Post by Tempe Brennan on Feb 25, 2008 16:36:21 GMT -5
1. Heartbeat
A small boy, no more than seven, sat in the red light of the setting sun, looking at something that seemed not to be there. He did not smile. Actually, he hardly moved. He sat on a small square concrete porch, propped up by two small hands bent backwards to let him lean back and legs hanging over the side, about a foot and a half from the grassy ground. A summer’s breeze blew his dark brown hair back, revealing his two eyes. They were bright blue, and clouded with sightlessness. Most people might find this to be a bad quality of a child, and would feel bad for him. They would feel worse if they knew he was a foster child. But most of all, they would be puzzled by the fact that, even though he was sightless and a foster child, he was kind and polite to almost everyone he met. But other feelings, other emotions lay buried deep under the soft white flesh of this child. Secrets that most children - most adults would be terrified of. He blinked his eyes. They were not normal blind eyes. Like he was not a normal blind boy. No, but that’s not the point at the moment. His clouded blue eyes, that one might think of to be horrific, were sadly lacking in pupils. They were just two blue eyes, surrounded by white and lacking of black in any way. But he chose to keep them visible to everyone else who could see them.
A small brown stuffed dog lay next to him, looking very ratty and worn. It was missing an ear, and one of its eyes was missing; the other no more than a button, crudely sewn into place with black thread and slightly hanging off. The thing wore a bright red felt collar, with a golden dog tag handing off of the neck in a bad impersonation of a real dog collar. Its name was Peboy. It was the only thing the boy had had since he could remember, though its soft fur had turned rough and ragged with time, clumping in places and completely bald in others. He didn’t know why the toy’s name was Peboy, or who gave him the dog. When he was younger, he was always thinking up stories of fairies and royalty, bringing him up as a small child. One day they might wake to find him missing, being taken far away from their castles or homes by an evil witch. Now that he thinks of them, they seem quite silly. No one would ever come to rescue him. No one cared about him.
Behind him a large black cat slipped through the cat door in the front door, it’s fur bristling as it bared its teeth at him and gave a small hiss. It inched its way off of the porch and ran away, across the lawn and the street and into the never-ending suburbs of the town he lived in. He kicked his heeled against the porch. He hated being blind sometimes. He could feel the stares of the family next door as they came home from their walk. “He shouldn’t be out on his own. He’ll get hurt,” Said the man, his hand firmly on his little girl’s shoulder. “He’s scary, daddy! Look at his eyes…” said the little girl in her squeaky little voice, no more than a whisper. They seemed to have no idea he could hear them. Indeed, the boy could hear for a very long distance, though this was not the case. The family was no more than five meters away, and they seemed completely blunt to the fact he could plainly hear them without even straining. He could feel the woman’s eyes looking into his, though not to look more so as to look on in horrifies awe of his ugly eyes. He found them quite nice, as nice as eyes can be when you can’t see them. To tell the truth, he really didn’t care what they looked like. This little boy seemed to like the fact he utterly disturbed the family next door…
He didn’t realize he had been sitting outside for more than three hours now, the sun beating down on him until it came time for the sun to go away and be replaced by the moon. The old lady he was being fostered by called him inside. “Tommy! Come in, you’ll catch cold outside!” She shrieked. She seemed to be going deaf with old age, and did not realize how loud and annoying she sounded. “Coming…” He said emotionlessly, more to himself than old miss Porter. He rolled his eyes and pulled himself up to a standing position, and walked through the door and into the house for his supper.
Along with the fact Old Miss Porter was going deaf, she also had no knack for cooking. She took a ladle from the clean silverware drawer and dipped it into a pot, her old wrinkled hands quivering as she did so, as if she lifted a great weight and not a simple plastic serving sthingy. She took out a plate and slopped something that resembled watery dung and placed it in front of him. “What is it?” Tommy asked, peering through his sightless eyes down at the slop. It smelt horrible, and when he lifted and dropped it with his old sthingy, it sounded completely vile, like when a child vomited into a bin and it hit the tile floor instead. “It’s chili, dear. Now eat up, it’ll make you good and strong.” She said. He could hear her leaving the room, her light pink slippers embroidered with red roses up the right sides shuffling out of the kitchen and into the sitting room to call her friends about their bingo session next Tuesday. Miss Porter was very old; she had to be about one hundred and fifty. Actually, she was eighty-one, but she was still well and kicking. Every morning she would wake up at nine and run on her tread mill for twenty-three minutes, exactly the amount of time to run four kilometers at her pace. Which, might I add is a lot for an eighty-one year-old. Her bushy white hair was always perfectly set, and she smelt of old people and cat hair. She was what one might know as the crazy old cat lady next door. Her house was filled with cats; big and small, old and young. When ever one died, she would burry it in her seemingly never-ending back yard, among the hundreds of other dead cats in tiny kitty caskets. Tommy hated cats now. He had lived with Miss Porter for three months now and hated cats more than he ever did to start with.
His least favorite was a very large old gray tom he knew as Big Gus, who, every night if he did not shut his bedroom door would come into the room and curl up on the back of Tommy’s head, as if he was trying to smother the boy. He poked at the food in front of him, if it could be called that, and deciding he was not that hungry after all, he set the plate quietly down on the perfect white floor. In seconds the ravenous cats had devoured it. Even he pitied them for having to eat her cooking.
He set the plate down on his pink flowered place mat, and rubbing it with his sthingy a bit to make it look more human-consumed, he smiled and imagined what it looked like. A mess of the remains of a horrid meal, red and brown on his plate and swirled with a sthingy. He stood, and without tucking in his chair he walked carefully out of the room and into the sitting room.
This room had no television, just bare walls with pictures of kittens staring out at you and fake flowers, pictures of flowers, and pictures of flowers and kittens. The couch was white and rimmed with a light pink trim, as everything seemed to be in this house. It looked like an old person’s house, which ironically, it was. She said a very short ‘good-bye’ to Mrs. Williams, her friend from bingo. “Was it good, boy?” She asked. Her voice sounded calm and small, fragile even, but kind. He gave a small smile, trying to make it look as real as possible. “Yes Ma’am, it was.” He said. This was a total lie, but she seemed satisfied, because he heard the rustle of her back on the smooth white couch and the ‘click’ of the remote as she turned on Judge Judy. “It’s late, Tommy. Off to bed.” He gave a small nod without a smile. “G’night Miss Porter.” “Good night, Tommy. I hope you sleep well.” She said, without turning to look at him.
People didn’t think Tommy knew when they made faces, when they didn’t look at him because they were frightened of his pure blue gaze. But he did. He knew. He knew if they smiled at him, he could hear the smallest movement of their faces. He knew if they quickened their pace when he came near, if they turned their heads, closed their eyes…
And no one thought he knew. But he did. As he lay in his bed looking at the shadows dance on the ceiling with sightless, blue eyes, he started to feel a feeling of sadness…or resentment towards the rest of the world. No one would ever take him seriously in life. No one would ever be a friend to him, and all because of his eyes. His room was still. He lay silently on a blue douvet, arms crossed behind his head. He lay a hand on Peboy, who was laying next to him. He thought he could feel the toy shudder for a moment, like a pulse, or a breath. No…couldn’t be. He waited a minute, trying to shake off the feeling that was creeping up on him from the inside. It was a strange feeling…excitement? Or dread? It was hard to tell. There it was again. This time it was for sure. A small, low pump, like a heartbeat, arose from the small stuffed dog. It was happening again. It happened over and over until the toy grew warm in the small boy’s grasp. He held it to his chest. “Hello, Tommy.” Said a voice in his head. “I have a job for you.”
A small boy, no more than seven, sat in the red light of the setting sun, looking at something that seemed not to be there. He did not smile. Actually, he hardly moved. He sat on a small square concrete porch, propped up by two small hands bent backwards to let him lean back and legs hanging over the side, about a foot and a half from the grassy ground. A summer’s breeze blew his dark brown hair back, revealing his two eyes. They were bright blue, and clouded with sightlessness. Most people might find this to be a bad quality of a child, and would feel bad for him. They would feel worse if they knew he was a foster child. But most of all, they would be puzzled by the fact that, even though he was sightless and a foster child, he was kind and polite to almost everyone he met. But other feelings, other emotions lay buried deep under the soft white flesh of this child. Secrets that most children - most adults would be terrified of. He blinked his eyes. They were not normal blind eyes. Like he was not a normal blind boy. No, but that’s not the point at the moment. His clouded blue eyes, that one might think of to be horrific, were sadly lacking in pupils. They were just two blue eyes, surrounded by white and lacking of black in any way. But he chose to keep them visible to everyone else who could see them.
A small brown stuffed dog lay next to him, looking very ratty and worn. It was missing an ear, and one of its eyes was missing; the other no more than a button, crudely sewn into place with black thread and slightly hanging off. The thing wore a bright red felt collar, with a golden dog tag handing off of the neck in a bad impersonation of a real dog collar. Its name was Peboy. It was the only thing the boy had had since he could remember, though its soft fur had turned rough and ragged with time, clumping in places and completely bald in others. He didn’t know why the toy’s name was Peboy, or who gave him the dog. When he was younger, he was always thinking up stories of fairies and royalty, bringing him up as a small child. One day they might wake to find him missing, being taken far away from their castles or homes by an evil witch. Now that he thinks of them, they seem quite silly. No one would ever come to rescue him. No one cared about him.
Behind him a large black cat slipped through the cat door in the front door, it’s fur bristling as it bared its teeth at him and gave a small hiss. It inched its way off of the porch and ran away, across the lawn and the street and into the never-ending suburbs of the town he lived in. He kicked his heeled against the porch. He hated being blind sometimes. He could feel the stares of the family next door as they came home from their walk. “He shouldn’t be out on his own. He’ll get hurt,” Said the man, his hand firmly on his little girl’s shoulder. “He’s scary, daddy! Look at his eyes…” said the little girl in her squeaky little voice, no more than a whisper. They seemed to have no idea he could hear them. Indeed, the boy could hear for a very long distance, though this was not the case. The family was no more than five meters away, and they seemed completely blunt to the fact he could plainly hear them without even straining. He could feel the woman’s eyes looking into his, though not to look more so as to look on in horrifies awe of his ugly eyes. He found them quite nice, as nice as eyes can be when you can’t see them. To tell the truth, he really didn’t care what they looked like. This little boy seemed to like the fact he utterly disturbed the family next door…
He didn’t realize he had been sitting outside for more than three hours now, the sun beating down on him until it came time for the sun to go away and be replaced by the moon. The old lady he was being fostered by called him inside. “Tommy! Come in, you’ll catch cold outside!” She shrieked. She seemed to be going deaf with old age, and did not realize how loud and annoying she sounded. “Coming…” He said emotionlessly, more to himself than old miss Porter. He rolled his eyes and pulled himself up to a standing position, and walked through the door and into the house for his supper.
Along with the fact Old Miss Porter was going deaf, she also had no knack for cooking. She took a ladle from the clean silverware drawer and dipped it into a pot, her old wrinkled hands quivering as she did so, as if she lifted a great weight and not a simple plastic serving sthingy. She took out a plate and slopped something that resembled watery dung and placed it in front of him. “What is it?” Tommy asked, peering through his sightless eyes down at the slop. It smelt horrible, and when he lifted and dropped it with his old sthingy, it sounded completely vile, like when a child vomited into a bin and it hit the tile floor instead. “It’s chili, dear. Now eat up, it’ll make you good and strong.” She said. He could hear her leaving the room, her light pink slippers embroidered with red roses up the right sides shuffling out of the kitchen and into the sitting room to call her friends about their bingo session next Tuesday. Miss Porter was very old; she had to be about one hundred and fifty. Actually, she was eighty-one, but she was still well and kicking. Every morning she would wake up at nine and run on her tread mill for twenty-three minutes, exactly the amount of time to run four kilometers at her pace. Which, might I add is a lot for an eighty-one year-old. Her bushy white hair was always perfectly set, and she smelt of old people and cat hair. She was what one might know as the crazy old cat lady next door. Her house was filled with cats; big and small, old and young. When ever one died, she would burry it in her seemingly never-ending back yard, among the hundreds of other dead cats in tiny kitty caskets. Tommy hated cats now. He had lived with Miss Porter for three months now and hated cats more than he ever did to start with.
His least favorite was a very large old gray tom he knew as Big Gus, who, every night if he did not shut his bedroom door would come into the room and curl up on the back of Tommy’s head, as if he was trying to smother the boy. He poked at the food in front of him, if it could be called that, and deciding he was not that hungry after all, he set the plate quietly down on the perfect white floor. In seconds the ravenous cats had devoured it. Even he pitied them for having to eat her cooking.
He set the plate down on his pink flowered place mat, and rubbing it with his sthingy a bit to make it look more human-consumed, he smiled and imagined what it looked like. A mess of the remains of a horrid meal, red and brown on his plate and swirled with a sthingy. He stood, and without tucking in his chair he walked carefully out of the room and into the sitting room.
This room had no television, just bare walls with pictures of kittens staring out at you and fake flowers, pictures of flowers, and pictures of flowers and kittens. The couch was white and rimmed with a light pink trim, as everything seemed to be in this house. It looked like an old person’s house, which ironically, it was. She said a very short ‘good-bye’ to Mrs. Williams, her friend from bingo. “Was it good, boy?” She asked. Her voice sounded calm and small, fragile even, but kind. He gave a small smile, trying to make it look as real as possible. “Yes Ma’am, it was.” He said. This was a total lie, but she seemed satisfied, because he heard the rustle of her back on the smooth white couch and the ‘click’ of the remote as she turned on Judge Judy. “It’s late, Tommy. Off to bed.” He gave a small nod without a smile. “G’night Miss Porter.” “Good night, Tommy. I hope you sleep well.” She said, without turning to look at him.
People didn’t think Tommy knew when they made faces, when they didn’t look at him because they were frightened of his pure blue gaze. But he did. He knew. He knew if they smiled at him, he could hear the smallest movement of their faces. He knew if they quickened their pace when he came near, if they turned their heads, closed their eyes…
And no one thought he knew. But he did. As he lay in his bed looking at the shadows dance on the ceiling with sightless, blue eyes, he started to feel a feeling of sadness…or resentment towards the rest of the world. No one would ever take him seriously in life. No one would ever be a friend to him, and all because of his eyes. His room was still. He lay silently on a blue douvet, arms crossed behind his head. He lay a hand on Peboy, who was laying next to him. He thought he could feel the toy shudder for a moment, like a pulse, or a breath. No…couldn’t be. He waited a minute, trying to shake off the feeling that was creeping up on him from the inside. It was a strange feeling…excitement? Or dread? It was hard to tell. There it was again. This time it was for sure. A small, low pump, like a heartbeat, arose from the small stuffed dog. It was happening again. It happened over and over until the toy grew warm in the small boy’s grasp. He held it to his chest. “Hello, Tommy.” Said a voice in his head. “I have a job for you.”
This is a book I am writing, but only the first chapter. Enjoy^^
