Poor Kid

Poor Kid

A boy looked up at the large house, a cold breeze shooting across the lawn and bending the unkempt grass before it.
The house was falling apart at the seams, but he didn’t care about that. Its tall, straight, and rigid sides reminded him of the firm posture of his father when he got home from work. He would arrive home, grumpily climbing out of his car with a frown, but would smile when he was his young son standing on the porch to greet him.
That was how he remembered his father, looking up at him and seeing his strong arms and shoulders forming a figure that seemed to reach to the very clouds above. The boy looked up again, this time at the house towering above him. No clouds here, he thought. Only stars.
The boy quickly walked back to the deserted sidewalk in front of the house, the wind making his hair stick up in the back. He looked at the mailbox. Any name on it was long past worn off. The breeze struck again, colder this time. The boy hugged his thin shirt against his trembling arms, and his eyes were again inevitably drawn to his destination.


It was a Friday when it happened. How cruel, it was usually his favorite day of the week. He would wake up smiling, make breakfast, and then go to the next room to wake his son for school.
It was cruel when the son woke up to darkness, looked at his clock, and found he was meant to be up an hour before.
It was cruel when he got out of bed, walked across the room to the door (the hardwood floor was so cold), and crept down the hallway, and up the stairs to his father’s room at the top.
It was cruel to touch his father’s hand, and find it as cold as the floor.
It was cruel for Steven, a coworker of the father to knock on the door to their house, yelling for the father to get his ass out to the car or they’ll be late.
It was cruel to hear the car driving away.
The boy stood, much as he had stood for the past hour, still touching his father’s hand. He was startled out of his quiet reverie by ringing. He slowly turned his head to look at it, his eyes black and expressionless. A phone was sitting on his father’s bedside table, ringing. He moved his hand to pick it up the plastic receiver (as cold as his hand just as cold), and answered.
“Hello?”
“Daniel is that you? Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“This is your teacher. What’s wrong, why aren’t you here?”
“My dad didn’t wake up.”
“Well what’s wrong with him?”
“He’s cold. His hand is…cold…”
“Oh my God, Daniel, stay right there. I’m calling 911.”
His hand moved back to the hand. Time passed in a strange manner, speeding up and slowing down, some minutes taking hours and hours passing in seconds. Time was slow, and suddenly a second, different ringing started. He smiled, and cocked his head in the direction of the noise. An ambulance showed up, and time went forward again. Daniel was quickly (so quickly) taken to the police car sitting in the driveway. It was then he first saw it: the window of his father’s room, full of light.
Daniel’s eyes were glued to the window, and he stopped in his tracks. It was full of bright, pulsating light. Time stopped, and Daniel saw the light, and watched the light, and desired the light. His father had returned, the light proved that, it always guided him right. That was his way to see him again. His only way. He had to get back there.


It was night now, and colder. The window was still there, along with the light inside it. Of course it was still there, how could something like that be extinguished?
He walked across the lawn again, making his way to the front door. The numbers were still tacked to the door, 886. It was actually 889, because the six was below the other two, having fallen. He pushed, and the door opened. A slow creak came from the tired hinges, and rotten air rushed over the threshold and into Daniel’s nostrils. His way was opened.


He had gotten the bike for his birthday, a great surprise to him. His father had been happy to see his excitement when he wheeled it into his room that morning. He laughed deeply when his son fell out of bed in a rush to see it, and again when he attempted to go out on it in his pajamas.
“Don’t go to far” were his words that day, and the son of course did not heed them, for the excitement of newly found speed stole his mind away. He was faster than possible, houses and trees becoming blurs as the warm breeze flew past his face. He soared down the biggest hill in his neighborhood, his feet off the pedals, his head thrown back in the thrill of the rush.
He lost control near the bottom, and swerved into the nearest mailbox. The bike flew out from under him in a cloud of dust and gravel. He saw sky, ground, sky, ground, sky, ground, pain exploded, and then he came to a stop.
He sat up, and looked at the pain. His wrist was broken; he could clearly see that. He gingerly took the broken wrist with the unbroken one, and stood up. The only thought in his mind was of his father.
He can fix this he can fix anything have to get to him get to him now please dad fix this
Daniel started walking back up the street, limping on his banged leg, the tears of pain mixing with the blood from the cuts on his face. The pain was enormous, all-consuming. He had to keep walking-his father could fix this. His good arm slipped, dropping the broken one to his side. He screamed in pain, but again carefully picked it back up and cradled it to his chest.
It was getting darker now, the tears were blotting his vision, and on top of that the world seemed to be growing darker. He didn’t know how close he was, he just kept walking.
Something appeared in his hampered perception. A light, a bright light, bright enough to make him squint. He remembered a story his father told him about three men following a light to their destination, so he started following this one.
The light was getting closer and closer, but the world outside the light was getting darker and darker. Closer and closer, darker and darker. He heard a voice, but the ringing in the ears wouldn’t let him understand it.
Suddenly, strong hands were around him, his father’s hands carrying him, supporting him.
He was all right now. The light had taken him home.


The entry hall was dusty, dank. Two broken chairs were leaning against the flowery, peeling wallpaper to his right, a cracked mirror hung to his left, and a decrepit old staircase was directly in front of him, at the end of the hall.
Well, his father’s room was his destination, so up the stairs was where he would go. He started towards the staircase.
He looked down while walking, and noticed various footprints in the dust on the floor, taking the exact same path he was going to take. His heart swelled with hope, his father must be home. He started walking faster.
One step, two step, three step. Footprints on each one. He knew he was on the right track.
He reached the landing, and tracked the prints to a door at the end of the hall, to the right. He heard a car pull up outside the house, the engine cut off, and three doors opened and slammed.
Almost there.


He arrived at the station quickly, and was soon in a white room, sitting in a white chair at a white table. His mind was on the light. A man walked in.
“Hello Daniel, my name is Doctor Andrews.”
…
“How are you feeling? Any better?”
…
“Well we’re quite concerned with this behavior, Daniel. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us for a while.”
“Where?”
“It’s just a building to help us understand certain aspects of your…well, just to let us help you Daniel, that’s all.”
“How long?”
Daniel looked up. The doctor saw his eyes, his black eyes, and met them not without a little pity. Poor kid, his dad was all he had in the world. Poor little kid.
“As long as it takes.”
With that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, maybe a little more quickly than he normally would have.
Daniel did not hear the door click behind him. A chance, it seems, had presented itself.


The door to his father’s room sat at the end of the hall. It was framed in light, so much so that the door seemed smaller for the intense white line tracing its edges. He no longer needed the footprints. He knew where he was going.
The front door opened again, and loud feet found their way into the house. It didn’t matter; he was almost there anyway.
He ran down the hallway, robe flying behind him. He threw the door wide open. The light was inches from his face, throwing his shadow long behind him and inviting him forward. He stepped in, crossing the line into innocence and forgetting all else.
It was as he remembered it. Pulsating, warm, friendly, the light enclosed him and enlivened him. He felt the warm breeze rush past his face; he felt an indescribable ecstasy and joy.
As he knew it would be, strong arms found him, carried him, supported him. He was happy once again, he was free. He was in the light now, with his father, and he would never lose him again.


The nurse stood in the doorway, tapping her foot, watching her two orderlies restrain the kid. Her cell phone rang, and she answered it.
“Hello?”
“Have you got him?”
“Yes, we just found him.”
“Same place again?”
“You bet.” Her tone was sarcastic; he knew damn well where they found him.
“I don’t get it. This is the second time since we got him that he’s done this. How is he able to get away?”
“This is the third time, doctor, you told me he ran here straight from the police station after his father’s death.”
“That’s right, third…I still don’t get him. It’s been 10 years since his father died, what does he think he’ll find in their old abandoned house? What was he doing when you found him?”
“Standing here smiling, like the last time. Only time I ever see him smiling.”
“Well, what should we do to fix this problem of his?”
“He needs to be watched more closely for one. And we have to get him to talk; if he opened up he would be much easier to help. But he can’t be allowed near the house again-it’s only aggravating his condition. He first exhibited problems in front of it, right after the death of his father.”
“What problems?”
“He went into a fit while leaving with the police, trying desperately to get back inside.”
“That’s when he showed his first problems?”
“Yup, that soon.”
“Well, we’re escorting him back downstairs. We’ll be back in no time. It really isn’t fair to him to be shut up like this after what happened.”
“Well it’s for the best, he has many problems to work out.”
“Still, you have to feel sorry for him, poor kid.”
“Yeah, poor kid.”
She hung up, and stored the phone back in the pocket of her jacket. Turning around, she watched the two orderlies chaperoning the kid down the stairs, slowly one step at a time.
She observed him more closely. He was 17, tall, and rail thin. His hair was scraggly and hung to his shoulders. His eyes were deeply black, and his face was lined more than anyone else’s his age should be. He was wearing a bathrobe and striped pajamas, with cheap slippers. How could he have walked the 2 miles here in this cold?
They reached the bottom, and Daniel still let himself be escorted to the door. She caught his eyes as he passed, and felt a pity for this poor kid.
He was still smiling.