#Examplary vegetables

[abifreeland]

I drew this beautiful illustration of potatoes and then put it in this frame because I could

[go6jo]

i imagine suguru to be a mama’s boy until around the age of seven when his cursed technique starts to manifest itself. hes the example of a perfect child, all of his mom’s friends praising him and showering him with compliments, her dearest son which she flaunts with so much pride - hes polite, and he’s kind, he says please and thank you and rarely ever speaks unless spoken to - quiet, examplary. faultless. until one day shes startled out of sleep with a loud scream echoing throughout the whole house and she immediately jumps out of bed to check on suguru and she swings the door of his bedroom open only to find her son curled up in a corner, hugging his knees to his chest, trembling while staring with tremendous fear into the window on the wall directly across from him, and she runs to him, crouches down to his level to hush him and ask him what’s wrong. he can barely speak through the heavy sobbing, hiding his face in her chest, little fingers fisting her nightgown “there’s something outside the window, mama.” she looks outside clutching suguru to her chest still but - “there’s nothing outside, ‘ru” she figures it must have been a nightmare so she lifts him up into her arms and starts walking towards the window despite all of his protests, he’s thrashing and he’s trying to escape from her grasp but still she insists there is nothing outside, mama promises, alright?. just look. and when he does, she feels his skin run ice cold under her hands, muscles tense and breath hitching. hes frozen in place, unmoving while staring with wide eyes into nothingness. it becomes a reoccurring event. she takes him to all these different specialists, she’s desperate - psychologists, neurologists, - mediums even - and still no answer as to why her otherwise calm and perfect boy has turned out this way, difficult and inconsolable. he sees things, it must be some kind of illness, there’s no other plausible explanation, she thinks. he’s not crazy, he can’t be crazy, she’s in denial— eventually it turns into something out of her control, and she starts to believe he must, in fact, be crazy because it becomes a problem. one she has grown tired trying to find a solution for. he refuses to leave the house, saying there are monsters lurking everywhere he goes. his friends at school start to think he’s weird. he refuses to eat and he becomes more difficult to deal with each passing day. his mom starts to grow more and more distant every day. what did she do to deserve this, to deserve a problematic child. he’d been so perfect and he’d ruined everything. suguru can see it in her eyes, she doesn’t know what to do anymore, she does’t think she can handle this anymore. she doesn’t want to — he can see the disappointment in her eyes.

so when her son arrives home one day saying he’s moving to tokyo, i found some people who can help me, ‘ma. she thinks nothing of it. he is 15 years old now, he’s gone back to his old quiet self, has settled down for the most part, yet, still, his mother asks no questions, because it’s a burden she can finally get rid of. (he meets a blue eyed boy on the street one day, white hair, around the same age as him while he’s paralized in the middle of the sidewalk, a scary figure blocking his path as he’s returning home from school, tormenting him. he’s stuck in place looking at the monstrous thing until, in the bat of an eye it is gone and standing in it’s place is a boy with a smug smile on his face “easy. see? gone.” he joins suguru on his way back and eventually reveals that he ran away and it mustn’t be long until someone comes looking for him.) he packs and he leaves on a summer day after kissing his mother’s cheek goodbye, his figure towering over hers already, she’s at the kitchen counter, preparing lunch, chopping some vegetable and barely even spares him a glance when he walks through the front door. he still visits her every so often. even brings you home to her once and she thinks you must be a saint. she treats you well, sits down on the couch with you and flips through an old album full of pictures of him, there are only baby pictures, though. no record of suguru from the age of eight onwards. looking at you both, suguru feels a semblance of normality, something he hasn’t felt in a while. not ever since he was a kid. you’d been nervous to meet her, had known very little about her for suguru rarely ever mentions her, much less his father. “she loves you” he mouths while sitting on the couch opposite to you when his mother gets up to check the pot on the stove. more than she loves him, he thinks, but he’s happy - he’s happy that she does, he knew that she would - and he’s smiling at you but there is a hint of sorrow in the gesture. his mother doesn’t resent him as much nowadays - out of sight out of mind, he’s not a weight in her life anymore. until he stops coming over as often, a whole year goes by before she gets to see him again, standing on the porch of his old childhood home he’s grown a lot ever since the last time she saw him, he’d always been a handsome boy, she thinks, but he has grown into his features, looks more comfortable in his skin, less awkward, more mature, his hair a lot longer than ever before and he has blood on his clothes. for the first time in years she’s striken with the most profound feeling of worry towards him, towards her own son, the little boy she had raised with her own two hands and who had suffered so much at the hands of the world is that his blood? is he going to die? she grabs him by the arms and begins pulling him inside the house but he resists, whispering his last words to her. “im sorry, ‘ma.” (about this post.)