The Child

The Child

Once upon a time,
There lived a young boy
He had black, unkempt hair,
Quiet, brown eyes,
and a sad, silent frown.

He dreamt of many things.
He dreamt of legends long past.
He dreamt of legends yet to come.
He dreamt of adventure,
Of discovery,
Of glory,
Of freedom.

Whenever he walked the waking world,
In the quiet little orphanage where he lived,
He was left alone to his own little world.
The other children never invited him to play.
Neither would they cease their taunts and cruel jokes,
their pranks and mirthful laughter.

Oft times, he would find himself close to the brink of tears,
Most children have a mother to run to.
Most of them have a set of arms
To wrap around them
Like an angel’s protective wings.
However, this boy did not.
All he had was his dreams...
…and her.

She always seemed to make things better.
He could always turn to her, and she would never leave him.
She would never tease him
She would never hurt him
And she would never leave him.

He found her one day
In the playgrounds when all the other kids left.
She was lying alone on the grass,
Her ragged clothes were damp and quite filthy
Yet she had a lonely smile on her face,
Which touched the boy’s heart,
With a sliver of warmth.
A warmth that he vaguely remembered.
It was almost like an angel’s breath, an angel’s silent lullaby.

He kept her safely hidden in his tiny room,
a sanctuary that was mercifully granted him
She was the friend that he never had,
The perfect girl that he never met.

They spent countless times watching the stars at night,
From the barred windows of his quiet little room.
She stayed with him at night,
Keeping away the bad dreams that came in the dark.
He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t sad.
At least he wasn’t alone.

She had become part of his wonderful dreams,
Where she had a voice,
Where she could walk or run alongside him,
Where she always held his hand and kept it warm.

They would explore the world together,
Forever changing with each and every wondrous dream
Sometimes, he would save her from a dragon
Sometimes, she would save him from the frightful shadows
That clutched at him and tried to tear him away from her.
Come what may, his dreams always began and ended
With three words, uttered from his mouth, or from hers.
A sweet whisper...

He wasn’t happy, neither was he sad.
He always woke up, with tears flowing freely from his eyes
Yet his face showed no sorrow, nor joy.
He always hid his face under the sheets,
So that no one would see him wipe his tears,
As he prepared and dreaded for the daily pains,
Of the waking world that never stops hurting.

None of the children ever befriended him.
They always teased him,
They always feared him,
They always hated him,
They always hurt him.
But he was neither happy, nor sad.
At least he wasn’t alone.

One day, however, the bad children found her.
They took her out to the playground,
Paraded around him, holding her like a trophy,
Or a harlot to be condemned.
Then they broke her,
They ripped off her gray rag dress,
They ripped off her dulled chestnut hair,
They ripped off her button eyes,
They ripped off her limbs,
And dumped the remains on his lap,
As they danced around him,
Chanting and taunting,
Chanting and taunting.

The tears came.
The pain came.
The anger came.
The loneliness came.

That night, he wept and wept…
…drenching his meager pillow.
He whimpered as he saw the stars in the night sky.
From a window he once shared with her.
He held his breath as he felt for her, even if she was no longer at his side.
He cowered at the shadows that seemed to creep closer.
Though his eyes were red and dry,
Still he wept… until sleep took him.
He dreamt of an open field,
A clear, blue sky,
A hill with an old oak tree,
And an angel who always smiled
Sitting there, waiting for him.
She held out her hand to him,
And he took it.

The next day, he never opened his eyes.
He never drew another breath.
The sunlight reached his pale, peaceful face,
and in its light, glistened two thin trails...
...of his last tears.

The young boy chose never again to ever wake up…
…so that he could dream forever.
He was neither happy, nor sad...
...at least he wasn't alone.

In the darkness that embraced him,
that ate away at his soul,
A whisper escaped his ragged form.
His last words were the beginning and the end.
His words to her, and her to him.
I love you.

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EPILOGUE

There was a young girl in a rag dress
who lived in a quiet, little orphanage
where a boy once dreamt.
She had dulled chestnut hair,
quiet, brown eyes,
and a lonely smile.

She had no friends.
None of the children ever asked her to play.
None of the children ever cast her a second thought.
But she was all right, because of him.
Her special friend, a boy she met on the playgrounds one day.
He had black, unkempt hair,
round, button eyes,
and a sad, silent frown.

She was neither happy, nor sad...
... At least she wasn't alone.

The end.