The Botanist -- An Experimental Chapter, Part 2 (Shortened)

He was raised in the town house—more of a mansion than anything, really—in an unrealistic city atop a foggy mountain. Frequent trips through the urban setting taught him to walk, just as crime pooling over the brim of the middle district from the slums taught him to run. He learned to jump when the foundation of their home underneath the stairs gave way, and they were without a platform for several months. Swimming came naturally, but was encouraged when a chance gust of wind tossed his overcoat—which wasn’t supposed to be hanging from the limb of a tree in the first place, but instead on his small body—down the steep stairs carved into the cliffs and into the lake. His Aunt taught him everything else academically; he would not tolerate the presence of a tutor, nor a school, and certainly not other children. But it was something entirely unexpected that set alight his maternal instincts.

Dreary and cold, thick white fog rolling up the mountains like a mighty Hunt sung of in ancient ballads, it wasn’t much of a day to swim, jump, run, or even walk. In fact, the day hardly called for motion in and of itself; he found himself laying in complete boredom on the window seat next to his Aunt’s armchair more often than usual. As she read her Forbidden books—that’s what she called them, when he asked if he could ponder over them—her small wire-framed glasses resting coldly on the bridge of her nose, he gazed outside at the pouring rain as it danced to and fro in response to sharp gusts of wind.

“Dreadful weather,” he heard his Aunt whisper, a merciful chunk of conversation that she sensed he was about to seek out. Sitting up dizzily, he rubbed his eyes before yawning.

“Most certainly. I had so many hopes for today, Auntie.” He couldn’t help the grumbling; it came naturally in a wave of fitful pessimism as he thought of what could have been. “I was going to go outside and build a den out of rocks and sticks. The stray cats from that desolate Fytolin estate still don’t have a place to stay, and it seems a shame to let them die out in the cold.”

“Mm,” came the humming reply, obviously half-listening but most definitely half-not. Studying his Aunt’s face closely, he watched her eyes flick back and forth as she read words in rapid succession, her lips twitching whenever something sparked her interest. She was obsessed with literature, his Aunt; he could thank that burning passion for his brilliant reading skills, but it didn’t make keeping a conversation going any easier. Maybe if she wasn’t reading so often nowadays, they might visit the sandy beaches along the east side of the lake more often, like they used to.

His eyes refocused on his Aunt when something in her facial expression changed. A blooming red slowly unfolded on her cheeks, her head tilted slightly more to the left than it had been a moment ago. Flipping through his memory, he dredged up other times when he had seen her cheeks flush in a similar way; after all, it was always fun guessing at what those books contained.

Well, when the humidity was high—rather rare up in the mountains, but it occasionally occurred nonetheless—her cheeks reddened. Or when she took a deep breath near thickly-scented flowers or perfumes. That was more of an agitated scarlet though; not something interesting he could ponder over. He knew there were other things, but he couldn’t think of any, and soon lost interest.

After several minutes, the red began to sink back into its tight invisible bud, once more buried in the safety of her pale skin. She simply sat there for quite some time, her chest rising and falling in quiet breaths, no longer reading but instead thinking. So lost in thought, in fact, that even his soft coughs could not drag her out of her mind. She also did this quite often—her soul drifting to do other things, in other times—leaving him to fend for himself when it came to finding something to do.

Pushing off of the edge of the window-seat, he scooted stocking-clad feet across the smooth wood-paneled floor, making his way around the coffee-table, past the small decorative end-tables that sat on either side of the arced doorway that connected the living room to the grand hallway, and to the carpet that began at the base of the stairs. As he climbed the steps on his knees, he imagined he was struggling to make it to the top of the mountains that towered in the distance.

As the scene consumed him, he could vividly feel the chilled wind as it whipped his thick black hair out of his eyes, his fingers becoming less and less flexible as the cold took hold of them. A third of the way there, he reached up to touch the velvety green carpet, seeing it as mossy rock in his child’s eyes. But his perception was off even as he put all of his weight into the movement. When he missed the step with his small hand, his other arm gave way, unable to support his body weight.

Jawbone cracked against hard wood steps, stunning him as bright lights flashed behind his eyes. Disoriented, he tilted backwards—or was it forwards again?—letting out a small shriek as the pain of the impact finally set in. His right shoulder slammed into the next step as he tumbled down the steps in reverse, the carpet rubbing his bare knees and elbows bloody and raw as friction peeled his skin away. He saw the hem of his Aunt’s brown and gold-accented dress as she rushed to his side, falling to her knees next to him as his body slowly settled at the base of the stairs. “Aether!” She cried, sobs and fear breaking her breath like sticks, her arms cradling him. He felt his cheek press against the bare skin of her collarbone, smelled the light, airy cinnamon and honey of her moisturizing oils on her skin, and slipped into blackness.