The Invisible Boy

A lonely boy's childhood playmate disrupts the household

"Well if you didn't do it, and I didn't do it, and Daddy didn't do it, who did?"

Freddy looked down, unsure what to say.

"Was it the 'invisible boy' again?"

Freddy looked up, his eyes brimming with tears. He loved his mother very much, and it hurt when she was angry, even if it was the only time she seemed to notice him at all. His father was angry all the time, so he bothered Freddy a lot less. But it made him feel sad and ashamed when Mommy was mad. Kind of.

"Because I'm getting tired of that excuse. We've talked about it. There is no invisible boy coloring on the walls, Frederick. No invisible boy putting rolls of toilet paper in the toilet, leaving the refrigerator open…hiding the remote."

Freddy looked back down. What could he could say? Even if he had the vocabulary, he wouldn't have been able to make his mother understand.

"Now where did you hide the remote?!"

Freddy didn't answer. His mother sighed in exasperation.

"Just—go to your room, until you're ready to tell Mommy where the damn remote is."

Freddy went upstairs. He stopped in the bathroom to relieve himself. After he washed his hands, he stood looking in the mirror.

He turned on the hot water until steam started to cloud the mirror. "I know you're here," he whispered. His reflection blurred in the steam, then wavered. Then disappeared.

An upside-down arc appeared in the steam on the mirror: a smile. An invisible smile. Freddy suddenly knew where the remote was: in the kitchen drawer with the knives.

For reasons he could not explain, the thought of the invisible boy's proximity to the knives excited him as he began descending the stairs to show Mommy where the remote was.

(Word Count: 299)