17 May 2012
"Mike!" cried a rather fat lady with a huge belly "What do you think you're doing?" she was incredulous.
Mike had hit a boy on the eye. "Jason called me a twat, miss..."
She rolls her eyes and drags him into school, leaving him in the detention room.
This made Mike worry a little. He needed to return home quickly. He tried explaining to the bored and balding intendant but he refused. This gave him no choice but to go back home after detention.
Running to the pharmacist, little Mike bought a packet of painkillers for his mother who was suffering from chronic myelogenous leukemia. They were too poor to afford proper treatment. His father being a drunkard left Mike and his mom stranded, with no health insurance and a nearing 0 bank balance. That year would be the last year Mike went to school.
On returning home, he walked to his mother's dingy and dark room and left the painkillers next to her. He just stared at his mother, her frail arms twisted in a macabre angle, skin takin on a grey hue. Tears ran down his cheeks and he ran out the room, sobbing.
There was no hope. She had a week, max a month to survive. The disease had affected a major portion of her marrow already. Life was hard.
He tore a piece of paper from his notebooks and wrote:
Dear God,
My name is Mike Fitzgerald, I'm 8 years old and I live in Ohio. My mom is sick, very sick and my dad is a bad man. He left me and my mother here, alone. My mother tells me to have faith in you, so I hope you can help us out, just this once.
Mike
He ran to the post box and on the envelope, he wrote 'To Heaven'.
Mike waited for 2 days, he didn't get a reply, his mothers' condition was deteriorating by the minute.
He continued his life normally, bringing in medicines for his mother, doing his chores and his homework and wrote to God everyday, but he still wanted that reply from Him.
After about 3 days, he was fed up. Running to the terrace, he yelled out "I thought you existed! I'm being a good boy. What do you want from me?!" tears spilled down his cheeks and he lay on his back on the terrace, eyes shut and fast asleep.
A piece of clear white parchment landed on his face and he woke with a start. Rubbing the sleep away, he read the clear and neat script
Dear Mike,
I'm glad you haven't lost faith in me. If you want the solution, all you have to do, is open your eyes.
From, Someone Who Will Always Watch Over You.
Letter From The Omnipresent • Opuss № I