, caught glimpse of ice blue walls and a small bed.

He remembered he had thought it was her favorite and making her a card with that colour. It ended in the bin more swiftly than any others he had made over the years.

Matthew's empty stomach grumbled loudly. He stopped breathing at once, fearing and hoping she had heard. The kitchen was a forbidden territory he could only use when she wasn't home. That was never.

His mother had slapped him the last time he had touched the oven in her presence. It was a quite vivid memory. His left cheek still burned when he remembered that sad occurrence. He shouldn't have played with the buttons: it was his fault his mother had been angry.

Thus, Matthew could only wait and hope. As his legs turned numb from all that time standing immobile, he finally awkwardly took a sit on the cold parquet. He waited.

He waited until his eyelids closed on their own accord. He waited until he felt numb and uncomfortable. He waited until darkness was his only companion. The Moon was a poor lamp in that particular hallway for there was only one window. The light made a single square on the floor, not too far away from him.

Matthew avoided looking at it. The young boy avoided thinking about it. It made the hair on his nape stand on its own and goose bumps appear on his arms. The darkness he was hidden in was a good companion. He knew the darker shades and the lighter ones; he understood the strange shadows and quirky shapes. The light distorted everything he comprehended, made every nook and crannies look completely different.

When the white spot was finally near him, he got back to his feet. He slowly and clumsily did, one hand pushing on the wall to support him. He stared intently at a doorknob and at the door attached to it. He wished it would magically open and his mother would smile and say his name with a French lilt.

His hand hovered near the doorknob. His fingertips brushed the cool metal. His fingers slowly grabbed it. It was forbidden, he had no right, filthy hand, filthy fingers- but he wanted to open the door anyway. He wanted-

He turned the doorknob.

She was sleeping. He could vaguely see her, tiny thing in a tiny bed. For the first time in forever, he had entered his mother's room. And she was sleeping. His stifled breath was the only sound he could hear. He was so, so loud. He should have left, his mother was sleeping, she needed her sleep, he disturbed an important matter.

His feet stayed glued to the floor. He looked around, observing with widened eyes the dimly lit sacred room until his head was spinning. Everything was neatly put in order. He had never seen any other room of their house so tidied up before. A weird smell floated in the air, the fragrance of withered flowers. Finally, when his eyes started to sting, when he discerned all the curves and cracks of the white chest put at the foot of her bed, he turned towards her. She was still sleeping soundly. Matthew didn't resist the temptation to approach her bed, just to see her face better.

She looked beautiful. She always had been, but even more so under the dim light of the moon. The ashen light made her look paler than usual, as white as Snow White's skin.

"Mom." Her lips always quirked downwards when he said that word. He whispered it, because his mother was sleeping and today could be the day she would smile at him.

"I love you." He almost desired her awakening then, just so she could wake with those beautiful words.

He brushed his fingertips against her hair. His fingers met tousled, silky locks on her forehead.

Her skin was cold.

[911]

Stains decorated the wall. Those stains weren't blindingly obvious, just big enough to be seen. Most people wouldn't notice those tiny black dots scattered on the wall. Matthew did. He had had several hours to notice them. One of them resembled vaguely his teacher's hairdo.

"Matthew?" A wobbly voice called him softly.

He squinted a bit. Yup. It sure looked like his teacher's hairdo. Was that a spider?

"Matthew Williams." Indeed, it was a big fat spider. It moved swiftly, thin legs moving gracefully across the wall when a shadow covered its previous position.

"Hello, little guy." The shadow belonged to a plump woman. Her only interesting point was her hair. Her ridiculous hairdo would have given his teacher's a run for his money. The rest was blander than flour. Her left hand, which approached his shoulder, was bereft of a wedding ring.

"I'm going to take you to a nice place, ok?" Ah, her voice was a bit interesting too. It was an odd mix between overly sweet and the wheezing of a smoker. Her hand was cold and heavy on his shoulder. Brown, cracked lips blew fetid breaths on his face.

He nodded, his skull pressed against the wall, away from her.

Perhaps her myopic eyes didn't see his gesture; perhaps she wasn't accustomed to nice, obedient child like Matthew. She carried on. "We're going to take a plane to Edmonton. Then, we're going to meet your family. They asked for the corpse." She paused, and what a delight it was to not smell her fishy bad breath. What a delight it was to not hear her drawl on the word corpse anymore. "Do you understand?"

Matthew understood very well. His mother was dead. He had called the police himself, hadn't he? Explained calmly and painstakingly to the officer on the other side that his mother was not breathing, not moving, not doing anything. That she was cold.

It had been the first time he used that peculiar number. He had never thought he would use it for such a situation. The policeman (or policewoman, he wasn't sure) had completely freaked out on his third attempt. The first time, his interlocutor had thought he was merely joking. He had seemed quite amused by the call and finished it quickly, half-heartedly lecturing Matthew. The second time, he had angrily lectured him: Matthew was unable to get a word in edgeways. Finally, the third time had worked.

His interlocutor had lost it when he gave details of his situation. People had promptly invaded his house afterwards. They had checked his mother's pulse, asked him questions, walked through the property as if they owned the place, made a mess everywhere, and whisked her away in a van. He had followed suit in another van and found himself there, sitting on an uncomfortable chair in a dirty office with an old lady.

"Matthew?"

Matthew blinked, then nodded. He understood perfectly. They (Miss what's-your-face and Matthew) were going to meet the family he had never met before and hopefully they would take him in.

Hopefully.

*Rainbow Town: Middle of nowhere, Alberta, Canada. There's an airport, some shops, and lot of forests. Basically, the middle of nowhere.

911 is, in Canada, the phone number to contact the police, ambulance drivers and firefighters. A pretty neat number to know when you're in a pinch. It's one of the first numbers we learn to dial in Canada.

Hint for the readers: always read carefully the characters' first sentence. It tells a lot about them and their motive.