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He hated the use of the term ‘rescue’ in relation to his and his brothers’ current situation. How is it a rescue when they simply swapped one cage for another? Sometimes he wished that their ‘rescuers’ had arrived too late and then he and his brothers would not have had to deal with their current situation; more tiny spaces, separated from each other for ‘safety’. It was frustrating and confusing not knowing what was wanted from him and his brothers. He was repeatedly told that they were safe and that everything was going to be alright and not to worry, but how could he do any of those things when he had not baseline for safety and contentment. The life he and his brothers had come from, as short as it had been was all they knew and what they knew from that was to watch your back and failure of any sort was met with disapproval, pain and hunger. As it turned out, his brothers’ and his very existence had been deemed a failure in itself. Why else would Darius have locked them up and left them to die? Or that was the way he had interpreted him and his brothers being beaten and stuffed into tiny cages and then left for dead.
A crash and a yell he identified as being from his ‘smart’ brother interrupts that particular train of thought. It sounded like he had thrown his food at the wall again assuming the room he was in was the same, everything bolted down except the bedding and the tray food was bought in on. He had not seen any of his brothers since they had been pulled from the tiny cages they had been left to rot in. He only knew they were close by because he had heard them occasionally. His ‘smart’ brother throwing things and yelling, the ‘stupid’ one trying to escape, pretending to be unwell more than he was and then trying to duck out once the force field was lowered, and the ‘angry’ one growling occasionally, usually when someone tried to speak to him. That was how it had been the past couple of days since he had been able to stay awake for more than a few minutes. Left to his own thoughts for so long his frustration was starting to change. It left with a strange feeling of restlessness he had not felt before. As tired as he still was, he felt the urge to get up and do something. He was still trying to figure out the ‘what’ part of the something and it was bringing the frustration back.
He looked over to the table by his bed holding the tray his last meal had been bought in on. This time there had been some blank sheets of paper and a pack of crayons added to it. In case he wanted to write or draw they had said. For some reason they had stressed the crayons were not for eating. He picks up the blue crayon and thinks about writing something. Can he even write? None of them were taught to read or write but the seemed to be able to read and do a whole bunch of things they were never taught to do. It turns out he can’t. Or maybe he just can’t think of anything to write. He huffed in annoyance and the crayon in his hand snaps. He stares at it.
‘It requires no strength at all to destroy. But creation, healing that takes true might.’ He remembers their originals' 'Master' had told him that.
He suddenly wishes for his little tree. He doesn’t know why he is so attached to the stupid thing, why he wants it. He growls in annoyance. He has nothing else to do so he draws the tree in its little pot. When he is satisfied he has created a suitable likeness he props the page up on the table so he can see it when his lying down. He thinks about the time he spent with their originals.
When he wakes up, he finds the old tray and his picture are gone. A new meal sits on a new tray along with the crayons and fresh paper. And there, behind it all is his little tree. He feels a strange tightness in his body he did not realise was there release, just a little, and for the first time it feels like things, maybe, could be alright.