Short story. Thought of and wrote yesterday, revised and finished today.
Need a better title, this one's just a filler. Any suggestions, feel free to give em.
The man walked into the clean white room slowly, feet making hollow sounds on the tiles. The boy couldn’t see his face, as it was bright outside, but as he moved away from the glass doors and under the fluorescent bulbs of the waiting room he saw a younger one than he had expected, but at the same time somehow older. The man standing before him could be little more than 30, certainly no more than 35. But there was something else. Mostly it was in his eyes, deep set and intense, but also on the rest of his face, like a map of time, of one who had done much and seen more.
The boy sat in one of a row of neat chairs, legs folded against him, arms clasped around their fronts. He had a quiet air about him, the kind of watchful stillness which came from many periods of being alone with oneself. He wore a T-shirt and shorts, with Velcro sneakers strapped at the very ends to allow them to fit his 9 year old feet. He watched the man approach quietly, his eyes peering over the top of his tanned legs.
The man wore a simple pair of creamy white pants, a grey shirt and worn jacket. The boy looked closer at him as he approached and saw the slow, thoughtful movements of a full life in him. More than anywhere in his face though… for although the boy had never seen him before today, he somehow knew that much of the age on the face, the sadness around the eyes, was very recent. He looked as one who was accustomed to sadness, had even learned to live with it and work through it… only to be assaulted anew with it from a direction never before felt. As he kneeled in front of the boy, one leg bent and the other flat against the floor, the boy saw small shoots of silver in his hair.
“Hello.” His voice was soft and deep, the voice of a listener. The boy heard the shadow of how loud that voice could go deep in the undertones of it, but also somehow knew that it was hardly ever called upon to do so.
“Hello.” He sounded small to himself, and lost. But that was alright, he figured. Lost was what he was.
The two stared at each other for awhile. The sunlight streamed in through the doors and far off came the sounds of traffic, children on sidewalks playing, a plane roaring mutely overhead. Somewhere deeper in the building a soft voice announced something on a PA system, and there was the sounds of footsteps down long hallways.
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
The boy nodded, his eyes dropping. He had heard that a lot over the past few days, or some version of it. Everyone was sorry. He wished he could say something in reply to it, but he never could. The only one that ever came to mind was “Me too.” And that sounded pointless. So he said nothing. But no one had ever said it like this complete stranger had before.
“Are you here to take me away?”
The man shifted slightly, both hands on the knee that was up and looking intently at the top of the boy’s head. “If you’d like me to, yes.”
The boy digested this, trying to decide how he felt. To fill the silence, he asked questions.
“Did you know my mother?”
“Yes. Very well.”
The boy looked up at him, face calm and eyes curious.
“Are you my dad?”
The man smiled slightly, the first smile the boy had seen on him. It wasn’t much of a smile, barely lifting the corners of his mouth, and although he didn’t know what they meant, the boy felt tones, many and varied, that colored both the smile and his response.
“No. There’s no chance of that.”
The boy nodded and lowered his head again. “I don’t remember my dad.”
The man sighed lightly and looked away. “I know.” he said simply. Again the boy felt rather than understood the weight of the words, but didn’t know how to better figure out what it was.
The man was looking at him again. Another smile surfaced lightly on his face, this one more real, but somehow still sad. “You have his hair. And his cheeks. But the rest is your mother’s. Especially the eyes and brows.”
The boy looked up at the man in wonderment. “You knew my father?”
The man nodded slightly. “Yes… a little.”
The boy’s mind was filled with questions now, and he tried to sort them.
“Were you friends with my mom?”
The man’s eyes looked over his shoulder, faraway. “Yes.” He said softly. “Very good friends.”
“How come I’ve never seen you before then?”
The boy hadn’t meant the question to be accusatory, but it had come out that way seemingly of its own will. He felt a sob rising in his throat and fought it down, along with his other questions: If you were such good friends, where have you been? How come I never saw you before? How come you never helped us?
Why weren’t you here to help her?
The man seemed to hear all these other questions in just his one though, and bowed his head briefly. When he looked up again the boy saw his eyes were filled with a deep sorrow, halfway to the brink of tears… but only halfway, for they knew that there was nothing after the brink but a deep, empty well.
“I was… the two of us parted ways, some years back. You were just a baby, hardly two years old. I had to leave, you see… one day, I suddenly had to leave. To a place I didn’t want to go, a place far away from friends or family, or any semblance of home I might have had. A place far from your mother. I knew I would probably never come back, just as I knew that it was no use to ask her to come with me, so I didn’t… maybe I should have. She had you and your father, and at the time, that seemed answer enough. So I left… I knew then what it would mean not to, have known it since, know it now… but that doesn’t help the guilt, nor the regret. It was my choice, ultimately, and whatever the consequences, I made it.”
The boy listened to all this silently, his eyes looking back at the man’s. His brow furrowed slightly (Like his mother, the man thought, and felt an ache) and he shifted his legs to a less vertical position, so that they were less like a wall.
“Where did you go? Europe?”
The man smiled, a real smile this time, almost a laugh. “A bit farther then that, I’m afraid.”
The boy let it go, since he didn’t geographically know anywhere farther than Europe. “Is that where you’ll take me? If I say yes?”
The man looked surprised, for a moment. “No. Not now, anyway. I never thought I would, but I’ve come back… for a good bit too, and consequences be damned. I have an apartment, and money… we wouldn’t be staying in the same place for too long at a time, but we’ll stay in the U.S. for a few years at least.”
The boy nodded, his mind almost made up. “Why did you come back?”
The man looked away, as if peering into something farther than the room. “I felt it when it happened… and I knew I had to come back. I don’t know whether it will turn out being a mistake or not, but I don’t really care. I had to come back for you.”
The boy felt as if he almost had the answer he needed, but wasn’t quite sure, since he didn’t know what it was exactly. He fought with a few questions before finally just asking it outright.
“Why for me? Why do you want me?”
The man looked back at him, eyes widened slightly. When he spoke, he did so in tones that completely discredited any absurdity the statement might have held in normal circumstances. In a voice that suggested the answer was obvious.
“Because I love you.”
The boy felt the sobs coming again, and this time he couldn’t fight them, didn’t try. “Because I love you” he had said, the first person he could remember other than his mother to ever say that.
The man leaned over and hugged him, and he let himself be hugged, wrapped his arms around his shoulders and cried against his chest, wetting his shirt. The man put his hands on the back of his head and neck, rocking him slightly, eyes closed.
“I miss her.” The boy cried, his voice clogged and muffled by tears and linen. He swallowed and took a deep, shaky breath. “I miss her so much.”
The man continued to hold him, his grip almost hard enough to hurt. “I know.” He whispered, and the boy felt the top of his head dampen. “I know…”
They continued to hold each other, the boy with his face against the man’s chest, the man with his head over the boy’s, staring through the wall behind him, slow, silent tears leaking from his eyes. After a few minutes the boy stilled. He sat back and wiped his hand across his face, sniffing. He looked up with red eyes and met the man’s, so deep and old, whose tear tracks were already fading.
“Can we leave now?”
The man nodded, and stood up. He held out his hand, and the boy took it. The two walked slowly to the glass doors, the light coming through them darker now, the sounds of mothers calling their children in for dinner, the sound of an occasional car passing in the distance. Somewhere, a whistle sounded; somewhere, a baby cried; somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere, a boy that was almost a man slept under a tree, and dreamed.
“What was it you were doing in the far away place?”
“Looking for something. Something very special… very important.”
“Did you find it?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Can I help?”
“One day… when you’re older, we’ll go. Maybe we’ll find it together.”
The two walked out into the last of the day, the boy’s small hands fitting comfortably in the man’s big ones, as if they had always been there.
“What’s your name?” The boy asked.
“___.”
“But that’s my name!”
The man smiled. “I know.”
Together they walked towards their future, hand in hand.
Again, I hate naming my characters. Insert whatever one you want for it.
The man walked into the clean white room slowly, feet making hollow sounds on the tiles. The boy couldn’t see his face, as it was bright outside, but as he moved away from the glass doors and under the fluorescent bulbs of the waiting room he saw a younger one than he had expected, but at the same time somehow older. The man standing before him could be little more than 30, certainly no more than 35. But there was something else. Mostly it was in his eyes, deep set and intense, but also on the rest of his face, like a map of time, of one who had done much and seen more.
The boy sat in one of a row of neat chairs, legs folded against him, arms clasped around their fronts. He had a quiet air about him, the kind of watchful stillness which came from many periods of being alone with oneself. He wore a T-shirt and shorts, with Velcro sneakers strapped at the very ends to allow them to fit his 9 year old feet. He watched the man approach quietly, his eyes peering over the top of his tanned legs.
The man wore a simple pair of creamy white pants, a grey shirt and worn jacket. The boy looked closer at him as he approached and saw the slow, thoughtful movements of a full life in him. More than anywhere in his face though… for although the boy had never seen him before today, he somehow knew that much of the age on the face, the sadness around the eyes, was very recent. He looked as one who was accustomed to sadness, had even learned to live with it and work through it… only to be assaulted anew with it from a direction never before felt. As he kneeled in front of the boy, one leg bent and the other flat against the floor, the boy saw small shoots of silver in his hair.
“Hello.” His voice was soft and deep, the voice of a listener. The boy heard the shadow of how loud that voice could go deep in the undertones of it, but also somehow knew that it was hardly ever called upon to do so.
“Hello.” He sounded small to himself, and lost. But that was alright, he figured. Lost was what he was.
The two stared at each other for awhile. The sunlight streamed in through the doors and far off came the sounds of traffic, children on sidewalks playing, a plane roaring mutely overhead. Somewhere deeper in the building a soft voice announced something on a PA system, and there was the sounds of footsteps down long hallways.
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
The boy nodded, his eyes dropping. He had heard that a lot over the past few days, or some version of it. Everyone was sorry. He wished he could say something in reply to it, but he never could. The only one that ever came to mind was “Me too.” And that sounded pointless. So he said nothing. But no one had ever said it like this complete stranger had before.
“Are you here to take me away?”
The man shifted slightly, both hands on the knee that was up and looking intently at the top of the boy’s head. “If you’d like me to, yes.”
The boy digested this, trying to decide how he felt. To fill the silence, he asked questions.
“Did you know my mother?”
“Yes. Very well.”
The boy looked up at him, face calm and eyes curious.
“Are you my dad?”
The man smiled slightly, the first smile the boy had seen on him. It wasn’t much of a smile, barely lifting the corners of his mouth, and although he didn’t know what they meant, the boy felt tones, many and varied, that colored both the smile and his response.
“No. There’s no chance of that.”
The boy nodded and lowered his head again. “I don’t remember my dad.”
The man sighed lightly and looked away. “I know.” he said simply. Again the boy felt rather than understood the weight of the words, but didn’t know how to better figure out what it was.
The man was looking at him again. Another smile surfaced lightly on his face, this one more real, but somehow still sad. “You have his hair. And his cheeks. But the rest is your mother’s. Especially the eyes and brows.”
The boy looked up at the man in wonderment. “You knew my father?”
The man nodded slightly. “Yes… a little.”
The boy’s mind was filled with questions now, and he tried to sort them.
“Were you friends with my mom?”
The man’s eyes looked over his shoulder, faraway. “Yes.” He said softly. “Very good friends.”
“How come I’ve never seen you before then?”
The boy hadn’t meant the question to be accusatory, but it had come out that way seemingly of its own will. He felt a sob rising in his throat and fought it down, along with his other questions: If you were such good friends, where have you been? How come I never saw you before? How come you never helped us?
Why weren’t you here to help her?
The man seemed to hear all these other questions in just his one though, and bowed his head briefly. When he looked up again the boy saw his eyes were filled with a deep sorrow, halfway to the brink of tears… but only halfway, for they knew that there was nothing after the brink but a deep, empty well.
“I was… the two of us parted ways, some years back. You were just a baby, hardly two years old. I had to leave, you see… one day, I suddenly had to leave. To a place I didn’t want to go, a place far away from friends or family, or any semblance of home I might have had. A place far from your mother. I knew I would probably never come back, just as I knew that it was no use to ask her to come with me, so I didn’t… maybe I should have. She had you and your father, and at the time, that seemed answer enough. So I left… I knew then what it would mean not to, have known it since, know it now… but that doesn’t help the guilt, nor the regret. It was my choice, ultimately, and whatever the consequences, I made it.”
The boy listened to all this silently, his eyes looking back at the man’s. His brow furrowed slightly (Like his mother, the man thought, and felt an ache) and he shifted his legs to a less vertical position, so that they were less like a wall.
“Where did you go? Europe?”
The man smiled, a real smile this time, almost a laugh. “A bit farther then that, I’m afraid.”
The boy let it go, since he didn’t geographically know anywhere farther than Europe. “Is that where you’ll take me? If I say yes?”
The man looked surprised, for a moment. “No. Not now, anyway. I never thought I would, but I’ve come back… for a good bit too, and consequences be damned. I have an apartment, and money… we wouldn’t be staying in the same place for too long at a time, but we’ll stay in the U.S. for a few years at least.”
The boy nodded, his mind almost made up. “Why did you come back?”
The man looked away, as if peering into something farther than the room. “I felt it when it happened… and I knew I had to come back. I don’t know whether it will turn out being a mistake or not, but I don’t really care. I had to come back for you.”
The boy felt as if he almost had the answer he needed, but wasn’t quite sure, since he didn’t know what it was exactly. He fought with a few questions before finally just asking it outright.
“Why for me? Why do you want me?”
The man looked back at him, eyes widened slightly. When he spoke, he did so in tones that completely discredited any absurdity the statement might have held in normal circumstances. In a voice that suggested the answer was obvious.
“Because I love you.”
The boy felt the sobs coming again, and this time he couldn’t fight them, didn’t try. “Because I love you” he had said, the first person he could remember other than his mother to ever say that.
The man leaned over and hugged him, and he let himself be hugged, wrapped his arms around his shoulders and cried against his chest, wetting his shirt. The man put his hands on the back of his head and neck, rocking him slightly, eyes closed.
“I miss her.” The boy cried, his voice clogged and muffled by tears and linen. He swallowed and took a deep, shaky breath. “I miss her so much.”
The man continued to hold him, his grip almost hard enough to hurt. “I know.” He whispered, and the boy felt the top of his head dampen. “I know…”
They continued to hold each other, the boy with his face against the man’s chest, the man with his head over the boy’s, staring through the wall behind him, slow, silent tears leaking from his eyes. After a few minutes the boy stilled. He sat back and wiped his hand across his face, sniffing. He looked up with red eyes and met the man’s, so deep and old, whose tear tracks were already fading.
“Can we leave now?”
The man nodded, and stood up. He held out his hand, and the boy took it. The two walked slowly to the glass doors, the light coming through them darker now, the sounds of mothers calling their children in for dinner, the sound of an occasional car passing in the distance. Somewhere, a whistle sounded; somewhere, a baby cried; somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere, a boy that was almost a man slept under a tree, and dreamed.
“What was it you were doing in the far away place?”
“Looking for something. Something very special… very important.”
“Did you find it?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Can I help?”
“One day… when you’re older, we’ll go. Maybe we’ll find it together.”
The two walked out into the last of the day, the boy’s small hands fitting comfortably in the man’s big ones, as if they had always been there.
“What’s your name?” The boy asked.
“___.”
“But that’s my name!”
The man smiled. “I know.”
Together they walked towards their future, hand in hand.
Again, I hate naming my characters. Insert whatever one you want for it.