A Compendium For The Broken Hearted Read online

A compendium for the broken hearted

  Copyright Meredith Miller 2016

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of contents

  Blurb

  Breaks-- --Hearts

  Story 1-- --Story2

  Story 3-- --Story 4

  Story 5-- --Story 6

  Story 7-- --Story 8

  Story 9-- --Story 10

  Story 11-- --Story 12

  Story 13-- --Story 14

  Story 15-- --Story 16

  Story 17-- --Story 18

  Story 19-- --Story 20

  Connect with Meredith Miller

  Blurb

  If you are reading this, it may be that you are broken hearted. If not, then I am very glad, and hope you never will be. I hope this book evokes your interest and serves as a positive experience.

  If you are, then please do not despair. Here is a compilation of short stories created in order to bring peace to shattered remains. In all likelihood, we’ll not meet. If we do in passing, we may not recognize one another.

  For all that these reasons may make it unreasonable, I would like to think that this book is a hug, from me to you.

  I will try two things in order to comfort you. The book is separated into Breaks and Hearts. The Breaks shall show you the horrors and sadness possible in this world, hoping that in their shadow your situation may not seem as bad. The Hearts are meant to give you hope, and present the beauty of the human heart. Perhaps you’ll see how sweet life could be.

  If I fail in this quest, I cannot apologise enough. Please don’t take it as a sign that it will never get better for you, or that the world is a bad place. Just think that an incompetent woman was unable to make your day better. Also, try not to get too mad with me.

  After all, I wrote a book just for you.

  Story 1

  Connor was wrong about being alone.

  Meredith knew her older brother to be a kind and gentle soul. For one, He took her to the park whenever she asked for it, mostly. He also helped babysit when their parents weren’t around. Finally, he’d always been there to comfort whenever she fell whilst playing or got scared at night. Present parents were a rare occurrence for Meredith, because both of hers worked jobs that often took them away from home. Nancy taught older children for a living, while John spent much of his time fixing things in other people’s homes. Connor replaced both brilliantly. Her mother smelt of chalk and dangerous rulers smacking hands, and Connor was a midsummer breeze blowing away any problems with the sweet scent of flowers she could not name. John wore women’s perfumes when he came back from work, and he’d often go away to spend his nights with friends. When that happened it was her brother’s musky fragrance, smelled from a short distance, which comforted her.

  Their little family had few other relatives, yet Meredith remained content. Connor complimented her constantly: On her clothes, her drawings; even how fast she learned to count and read letters. When she was taken to the park to play, she wasn’t scared. Swings didn’t move too fast, because adults made them and they wouldn’t make anything unsafe for children. The little girl especially liked the feeling of holding the rope all by herself, ignoring the fact that her father wasn’t looking at her, instead reading a magazine about playing with bunnies. When Connor took her for the first time, he surprised his little sister immensely, for he stayed behind her and pushed her on the swings. Despite being perfectly capable of swinging by herself, Meredith was very glad for the help. The park’s equipment was rusty and sometimes ocean salt would get into her nose, mixing with the rust and stinging her. Whenever it happened, Meredith was not afraid because she was a big girl, despite being only four or... what was it again? At times, she would think that she wasn’t perhaps as smart as she thought she was, because of course she was young and had a lot to learn. Still, Meredith knew that if she tried hard enough, anything would be possible.

  Connor was a good student as well as a great teacher. One day, when she was still in first grade, Meredith walked into his room to see him working on maths. He had no problem with her looking over his shoulder, and would answer any questions she had. After a while of looking, the little girl noticed something strange. “It’s wrong, Connor.” She said this time, frowning slightly. She could tell he smiled, even without seeing his face.

  “What’s wrong, mermaid?” he inquired of her, still scribbling on his pieces of paper. It looked like he was doing many lines of long questions, but she could tell he was slacking off. After all, all of the questions had similar numbers. Meredith frowned once more despite the use of her favourite nickname, already biting her lips as she often did.

  “You put minuses but there’s nothing in front of them.” He’d made that mistake repeatedly, in fact. Meredith waited for her brother to go back and change his work, and thus became surprised when he gave a minty laugh instead. She was sure he wasn’t laughing at her, and so giggled along. Connor never laughed at her.

  “These are negative numbers, sweetie. They’re what minuses are made of.” He looked at her slightly confused expression then sighed in that smiling way of his. The older sibling then pulled out a fresh sheet and drew a straight line on it, then other lines. Above that, he drew one person, then many. Meredith’s face brightened when she realized that it was a group of people playing tug of war. She loved playing that game at school and home. After all, at home Connor always lost on purpose to make her happy. Right in the middle, her brother wrote 0. “One team is minus,” he started explaining, motioning with his hands, “and the other team is plus. Now, if there are two people in the plus team, and one in the minus team, how much would they win by?”

  She thought for an instant and then announced, “One!” eliciting a short clap from Connor for her mathematical abilities. He then asked a few more times with different numbers, getting correct answers. Finally he asked slyly, “And what if the minus team has two people and the other only one?” Meredith almost said one again before catching herself.

  Using that momentum, Connor explained to his little sister that there were numbers below zero, and they just mean that you have less than nothing. If she promised him three apples and only gave him two, she would need to go get one more for him, leaving her with less than zero apples. “But...” she declared, “You’d forgive me if I’m missing one.”

  They shared a laugh again, and he said, “Yes, yes I would, mermaid.”

  The next day she explained what she’d found out for her teacher and Miss Miller made everybody clap for her then gave her not one, but two star stickers.

  One particular day, a playmate named Peter Jones joined Connor and Meredith to get ice cream together from the small shop near the beach. Peter was as sweet and odd as cinnamon sticks. His mother had called out to Connor to take him, because he was a trustworthy youth and she was busy with something or the other that day. Thus all three made their way to the shop, which smelled oddly of a variety of sweet things mixed with cool air-conditioning and salt. The smiling cashier was coconut and curry and Meredith liked both very much, so decided that he was a friend despite knowing that not all people were good. “What kind are you kids going to get?” called Connor after the two sprinting children.

  “Strawberry!” exclaimed Peter.

  Meredith countered with, “Chocolate.”


  While the two went back and forth, Connor asked them to look for something with pineapple in it for him. Even after looking through the towering ice cream fridge twice, no hint of pineapple was to be found. It was only after the Connor himself looked over that last elusive topmost row that he found one last piece. It was the kind that came in two smaller sticks in order to be shared, but he took it with a smile before going to coconut man. Money exchanged hands, and although Meredith asked to be in charge of that transaction herself, people waiting in line behind them caused her brother to refuse.

  They had only been outside a minute, talking with one another and paying no attention to roads or other such things, when Peter’s foot caught on one particular nasty red brick and he fell right over. Connor caught him just in time, but not before his poor strawberry flavoured ice cream went flying out of his hand. It plopped on the brick pavement with a horrible sound. Almost instantly, Peter’s face contorted like a withered flower. In order to comfort him, Connor patted the boy’s shoulder while checking his foot for injuries. It was like in a doctor’s office, but the good kind, the ones that don’t reek of needle juice. “There, there,” he said, “don’t you worry about the ice cream. The important thing is that you’re alright.”

  Still, Peter’s crying did not stop immediately, as Meredith’s usually did. “Mom can’t always give me money for ice cream.” He mumbled the words, and Connor’s face changed.

  “It’s all right, Peter. You’re a big good boy, and deserve strawberry ice cream, right mermaid? He came second in his class’ quiz yesterday, wasn’t he?” Meredith nodded, because Peter had told them about it earlier, on the yellow seesaw. “How about I get you another one?” he offered, but Peter shook his head vigorously, lips pursed in determined manner despite his wet eyes and flushed cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, Connor, but we don’t take money.”

  In that moment, Meredith remembered the stories Connor sometimes told her about knights in shining armour who slew dragons. She decided that Peter was a knight, all rust and set jaws. She didn’t fully understand the significance of the boy’s words, but Meredith glimpsed pride for the first time. Connor’s expression had less mint in it, and more a mixture of dark chocolate and honey. “Well, why doesn’t our brave boy take a half of my ice cream?” he wondered aloud to no one, before adding “It’s pineapple though.”

  After a second of hesitation Peter took the offered half of Connor’s double stick dessert with a polite, “Thank you.”

  As they went back, the little girl said, “Connor, I think nice knights are good, just like the brave ones,” eliciting a confused laugh from her brother. From that day on, Meredith always bought ice cream in two sticks, just in case.

  Then her brother went away. A university took him, and Meredith learned that there were other things in life beside school and play. To cope, her parents got a babysitter occasionally, generally trusting the eight year old to be good at home. And good she was, for Meredith had learned a lot from Connor. She went to school diligently, played quietly and was nice to everyone in her class. This caused her to become slightly popular, which wasn’t a bad thing. Still, every day when she finished doing her homework and studying, the little girl preferred to get out of their little messy house. In time, that place had started to leave a bad taste in her mouth, like sour candy that was five days too old. Mostly the sourness came from John and Nancy’s constant fights. Luckily, both preferred her out of the way for those, although they sometimes wanted her to sit in the living room and pretend to watch TV. She heard John once tell one of his friends that children were a little stupid; when they watched TV they couldn’t hear anything you did. So Meredith left the two adults to their ways and instead went to the park to meet Peter and his mom. They were nice, and always happy to see her. Meredith began to spend a lot of time building sand castles in the pit, and as time sped along, it became one of her favourite things to do.

  At first her castles were little more than upturned sand buckets with holes poked inside of them. The first time she tried it, half the topmost castle crumbled off before she could do anything. Still, Peter had been fascinated by her creation. “Wow, there’s space for cannons and everything!” he’d exclaimed, hopping about in excitement.

  “It’s not great,” she had retorted. In her mind’s eye the castle should have been completely different.

  “Sure it is,” said peter, marching around the castle like a soldier looking for a breaking, “I can’t get in, can I?” at that Meredith had laughed. There was no way Peter could have fit into such a small castle.

  From then on they had alternated in playing each other’s games: Meredith would go on the monkey bars with him and he would pretend to be a soldier trying to break into her castles, stomping around and pointing out weak points. He had a real knack for it too, because his father used to love books and had left a lot of army stories lying about. As Meredith added moats and bridges and separated burnable building components so they could be easily cut off in emergencies, Peter told her about defence mechanisms and clever contraptions. Each of the two had, inadvertently, found a calling in life.

  Meredith didn’t know what an engineer was, and so had asked her sitter, Chung, about it. The girl was nice enough, although she herself was often preoccupied with talking to her boyfriend on the phone and so sometimes wanted Meredith to be quiet. “Sweetie, I’ll explain everything about building castles in a bit, so can you please go to the side and play with your building kit for now?”

  About an hour later, Chung came over to where Meredith had built a small two story house out of tubes and building blocks acting as joints. She had added simple sheets of paper as red brick wall, completing her project. A couple of seconds later the whole thing fell apart and the baby sitter giggled. Taking the opportunity, she explained to Meredith that people who designed buildings were called architects, and that they need to study things called physics and geometry in school. Meredith was shocked, because nowhere had she ever learned physics. “Don’t worry, kid,” Chung had soothed, all bubblegum and perfume and smiles, “You’re too young. People probably start learning physics when they’re in ninth grade or something. I think I was that old when I did.”

  Meredith felt relieved for an instant, despite having to wait so long. She was still in third grade. But if you needed to be that old... “Is Physics really hard?” asked she, at once hopeful and afraid. What if it was terribly difficult and she couldn’t make castles?

  “Well...” Chung pondered for a second, causing Meredith to grow even more frightened. She almost hunched down before the older girl with her short hair laughed, “I was an arts major, so it sure was difficult to me!” Seeing Meredith’s worry, however, she pressed on. “Everybody has things they are good at and things they’re not, but if you really like it, I’m sure you’ll do just fine, girl. I’m cheering for you.”

  A couple of months after that, Connor came back home for the holidays. It was the first time a fresh breeze had gone through Meredith’s home that entire year, and she welcomed him with a fierce hug. He would go with her to the park and they would talk with Peter, as well as her numerous friends. There was no snow where they lived, but sand worked just as well for clump throwing purposes. Connor read her stories again and she snuggled in close as he did, taking in that musky perfume he’d always had. Things came to a welcome change, and Meredith wished her brother didn’t need to go away and finish learning computer things at all. Still, the girl was empathetic, and understood that just like how she wanted to build castles, Connor wanted to type things into computers. She had the confidence in herself to wait until he finished everything in university and came back home for good. By then she would be able to show him how much she’d grown and what she’d learned. Connor would be surprised once she was allowed in the kitchen. She’ll make him pizzas with pineapples one them.

  It was this same empathy that allowed Meredith to notice the bitterness creeping into her brother’s visit. It only pok
ed its head out at times, and was hidden promptly by a shiny smile, as if pushed back by force. One such time was when she had asked Connor about how his studies were going. After a dark look, her brother had laughed and said, “University is harder than high school, mermaid.”

  “You can do it, Connor,” came her determined reply that time, wishing nothing but the best. They had been sitting in front of the TV, although her brother paid more attention to her trying to build a particularly long bridge out of split drinking straws.

  “I’m sure I can, in time.”

  A week after that came a similar chilly stench, when Connor had complimented Meredith on being able to make so many friends. She had turned around to him and exclaimed, “Of course, bro, I have just as many friends as you!” her observation was, of course, unfounded, because she didn’t know how many friends Connor had outside of town. She’d simply assumed he was popular in university, and wanted to prove herself his equal. Why wouldn’t such a sweet kind brother have many friends? His look, in response, lasted only an instant, but it was one that Meredith had rarely seen in her house, other than when her mother sat alone in the kitchen and cried because John had been out too long and came back so tired he tripped over his own feet.

  In the second Connor contemplated her proclamation, the scent of beach and sunshine and happiness was gone. You could have told Meredith that she was in a dark mouldy cave and she would have believed it. Then Connor smiled and said, “It’s okay, sweetie, I think you win on that one. You’re a special girl.”

  When Connor left, Meredith shed a few tears, but she knew that he would be back sooner or later. John didn’t seem to care, and Nancy was too busy to see him go, although she had scolded him earlier and told him not to forget to bring his test results when he next came. Thus an entire year whizzed by until her brother came back again. This year was spent with school and play. However, she was old enough able to help out at the house a little bit. Cleaning, tidying things up, these were her skills, and she used them as often as she could. After all, people were supposed to be good and help out. She remembered that being something Connor had told her. Chung started to come over less frequently, and was now more trusting of Meredith.

  When he came back next, however, Connor seemed to be caught up in his own issues. He noticed that she had become a bigger more helpful girl, and complimented her extensively on that fact. Still, he seemed preoccupied with his essays, which Meredith didn’t truly understand. Essays weren’t too bad as long as you did them little by little. Why, she had done one just that past week. Of course, she didn’t say that to her brother, because of the lines on his forehead. Connor had lost much of his healthy pudginess, had a ragged look in his eyes, gained about two inches of hair, and worst of all, her brother forgot to shower sometimes because he was too busy with his studies. That holiday, Meredith spent much of the vacation complaining to Peter and Tracey, another friend, about her brother’s disappearance. “He’s just always in his room.” She’d said.

  “Grown ups,” huffed Peter in mock disgust, “Mom’s always too busy too. It’s okay Meredith, he’ll finish up and then come play. Let me show you what I’ve found out.” Peter brought out a book, which he flipped through to show her something called, “Underground rivers”

  “They use them in castles.” explained he. “Maybe you can do something like that with sand.” By now, the kids were allowed to traverse a bit further alone, and so sometimes went to the closest stretch of beach. In a few seconds, Meredith forgot all about Connor being busy, despite deciding to do something nice for her brother. It was hard to remember far away troubles when you’re looking fun in the face, after all.

  That same evening, sleep had just begun to settle into Meredith’s eyes when she was jolted awake by a frightful sound. Below her, voices rose in argument. She was used to John being angry, but something else disturbed Meredith. Connor was yelling back! As quiet as a mouse, the little girl snuck from her bed and went down the stairs one at a time, hugging the wall as she went. The staircase could have been a cave full of bats, so scared was she. Slowly the voices began to become clearer as she descended the stairs, hugging a wall.

  “Dad, I’m telling you, I just ca-“

  “Don’t you dare tell me you can’t pay rent!” John’s voice boomed, and his words weren’t tied right. “While you spend all your time partying out there, I do all the work arrround here. Now lllook here, boy. Either you come back every holiday and work your ass off like the rest of us,” Connor almost began to say something, but their father cut him off brutally, “or you stay where you are and work your ass off there. Support yourself, and send money while you’re at it.”

  Connor gasped. “What about my student loans?!”

  “I gave you two choices. Pick one. No mmiddle ground, ya hear?!”

  A few seconds passed, before Connor mumbled something. That seemed to anger John, and the next thing Meredith heard was a thunderous crash. Frightened, she ran all the way upstairs and cried in her bed, covering her face as she did.

  The next day Connor left the house with a bruise on his face. He embraced Meredith tightly in the driveway before he did, and told her that he needed to stay away in university and work on holidays to help pay for his studies. He had no idea that she had overheard the conversation between him and John, and so mistook her hot tears for those of a child who would miss her big brother. He told her he would miss her too, and the scent of flowers and musk made her sad for the first time. He didn’t come back for three long years.

  People have a remarkable talent for getting used to things. Despite missing Connor and being furious with John, Meredith went on with her life, focusing on the childish aspects of studying and the serious parts of playing. She was determined to become an architect, and spent most of her break times in the school library, looking up books on the matter. Of course, they needed to be simple books, and illustrated, she was still twelve. However, Miss Chase (who was the school librarian) was very impressed with Meredith’s resolve, and so helped her find the right books. When she wasn’t reading or studying, Meredith helped out at home or went with Peter to play their usual game of build and destroy. She would build castles, and Peter would come up with ways to knock them down with the least amount of force.

  So the years passed until one day, the little girl was astonished to find none other than Connor standing in their living room, bags still in his hand. She had her own backpack on, and unslung the pink thing as she ran over to her brother, already crying. It was a tearful reunion, but in a good way, because university had released her brother.

  The first few months were bliss for Meredith. She was back in her old home, with her old brother, and things couldn’t be happier. They went to the park together and he took her and Peter to buy icecream made of two sticks. She cooked simple dishes for him and he loved eating them. She had never cooked anything for John or Nancy. Meredith had only one parent, and he was finally home. She never said this directly, but rather whispered it deep down in her heart, hoping Connor could hear. Lastly, they watched each other work in turn. He would watch her build things out of sticks and glue, and she would sit with him in his room as he applied for jobs from his computer. When he went out for interviews in his suit, however, she wasn’t allowed to come, even if she didn’t have school that day.

  Then, two things started to change. First, Connor began to look sadder and sadder the more he worked on his computer. This was perhaps because his interviews never went well. He would always come back home all shrivelled up and Meredith would try to breathe new life into him. Simultaneously, her brother began to have that same thin dishevelled look to him that he’d had three years ago. He lost weight and gained bags under his eyes. Gradually, he started to stay alone in his room, not allowing Meredith to watch him apply for jobs. He also began to avoid John, who got grouchier as time went. It was good that John spent much of the day asleep or drunk, because it stopped him from yelling. Connor’s changes made Meredith sad, but she r
eally didn’t know how to stop them. Even Peter didn’t have any advice this time.

  One night, it happened again. Shouting, but this time one sided. As had happened the first time, Meredith snuck down the stairs in her pyjamas. She could see them from the foot of the stairs, sure enough. At the table behind the sofa to the side sat Connor, John standing up and facing him. He yelled, and although he had his back to her, Meredith could tell that his face was red and spittle was flying. With Meredith peeking from around the wall, Connor couldn’t see her either.

  “What was the point of studying all this time if you can’t get a job?!” he screamed.

  “It’s not that simple,” Connor argued, his voice quiet and his eyes sad. Suddenly old dust floating in the room made Meredith feel like this room was a castle crashing down, or old musty ruins. She didn’t know which was sadder. “It takes a long time to get credibility. For now I need to freelance and then maybe in a year’s time...”

  “A year?!” John sounded outraged. “What kind of person waits that long? A bum, that’s what!” Connor stayed quiet and the man pushed on. “At least get a tempora-“

  “Dad, freelancing gets some money, and I need time to do it. I can’t get another job or it’d just take me longer to find something proper.” He seemed resigned, although his eyes looked so bitter and ashamed Meredith could almost taste it. Almost like an apple core, it was.

  “That’s an excuse if I ever heard one... Look, if you can’t start contributing around here, then I don’t see the point of having you.” The words fell like a cannon round, and only paralyzing fear kept Meredith from darting out from her hiding spot to protest.

  Quietly, Connor put his head in his hands. “Dad, please don’t do this...” His voice cracked.

  “It’s for your own good, boy.” For what it was worth, John sounded sad too. It almost sounded like he believed what he said. “You aren’t doing what you need to, not carrying your weight. All this talk about needing your precious freelance money to see a shrink, I won’t have it. Soft, that’s what it is. You can pack your things in the morning, and leave next week. This is tough love, boy.” The man turned to go finish watching his show and Meredith quickly scurried up the stairs with barely a squeak.

  She cried for almost an hour, although quietly. Another hour was spent hardening her resolve, and the house kept its peace, as if it was holding its breath in anticipation. The only sound during this time was Connor bumping into his bed in the next room. When it was done, Meredith went and got her backpack, put as much of her things as she could inside, then got a plastic bag for the rest. By now John had gone to sleep, and the house was dark as a tomb. She could only see because she was used to the darkness by now, having closed her eyes for an hour. Meredith got her things packed, tucked her latest architecture book safely in, and zipped the bag. Miss Chase would want an apology, but Meredith wouldn’t go back to school in order to return the book.

  She was going away with Connor, because he needed her and she needed him. He would take care of her, and even if they didn’t have much money, she would be happier with him than she would be with Nancy and John. Those two had never been good parents to either of them. They’d live together and he would be a programmer and she would become an architect. It would be perfect.

  Quietly, on tiptoes, the little girl crept to her brother’s room, making sure not to make a peep as she traversed the dark corridor. She didn’t want John or Nancy to find out what she was planning. Softly she knocked, but was surprised to find out the door wasn’t locked. Happy Connor never locked the door, but sad Connor always did. Meredith knew which one she’d seen a couple of hours ago, and hoped her brother wouldn’t be too startled to see her standing at the head of his bed.

  The door swung inwards with barely a whisper. His room was a mess, with things scattered everywhere across the floor. The air was dank with sweat and tiredness, for he’d apparently kept his window shut all week. His bed was done neatly however, and she could tell that he wasn’t sleeping on it just then. Eyes swept the room from right to left, but Meredith at first didn’t see her brother. Then she thought she did, and wondered why he was standing on his chair on tiptoes.

  Then she realized what she was looking at.

  “No,” she screamed, breaking down and flinging the light switch on, exposing herself completely to the scene. “Why?!” she wailed, sounding like only a hurt little girl could. “Why did you do it?!”

  She knew why he’d done it, even as young as she was. Connor had been in despair, thought that no one cared, that he was alone.

  Connor was wrong about being alone.

  Story 2

  It should have been a beautiful night.

  It had all that was required of a beautiful night. A summer breeze, sweet scents drifting off from beyond the city lights, some cello street performer exhibiting his skills to a crowd of oogly eyed teens. Robert reflected on how perspectives could pervert such a night into being a potential sick joke played by fate’s hands. In conclusion, this night had everything that could make a summer night beautiful, except that Laura was sick. She lay on an operating table not a hundred feet from where he stood. His wife was going through this. Alone. He had never felt his reach could be so short. Just a few hours earlier he had her flushed face cupped in his hands, yet now he wasn’t even allowed to watch. The feeling of helplessness was crippling in its own way and Robert was sure that if he didn’t keep pacing through this very same clean white corridor he would go insane instantly. The thought of something happening was enough to take him right to the edge.

  Hell, he cursed silently, she told me earlier that she wasn’t feeling too well. Why didn’t I listen? Of course, it didn’t matter to the art consultant that his wife hadn’t been feeling well for the better part of the last six months, making that day’s occurrences normal. His breath hissed inwards and he let it do so with reckless abandon. He swore that he’d never forgive himself if anything happened to her. As he looked out a large square window in this sanitary and suffocating white corridor, Robert noticed a reflection behind, making its way to him. He turned about in excitement, only to be met with the lanky figure of his brother Steven. He hugged him anyhow.

  “How is she?” asked Steven breathlessly, sinking into one of those plastic green chairs hospitals had nailed to the walls. Robert had often wondered why chairs needed to be nailed to walls in this manner, but it was all crystal clear now. He could pick one up and hurl it out of the window.

  “No news yet,” he answered curtly, his mind spinning out of control as his brother dabbed at his forehead with the tip of his sleeve. How could the world keep going on? It was supposed to stop and share in Laura’s misfortune; hold its breath. Something, at the very least. “They said they needed to do an emergency C- section and rushed me out. T-there was blood everywhere.” The last words sounded nonsensical as they sputtered out of his mouth.

  “Things are going to be alright,” Steven whispered quietly, his breath regained. His eyes followed Robert’s short frame as he went back and forth, keeping the window to his side, swinging like a pendulum. “Those surgeries are much safer than they used to be. I heard the mortality rate is only fifty out of every hundred thousand now.” Robert stopped in his pacing, swinging about to look his brother in the eyes, his blue eyes flashing like a lightning bolt over an ocean. The taller of the two took a few seconds to understand his blunder before lowering his head in something akin to shame. Robert had never realized before today just how large of a probability fifty out of a hundred thousand was. It was almost unbearable to think of. “Catherine is better than me at this...” His brother half mumbled the words but Robert still caught them and almost felt sorry for the guy. “She’s just tucking in the kids and she’ll be right over. I was at work when I heard...” Steven prattled on as Robert drifted off into his own tortured thoughts.

  Kids. Why on earth did he ever want kids? It wasn’t like they did much good. It was her that he lived for, loved, needed. His life ha
d been nothing before they met, and since that day everything had gotten better. Laura made him want to become better in a religious way. It wasn’t a petty sense of pride that made the blonde haired art consultant want to improve. It was more like someone who looked up at a blue sky and tried to fly. She was simply so bright, so perfect, that he wanted to fly next to her. And now she might be one in two thousand women.

  As the night wore on, more family members and friends came by to wait by Robert’s side. They tried their best to offer him advice. All the while he never stopped his pacing, never took his mind off the operation nor his eyes off the room’s doors. They were almost imprinted into his brain now: double white doors, no window panels to show comfort. They had an iron bar across them, which needed to be pushed to open and allowed doctors in a rush to breeze past with their patients upon wheeled hospital beds. Robert had naturally already tried the door, but of course it wouldn’t budge while someone was being operated on. Plastered upon the door was a sign warning family not to intrude upon the sterile hall within.

  Robert hadn’t really realized it earlier, but hospitals were much like churches. They had their own atmosphere, their own people, their own colours. Churches elected for solemn browns and bright window patterns while hospitals went for a faded green and a white as sharp as a scalpel. He hated those colours with a vengeance.

  A church held your soul in question, but a hospital decided whether you lived or you died. That was the feeling the blonde haired man got from this place. If something went well, then it was a doctor’s hand that brought health in a gift basket. If something went sour then it simply couldn’t be helped.

  Preoccupied by the relatively menial task of making his pilgrimage through this hallway, Robert ignored the now idle chatter of his loved ones. He let his mind wander in melancholy spiced with an unhealthy dose of panic.

  There she lay now, Laura, eyes closed. He imagined her with pale green sheet draped over her torso. In his mind’s eye she was perfect, beautiful as she was earlier that day, her hair unruffled despite that weird hospital hat thing doctors slapped on your head for no real reason. The hospital lights did her good, it seemed. But down by her torso was chaos, Robert noticed. The green faded sheet had a rectangular piece cut out of it to expose her belly. Her belly, in turn, was... No, he couldn’t think about that. He just couldn’t. Instead Robert allowed his mind to go back to her face, ignoring the rushing of doctors and nurses, the yelling, the chaos punctuated by the irregular beeping of that damned heart rate sensor. She had her hair in a ponytail as she liked to when she was working out or cooking. He liked watching her cook. Laura had a habit of turning on music in the background and turning the mundane task of cooking dinner into a show of grace and beauty, bouncing away this way and that as she made dinner. She used to tease him whenever he tried to help her with the cooking as well, nose all scrunched up and lips pursed. “Go away,” she’d shoo her husband away with a towel or something similarly offensive waving in her hands, “You make the music bad and the food bitter!” once she even made a cross with her fingers, laughing while as she pretended to be the Van Helsing to his Dracula. She had always been sunny and he pessimistic by nature.

  In a way, Robert understood what it meant to have children. They had discussed the matter extensively, after all. At home, the baby’s room was already decorated with pink and beige, everything readied so as to welcome this child to a wonderful home. They had even worked together to paint one of the walls into a meadow under a shining sun. Trees and bunnies were littered around the simplistic drawing. Despite his abilities, Robert had decided to go simple, for he had left space for the baby to draw the family into the wall when she was older. However, at the moment he could not help but question all of that. How much could a person love a child? They had no way to know if this baby would grow up to become a judge or a mother or a free loader.

  It was Laura who mattered. It was she who made the world turn. A teacher by profession, she not only captured his heart, but those of her schoolchildren as well. She skipped around the five and six year olds like a floating angel, and that was exactly how he saw her. Robert remembered the first time they had met because the sight of her with the sunlight washing over her from a nearby window had caused him to stop in her tracks. She had tucked her straight wash of golden hair behind an ear as she bent down to take a look at one of the kid’s drawings. Then she had turned over, adjusting her green cardigan, and looked him in the eyes with her big piercing eyes. As he fumbled about his words, trying to explain that he was coming to pick up his friend’s son and that she should have gotten notified already, Laura had smiled at him. In that instant everything became okay.

  It had all went uphill from there. Originally a small time artist working from job to job to pay the bills, he had landed a place in an art gallery and she had come to see his single painting in a lonely corner. If the tall teacher had recognised the angel in that painting, she never said it. However, he still gathered the courage to ask her out that same day, and as they had a humble meal with the money he had gotten from selling that painting.

  A month later the two decided to try a longer term relationship, and were married within a year. Being around Laura brought out the best in Robert and took out the ever present pessimist in him. His worries were nonexistent as long as she was happy. Proposing to her was the most difficult thing that the just then hired consultant had ever done. It was in the same hall where he’d asked her out, and he had sat her down next to him instead of kneeling before her. To him it was going to be a difficult conversation.

  “Look, sweetheart,” he had started, hands clammy and brow beaded with sweat. She had looked at him with worry. Robert was sure she had been afraid he was ill, as she usually was. “It’s been a wonderful year with you. The best I’ve ever had, but...” At that her eyebrows had creased a bit. “I’m... not stable. I’m always worried, scared, afraid of things. I try to stay in control of things all the time, I get depressed and then I need someone to treat me like a child. You’re wonderful, you can turn a weed into a sunflower and night into day. You can make crying children giggle and do a thousand different things at once while laughing at me because I’m too worried about something unimportant. You deserve a carpet of petals wherever you walk and instead you’re on a road of thorns with me.”

  “Baby-“

  “Laura, honey, let me finish...” His voice had caught with fear as she stopped trying to tell him how great he was and waited. “My love... what I’m saying is... I am weighing you down, I know that... You can have any man you want, and you deserve the best, not me.” Robert had taken a deep breath, with her hands in his clammy ones and them sitting next to one another on a white plastic bench. He had become almost lightheaded with nerves as blood pumped about his body so fast his ears throbbed. “So I’m going to be selfish. Would you please walk this prickly road with me? Will you choose me over all these better people? I’d rather be colour-blind than lose you, so please, Laura De Lyde, will you be my wife?”

  Silence had reigned then. As Robert looked up, he’d noticed tears in Laura’s eyes, and had been resigned to a no. Because of that, her leaping from her seat and into his arms, screaming yes at the top of her lungs had taken him (and the rest of the hall) completely by surprise. The wedding preparations hadn’t taken too much time, and her parents had taken things better than expected. It turned out they had just wanted him to have a proper job with a monthly pay. Though Robert would have married her in rags, the wedding dress had been better. Honeymoon and first months had rolled by like a train heading towards a bigger station.

  Things had gone by so fast until they decided to have a child. It was all normal at first, checkups were done, pictures were seen, and preparations were made for the arrival of their newborn. The pregnancy had been slightly stressful as all pregnancies were, but nothing that should have caused any serious problems. Then their life had taken a turn, for although Laura should have had a normal childbirth, something
had happened that he didn’t understand and she had to be rushed to the hospital for an emergency C-section, perspiring and weakened to a degree that caused him physical pain. Then as she was wheeled into the operating table, almost out of his earshot, her parting words had been, “If you have to choose, save the baby.” It was too much for Robert to take. He kept the possibility out of reach in the corner of his dark mind, where it fed on dark crevices and turned into a gnawing.

  So he paced the room as family members talked.

  Less than an hour later, a sound behind him alerted Robert to someone leaving the operating room. It was a nurse in green scrubs, carrying something small in a bundle tenderly in her hands, eyes downcast. Steven and the other gasped as Robert rushed forward, asking “How is she? How is Laura?” He couldn’t stand the wait as the nurse looked at him, slightly alarmed by his tone.

  “She’s tired and weak, but she’ll be fine in a few days.” The nurse smiled as all the breath rushed out of Robert in a rush, causing him to slump a little. His knees rattled. Then she told him he will be allowed to see the mother in a bit. The mother.

  For the first time, Robert noticed the bundle properly. A baby nestled in it. She had baby skin and closed baby eyes and a tiny baby form. Robert brushed his hair from his eyes as the others oohed and aaahed. He looked at the baby, who appeared to be sleeping , in wonder. Then it smiled.

  Who knew you could fall in love this fast, thought the art consultant to himself silently as he reached a hand gingerly, realizing that this little child had Laura’s nose and his lips.

  An hour later, Robert sat next to his sleeping wife, cradling his new daughter in his arms. He hummed to himself peacefully, hoping that they were dreaming happy things and thinking himself quite foolish for worrying so much. Outside, he knew that a clean summer breeze blew and a that while a cello player sat by a road, captivating a crowd of impressionable teens, beyond his city’s lights flowers were blooming quietly.

  It was a beautiful night

  Story 3

  All Michael ever wanted was parents.

  Everyone in the orphanage did. Parents were magical because they made you feel safe and warm and happy. Parents loved you, the kids whispered at night, more than anyone can love anybody else, and for no reason. Michael saw it in movies. There were sad movies and happy movies, funny and scary ones.

  When you were scared, parents would hug you and remind you that you weren’t alone.

  When you laugh, they’d hug you and share the giggles.

  When you were happy, they would hug the happiness so deep into you that it never left.

  When you cried, your tears would be wiped by a parent’s warm shirt.

  Michael came down the stairs thinking that because he’d not had a hug in, well, forever. He felt like he needed it, and clinging to Mrs. Stinson’s grey skirt didn’t really count. Children did it sometimes even if they didn’t want to ask her anything. To her credit, Mrs. Stinson never pushed you away when you did that, and often she would be seen performing her duties around the orphanage with a gaggle of children holding on to her skirt. Clothes got warmer the more love you had in you, Stanley had told him that before. Mrs Stevenson didn’t care about any of them, and so her clothes were cold like ice. Being the head mistress of Mercy Orphanage was just a job for her. Whatever love she’d had before had been wiped off her scowling face long before Michael had been born.

  Then again, maybe she had no love for orphans. Her face changed when her own kids happened to visit. Michael was sure she was warm then, at least.

  Michael knew that he needed to hurry. There was little time to worry about hugs and Mrs. Stinson’s cold skirt, for it was already almost seven in the morning. That was when breakfast was served and although porridge wasn’t Michael’s idea of a perfect breakfast, it was absolutely better than nothing. Barely enough sunlight streamed through tired glass panelled windows to warm up the cafeteria. Mercy orphanage was large, and its cafeteria housed many more rows of benches than other places. When parents came here to look at kids, this place was converted. The benches were pulled away and replaced with neat little tables and chairs while every child who was due for a showing would receive a long painful scrubbing. Parents were asked to go from table to table every few minutes, greeting children and making small talk as they went, but many of them never lingered long before whisking them away or moving on. This made Michael happy because to him it meant parents must love children so much that they can’t help themselves when they see one in such dire circumstance. His day would come too. He knew it.

  From so far away, Michael couldn’t see Rachel wave even though he had his glasses on. Her voice was unmistakable, however, and he made his way surely to where the curly haired girl sat with Stanley. They huddled a little to make room for him, and there hunched a bowl of porridge on the table, waiting just in case he was a few minutes late. Michael waved his thanks to them and noisily took his place on the bench, barely thinking to eat. “I had a dream again,” he remarked almost absentmindedly, trying to catch together his dream’s strands into a thick weave he could remember properly.

  Rachel was obviously excited, and demanded, “What was it? Oh, your dreams are the best!”

  He smiled ruefully. Despite being only nine years old, he sometimes felt much older than he actually was. This felt especially true when he compared himself to Rachel, who was more childish than him yet ten years old. “I was in a really big field and the sun was shining outside. It was warm for a while and I walked around, trying to look for flowers.”

  “Flowers? You can get them outside if you want.” Stanley joked.

  Still, Michael did not understand and so answered innocently, “Not here, in the dream. I was looking for flowers and then things got very very cold. Then the sky became at night, but without stars.” Michael paused in his story, sensing a question coming from Rachel.

  “And then what happened?”

  “And then a big monster came and she started to chase me. The monster was big and scary, made out of ice. I fell down and looked for a rock to throw at her, but when I grabbed it, it was a sword and-“

  “WOW!”

  “Yeah, a really big sword. When I grabbed it, it grabbed me too, almost like it wanted to shake hands. It felt soft. And then we beat the cold monster together and he, uh, she turned into a house and the sun came back and I went inside.” With that, his story was complete and Michael turned around to his clapping peers. Not just Stanley and Rachel, but a few other boys and girls sitting close had listened in and had apparently enjoyed his tale. “Maybe you’re going to be a super hero with a sword!” a boy called Russel had exclaimed. Russel Stern, he was called. Michael knew this not just because the boy was of similar age, but also because he had a last name.

  “No, Russel Stern,” said he wryly, almost savouring the way a true last name name rolled off his tongue. “Dreams don’t come true.”

  Russel Stern didn’t seem happy as that, and murmured, “Miss Mary said that dreams come true...”

  “Silly, it’s not the sleeping dreams. Miss Mary meant the kind of dream that you throw far away in front of you and then walk over to meet”

  “What does that mean?” asked Rachel, interrupting the whole thing, and Michael told her that he didn’t know, he’d seen it in a picture book once. After that all the kids chatted together about picture books until a supervisor came along. She snapped at the kids to finish off their porridge so they could get to classes. “Unless you don’t want to have breakfast?” she hissed, and that got all the kids to wolf down much more efficiently. After finishing, the kids were scolded for dallying one last time before being sent to their classes. Michael sighed in relief. At least Martin was nowhere to be seen today.

  Martin was a Mercy, just like most of the other abandoned kids in the orphanage, only bigger and meaner than most of them. He also had a habit of not getting caught when he did something bad. Luckily, the boy had been ill this week because snow came and he went out without
permission, and so he’d been out of everyone’s way, unable to torment the other kids. This Michael told Stanely as they made their way out of the cafeteria, feeling quite happy with this moment of peace.

  He was surprised when Stanley elbowed him, hard. “Oh Mike,” he lamented sadly when the boy looked at him in surprise. “Look behind you...” Slowly, Michael did and almost came face to face with the toothy crooked grin belonging to one of Martin’s goons

  Michael had never been complimented by any of Mercy’s staff on his looks, but in his opinion this boy was on a whole different level of unpleasant looking. Rover’s face was too big for him. Everything on it was overly large, from his forehead to his ears to that mouth filled with front teeth. There was only one exception to the rule, for he boasted a stubby nose, which looked like it had been stolen from another kid. Maybe it had, thought Michael to himself as Rover sneered at him and pointed upwards, towards where Martin must be sleeping on the second floor. Rover was known to have quick hands, perhaps his only redeeming quality other than a huge amount of loyalty reserved for people who didn’t deserve it.

  “He’ll hear about that.” The boy snorted happily before brushing Michael aside. Stanley was too old for him, though, and almost as tall, so he moved around him.

  That day, classes went almost well, despite fear of future punishment clouding his mind. Michael was a smart boy, especially good at maths and logical things. Still, because he’d been signalled out by Martin for a long time, the slightly scrawny boy with his round glasses barely ever had the chance to concentrate in class. It was a problem that he and his tormenter were the same age and had to live together in the same dorm, he reflected. Real brothers would never do that, so despite what Miss Mary said, Michael was never going to treat Martin like one.

  Magically, Martin always recovered from his cold when it was time for sports class. That day, he sneered at kids as he made his way around to the front of their wedge shaped formation, confidently taking his place at the head of line. Mr Spoker, who almost looked like an older meaner version of the boy, smiled affectionately at him. The man had promised to take in Martin in time, as long as he kept him his excellence in all manner of physical activities. Some of the staff didn’t like the way he favoured his younger version, but none of them said anything.

  The class went on for about an hour. They had to do jumping jacks and other exercises in the cold, and even though Mercy supplied warm sports clothes for the winter Michael felt horrible by the end of it. When sports class was done Martin started to cough again and Mr Spoker took him upstairs, patting him on the back. Micheal dreaded the fact that in three days, Martin would join classes again in earnest.

  When done with dinner, the children were ordered upstairs to brush their teeth and go to sleep. There Martin waited, sitting on his beds with legs crossed. He smiled as Michael came up the stairs slowly. “I heard you said some really mean things about me.”

  “Not true...” the mumble was half-hearted at best. Michael’s eyes were set downwards and away in the darkness, but he could tell Martin saw the lie in his face.

  The golden haired kid’s face contorted and twisted with rage, his face flushed and his voice went just a little bit louder. Children from their ward, all between nine and ten, shuffled into the long room lined with small beds silently. In Mercy Orphanage, the kids never talked to the staff. It wasn’t something that you did unless you wanted everyone to hate. However, they talked amongst themselves freely, and by now all knew what was going on. “Don’t LIE to me!” Martin hissed, “Rover’s stupid but at least he knows how to tell the truth. Come here, Rover!”

  At his command, the stubby nosed boy shuffled over obediently like a troll. At Martin’s bidding Rover told repeated everything that had been said within earshot that morning. The dream part made the golden haired boy scoff whilst reddening Michael’s ears, but the bully brightened at hearing the rest of it.

  In order to save up on electricity, sleeping wards used candles hung up from the ceiling instead. Tonight that orange glow illuminated half of Martin’s face, making his skin look like it was stretched taut across his face. Most of the room drooped in shadows and the walls loomed horribly closer, as did the ceiling. Everything looked like it was closing in on Michael. No other child moved. Even Rachel stood back, as if hiding, but the darker haired boy didn’t blame her. She couldn’t help, so it was better for just him to take it rather than place herself in trouble.

  They held him down, made him cry, took his glasses and slapped him lightly across the face. All the while Martin told him how he was a weak ugly liar and that he hated him. “At least you’re smart, so you’re gonna learn not to be rude again!” he exclaimed in glee while Rover and Sam pinned Michael down. Not that he could have done anything.

  None of the children tried to help, and Michael was too scared to try and fight back beyond a feeble struggle. In a way he felt alone, as if the other kids were watching him struggle in a circle of fire. He felt like Martin was larger than life, like that fire demon from the movie with the ring. And he was just one of those short curly haired people.

  What good did being smart do when you felt like that?

  They stuffed him in his mostly empty wardrobe to sleep, and Michael didn’t try to push his way out. Sure, the wardrobe’s walls closed in on him in a way that made the young child’s breath catch, but at least here he could cry in peace. Through the crack in his prison, he saw children talk to one another nervously.

  That night Michael dreamt that he walked a windy desert at night. The sky was made of walls in every direction. His feet sank deep into the sand with every step and he could smell salt with every breath. When it was all too much and the loneliness had him almost frozen solid, the small boy with face caked by sand and tears reached an oasis where the sun shone bright. There, he found fresh water to drink and a tree to clamber up for fruit. The tree looked down and it spoke to him to go into a tent and sleep with the others. With that, he woke.

  The next three days were alright, as long as he stayed away from Martin when it came time for bed. Other than Stanley being furious to hear of the matter and wanting to fight the boy, there had been no danger. “You’ll win, but he’ll just come back hurt me more when you’re not around.” Michael had reasoned calmly despite fear pumping in his veins like liquid ice. Those words had the desired effect and the eleven year old’s wind went right out his sails that day. After that it was just a matter of waiting, going to classes, keeping his head down like he was supposed to.

  On the same day the Martin was finally told to leave his bed and join classes, parents were scheduled to arrive at Mercy orphanage. The night before, even the grounds outside were made pretty with vibrant coloured decorations and artwork made by the residents of Mercy. Even the big brass worked sign out by the gates was spray painted. The cafeteria looked almost ten years old again, with only small clouds of dust floating about. Of course, small chairs and tables lined every wall, each facing towards the centre with two more chairs in front for the parents. Sunlight streamed through the two completely open windows high up by the ceiling.

  Parents! What a wonderful magical thing they were! They could scoop you out from a horrible life and flood you with love and happiness in a way that nothing else can. They were like the sun or the wind or a furry blanket when you weathered winter’s bite: Just good solid happiness.

  That morning Michael was absolutely sure that his day had come. Today parents would visit the orphanage, and although most couples wanted a child who was cute or athletic, Mrs Stinson had told him that being smart mattered almost as much as those things, and that there were couples who always wanted to see a child’s academic record before they took him away. Baseless optimism took over the young boy that morning. Even the gloom in their ward, caused by there being one solitary window in the area, could not detract from this powerful feeling. Without even realizing, Michael took his glasses off and stretched his arms to both sides, smiling paying attention to nothing.r />
  “Are you ignoring me?”

  Michael spun instantly to where an indignant Martin stood, face already red with rage. Apparently he’d said something to Michael, perhaps a taunt about how he’d slept in the wardrobe a few days ago. The boy hated being ignored more than anything else and Michael knew instantly that he had committed a grave error, but before he could even stammer a hasty apology something smacked his face, hard. Pain blossomed from his nose and everything went white for a second. He fell and Martin fell upon him. He’s going to kill me thought the dark haired orphan to himself as Martin Mercy pummelled him until an adult was called to separate the two.

  Obviously, Michael had played no hand in the fight. Because of this he was taken to the infirmary, where Miss Mary applied bandages to his face whilst making soothing noises. He didn’t cry, and when she asked him about it he explained everything: The dream, how he was sure that his parents were coming for him that day. Of course he said nothing about the night he slept in the wardrobe: Snitching wasn’t allowed at Mercy. “I don’t believe in dreams because they just come while you sleep, but this one felt real. I’ll finally have my turn at a home,” he shot hopefully.

  “Oh my...” said Miss Mary. Her kind face usually bore a smile, but now she covered her mouth with one hand.

  Michael waited for her to keep working on his face, but when the lady did nothing he started to get worried. “What is it, Miss Mary?” he wondered aloud. When she whispered, her eyes were full of pity.

  “Sweetie, we can’t have you go to the meet and greet with these wounds. It wouldn’t be right. You’ll...You’ll need another month.” That was when he started to cry and plead. He tried to explain to her that today was his day to find happiness, that if they didn’t let him out he was going to miss his parents. They were going to go away and he was never going to find them again. Miss Mary said there would be other chances. “It wouldn’t be them!” he protested, hot tears streaming. For what it was worth, she cried along with him.

  Shortly after the incident, Martin was banned from going to meet and greets for three months (although he probably didn’t care). More importantly, the golden haired boy was moved out of their ward and into the ward for eleven and twelve year olds. There, Stanley made sure that the boy was kept nice and in line. None of it mattered to Michael anymore.

  By the next month he looked almost normal again, if not for the new jaded look in his eyes whenever he prowled the hallways. It all looked so predetermined to him. He was going to live in misery from now on, so everything looked drab. He stopped telling his friends about dreams. His parents were gone. Maybe they found someone else. Maybe they left without taking anyone.

  The night before their next parent meet and greet, Michael had a dream again. In this dream there were many small people walking towards a great mountain. Each figure tried its hardest to see where it went, but they moved as if blinded. As they went some stumbled into thorny bushes and brambles, fell into shallow rivers that they could not get out of, or simply lost their way before being leapt upon by drooling wolves. As the multitude of figures went Michael realized that he was one of them. One by one his peers fell until he was the last, walking that bare landscape.

  Finally, he reached the base of the mountain... and found that there was a house, warm and happy, just out of reach. Between him and that house stretched a chasm as deep as an ocean after midnight. He reasoned that if he fell inside, its walls would close in, trapping him forever. Furthermore, this wide deep hole stretched forever, both to his left and to his right. He didn’t know how he could ever get across, and he had no wings to fly.

  Beyond him, in the house, happy children sat with their perfect parents, the magical ones meant for them after their real ones ran away. For every special little boy, there were special parents just waiting to be found.

  Michael awoke in a daze, unprepared for what was going to happen today. When Rachel asked him about why he wasn’t excited, he said, “Nobody ever wanted me before. Why should today be any different? Besides, the special ones are gone.” She looked upset with his answer, but didn’t say anything.

  The meet and greet was mostly spent with Michael looking at his toes, waiting for a couple to stop by his table in the cafeteria. Occasionally one would and would chat with him politely for a few minutes before excusing themselves and moving on to another table. Maybe they could tell that he didn’t care anymore. Maybe it was the one remaining bruise on his face. Finally, Michael’s attention was captured by a man and woman talking just in front of his table. “But look at the poor thing, Stevie!” exclaimed she finally, and the man relented.

  “Alright, Alright. Aah, women...” he mumbled, moving over to Michael and pulling himself a seat. “Hey kid. What’s your name?” he asked. Everything about the man was average, even his name. The redhead behind him looked as if she was about to cry, and Michael realized she was looking at his bruise.

  “Michael, sir,” answered the boy in a hollow voice.

  “Now, me and the missus were looking for a kid maybe a little older, but you know how soft women are. She says she wants you home, and I’m here to please her anyways so what do I care?” The man paused as if waiting for a reaction from Michael, but the boy kept his peace. “How’re you doing at school?”

  “I’m doing fine, sir. Top of the class in maths.”

  “And your teachers, you polite to them?”

  So the interrogation went. Michael told the man everything he knew about himself, except for the dreams and Martin. Those were private. He told them about his friends and Miss Mary and Mrs Stinson and how practical she was. He told them how kids in Mercy were taught to be polite to their elders, and all he knew how to do around the house.

  Michael did this in simple answer format until the woman told her husband to be nicer and stop asking so many questions. “What if you scare him?” she demanded, her voice soft and quiet.

  “Ah, he’ll be alright. I like how quiet he is. Seems like a sensible enough kid to replace...” his voice trailed off for a second before he caught himself. “Well anyways, he’ll study and help out and stay out the way when I wanna be alone with you, sugar. That’s all we need. We’ll take him!”

  That same day, the paperwork was signed and Michael said his goodbyes to the people that mattered. He promised Rachel and Stanley that he’d be back to visit, and he promised Miss Mary that he’ll come back to work in Mercy when he was older. All three hugged him fiercely. Then Michael went back with Steven and Flannery Cole to their small home. The name tasted strange on his tongue. Michael Cole. There, he learned of a new life.

  Steven was usually busy at the factory, and when he came back he was usually tired and out of sorts. He would relax and expect his house in order and dinner served. Michael was expected to go to school, come back and study, then help out with the chores until Steven came by to have dinner. After dinner the boy would be allowed his time, as long as he didn’t disturb Steven.

  Michael learned quickly to give his father a wide berth. The man had only gotten him to appease his wife, and had little time or patience for children. When he made mistakes, such as being late to class or being in Steven’s hair, the man would be quick to stand tall and yell at Michael. He was great at yelling at people and did it often.

  Flannery was a sweetheart in every sense of the word. Despite being tired after cleaning the house, cooking three meals, taking care of most of the chores, she would often urge Michael not to help her out and to focus on his enjoyment. When Steven came back from the factory, she’d listen to all his loud mouthed complaints whilst giving him an affectionate shoulder rub with a smile on her face. Beyond that, Flannery Cole also soothed Steven when Michael got on his nerves, reminding him that the child had never lived with parents and needed to get used to them. “Maybe we do some things at home that they never did in the Orphanage, Stevie, please calm down and give him time,” She’d told him once after Michael forgot to do the dishes. Then she would take the brunt of his tongue si
lently for a while.

  Steven would always apologize to his wife later, after he calmed down. He never apologized to Michael though. Things in this house were shaping up to be quite different to what Michael had seen in movies.

  Almost six months later, Michael’s birthday came. In Mercy, each evening names would be called out at dinner and those children with birthdays would get an extra bit of dessert whilst everybody else clapped. However, Flannery had hugged Michael when he told her that and said that she’d do things right for him.

  On Michael’s birthday his new mother looked pale, had huge bags under her eyes and sweated profusely. Even her voice sounded wane as she told Michael not to come back immediately after school. “I want time to make things special!” exclaimed the redhead in as much fuzzy warmth as a person with a cold could muster. After school, Michael spent a number of hours trying to play basketball with boys in the neighbourhood. He wasn’t particularly good at it but the kids didn’t penalize him too much for inexperience. All in all, the dark haired boy returned home with a generally good feeling. Maybe things here could be good, if he learned how to make Steven happy.

  Upon reaching home, however, Michael heard Steven talking in a loud voice. Apparently he’d had a horrible day at work and was about a hair’s breadth away from exploding. Michael noticed how tired Flannery looked and suggested that she go take a rest, but Steven dismissed his remark with a wave. The man wiped his face off on his wife beater, which already had a couple of stains on it. “Dinner first,” he’d said gruffly.

  They went to the table, where roast beef was readied with three plates and something hidden under a large upside down mixing bowl. Michael, sure that he was about to have his first birthday cake, felt his heart clench but kept quiet. He was determined to feign surprise for his new parent’s sake.

  Poor Flannery had tried her best, but it was difficult to make a perfectly tender roast beef when you’re as ill as she was. As he bit into dry meat, however, Michael couldn’t care less because she’d done all this while feeling so terribly ill, just for him. It was almost too much for him to understand, and he was truly glad to be living in her home.

  Steven, however, didn’t feel the same way. After a couple of bites he threw his fork down onto the table, clearly upset. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed, a vein appearing on his forehead. “You cooked the taste right out of it!” He looked furious, and Michael couldn’t believe his words. Couldn’t he see the state his poor wife was in? As usual when Steven got like that, the boy stayed still and quiet.

  Flannery cast her gaze downwards, obviously hurt. “I tried my best, Stevie...”

  “Well, trying isn’t good enough. I didn’t marry you to laze around, lady.”

  This seemed to bring his wife even further down. Usually this was the point where Steven would calm down, and then he’d apologize a day later for his words. Still Steven grumbled for a bit, not taking his seat. Flannery, wanting to appease him, said in a weak voice “I’ll make you something else later, Stevie.” Her eyes were glued on the thing under that upside down bowl. “Later, but for now I have a little surprise for our little-“

  “Don’t you dare ignore me!”

  Almost without warning, Steven’s rage blazed like a great forest fire. He pulled his hand back and mercilessly struck his wife across the face, bringing her right down to the ground. Everything seemed to stop, and for the first time in his life Michael yelled, “Mommy!”

  Another crack resounded and the boy went flying a couple of feet, his broken glasses going off his face. As soon as he got his breath back from his thud against the floor, Michael scrambled to his feet and ran to his room. He could barely see without his glasses, but the young boy managed to lock the door behind him and then hide under his covers, enclosing himself within a doubled prison.

  As time went, Steven’s shouting quieted down, and then he started to soothe his wife, telling her that he was sorry, that he didn’t mean it. He would make it up to her. She needed him. It was only the second time after all, she had to forgive him. Michael tried to wish himself to sleep, but he knew deep in his heart that he would never dream again.

  Why would anyone in their right mind ever want parents?

  Story 4

  There had always been something different about Warren Schmidt.

  As far as he knew, it had nothing to do with his looks. He was neither tall nor short, a bit on the scrawny side of things perhaps but nothing too drastically different from everybody else his age. He had slightly curly black hair that ruled over its kingdom and defended it furiously from the onslaught of the comb aunt Milly had in her room, yet that was no reason for it to be pulled constantly. Warren also had large black eyes, if boasting perhaps more alarming bags under them than was usual. Still, his eyes did not excuse the looks that the young man was now almost used to. Warren’s skin was pale like milk, yet of an unhealthier sheen, and perhaps that type of skin was more tempting than others and had thus caused him to be treated a little like a whiteboard or fresh canvas whenever he fell asleep (which happened more often than he himself would have liked). All in all, the fourteen year old thought to himself as he left home and made his way to the bus stop miserably, he shouldn’t be able to stand out in the way that he apparently did.

  An October chill hit suddenly and Warren shivered involuntarily. It was stupid that people had to start school at eight in the morning, he thought to himself. Why not let kids have a bit more time to sleep in and stretch out the end of school an hour or so? It just didn’t make any sense to him. Especially not in this weather and without a jacket. Aunt Milly had bought him a sweater a couple of months back on his birthday but it wasn’t quite enough this particular year. Warren shivered again at the school bus stop, trying to shield himself from the biting wind by leaning behind a large tree. At least it wasn’t sunny, thought the teen to himself as he peered miserably at the hastily darkening sky above him. He didn’t like sunny weather, it struck him very much as a lie.

  The bus arrived slightly later than usual, and for once Warren didn’t mind the smell as he climbed up and into it. It always smelled here, but he usually had other things to worry about. As soon as Warren came into view all other students in the bus suddenly became careful about where they put their bags. One by one the teenager saw free seats disappearing as people refused him place beside them, and he moved towards the back of the bus to stand as he usually did. He only received a few kicks as he went, and didn’t trip up even once. Miserable yet defiant, Warren smirked as if he enjoyed the silence and allowed himself to be shut out. Yes, he was different from others. People didn’t like him in general, and Warren Schmidt disliked them in turn. Sometimes he thought that people could see through him. Maybe they saw a seed of darkness in his soul. Maybe that was why people automatically knew to be careful of him. Or maybe he just rubbed people the wrong way.

  It didn’t matter either way.

  Since childhood, aunts and uncles were always careful around him, quick to point out his mistakes and checking to see if he was taking other children’s treats. Strangers smiled at him less than they did at other children. Adults and children alike had presented masks when he was present and feigned kindness for the sake of his parents, back when they were still among the living. Then again, such kindness always was feigned, was it not? People just did what they had to do to get what they wanted anyway. If the world was Hogwarts, he thought as he stepped off the bus to jeers, then everybody would be split into people who pretended not to be in Slytherin and people who accepted it. Warren accepted it. He liked to think of it as his own brand of honesty, and embraced the melancholy inside him instead of running away from it.

  Crows cawed in the distance as he made his way across the playground, avoiding kids as well as one could when surrounded by them. Laughter followed him as he went through the wide playground but Warren placed a mental barrier between himself and other, existing in his own little space. He wondered if he would ever meet people that he genuinely like
d, then decided that it would be nice to have a friend with a similar outlook on life. Warren had no idea what activities the two would participate in together, but he guessed shared world views did not reflect shared interests anyway. He personally liked drawing, although he wasn’t as accomplished an artist as he wished he were. As he reflected on things, a bright orange ball rolled a few feet from Warren as a voice called out from the distance. The teenager ignored both, pulled his backpack a little higher and walked on. A few seconds later he quickened his pace as a rock flew dangerously close by, heading for the school’s safe hallways. A few minutes later, he entered a mangy, familiar doorway.

  The classroom was a mess. Chairs and tables lined the room in what was, presumably, the ghost of a long lost order. Now it hardly had the semblance of it anymore. Available floor space was taken up by either people or bags supposed to be packed full of books but looking emptier than an average student’s notebook. Children (although Warren himself was of similar age) pranced about here and there, exchanged laughs and looks, and a group of four were gathered around a fifth boy, watching something or the other on his phone. Warren could not help but allow a small hint of envy to creep into his disgust. Aunt Milly couldn’t afford to buy a phone for children, he recited half religiously in her voice, although the poor lady had never said so directly to him. The mantra kept him from asking for a phone, she had more important things to spend her money on.

  Bustle was what classrooms were usually made of and this one was certainly no exception, yet it quieted down when Warren walked into the room. Despite being classmates for a long time, he still had that ability to make people feel uncomfortable with his presence.

  Warren saw Malcolm Thatcher pocket his phone carefully before shooing off his friends and sneering at Warren. His pudgy face, contorted in a way that had to be uncomfortable. Warren smiled back, cool and confidant as usual. He had dealt with worse than schoolchildren. Malcolm’s mouth missed a tooth, and Warren’s smile intensified as he wished that this boy never grow a replacement. After a second of staring at each other, Malcolm’s smile erased itself from existence and he started name calling, which was usually the signal to others that he wanted support.

  Other boys joined in happily and Warren sighed, knowing how it always turned out. The young man walked over to his desk, and though nobody dared do anything over the top (due to an ancient rumour concerning him, a knife, and another boy’s face) they still managed to be a nuisance. Paper balls smacked his head every so often and he made a show of gathering them in his arms and putting them in the bin. Things quieted down a tad more when Mr Herps walked into the room, a usual handful of papers in his arms.

  Mr Herps’ face always teetered on the edge of a sob. He had large wet eyes, a whiny voice with an attitude to boot, and a knack of making things difficult for others without apparently meaning to. Warren doubted his intentions very much, naturally. Warren knew that Mr Herps’ stack of papers was usually mostly empty and for show, but he doubted if anybody else in the class had paid enough attention to notice that particular fact.

  Warren doubted that anybody in the entire school had noticed, but Mr Herps used his stack of papers to add purpose to his weak looking shuffle. Besides, he always used the same stack. Warren had made sure by making minute marks with his pencil on one side of the stack a long time ego, and he could see the irregular dots even now. If anybody bothered to arrange the papers just right, they would spell “Lazy” along one side.

  “Children, quiet down please,” wailed Mr Herps, his sad attempts to pat down his comb over proving fruitless as always. Glasses were folded and put upon the desk next to him as children decided that they did not want to quiet down just then. Mr Herps pouted for a few seconds, exclaiming that “I will not start until you are quiet, children!” In fact, this threat was routine and it usually took a few minutes of begging and bargaining to get a desirable outcome.

  When all was done and only a few of class C chatted with each other in hushed tones, the short potbellied man tried to stand straight. “Good morning, children,” he said, grinding his hands together. Warren could barely hear him from where he was sitting, in the leftmost seat smack in the middle of the room. He sighed inwardly as some of the students told Mr Herps to repeat himself. “Good morning, children,” he tried again in a most nasal manner. Warren wondered if this is what flies would sound like if they could talk. As he looked on, Warren noticed two figures moving behind the classroom door through its shaded glass section. One was extremely round, and Warren placed his school principal immediately, conjuring forth his permanent scowl in his mind then dismissing it promptly.

  There was another figure there, standing before the principal and gesturing. That second person’s identity escaped the fourteen year old, but something else just then blew even that mystery out of Warren’s mind. A loud, booming laugh. Rolling in waves, it was harsh, earnest, and unmistakably belonging to the principal. Warren’s hair stood on edge. That man never laughed. “I have an announcement to make today before I hand you your maths quiz marks. Tut tut, Anthony,” continued Mr Herps. Anthony parker was one of Thatcher’s goons, one of the more stocky and empty headed of the bunch. He blushed a little but managed a smirk at the hint that he had failed his quiz as always. Warren wondered what it would take for the kid to shape up. “So,” continued the teacher, “I received some... surprising news this morning.” He shifted from place to place.

  “We are going to be having a new transfer student starting today.” At once, children’s voices clamoured and fought to create a crescendo. Warren kept his peace although his curiosity peaked just like the others’. A new student, this late in the year? He hadn’t heard of such a thing before. “He moved here a few days ago due to some family circumstance, so I hope all of you will treat him in a respectful and friendly manner. Luckily, his old school had the same curriculum so he’ll be able to write his end of year exams with all of you.” He raised his voice. “Child, come here please.”

  A sandy haired boy walked into the room. He was tall but still within reasonable boundaries, and he smiled immediately at everyone in the room. Within an instant, Warren felt every ounce of tension in the room escape like air out a balloon, leaving his peers deflated. Then they smiled back. Warren checked out the corner of his black eyes and sure enough, even Malcolm had a stupid grin on his face, looking almost agreeable. Suddenly it was as if summer had come early. Confidently, the newcomer walked right in front of the class, exchanged a few polite words with Mr Herps, and when prompted he looked over to the class and smiled again. He had the gall to look shy for an instant.

  “Hi,” he said. He locked eyes with everyone in class at once. “My name is Alex Luis. I moved in a few days ago and I don’t know anything about the town. You’re all already so close together so this might be selfish, but I’ll be staying a while so I hope that we can all be good friends and have fun together.” He paused for a second, which was a second too many. The class had already started to applaud in open admiration of this new addition to their society. Then Alex turned to Mr Herps again. “Should I talk about my hobbies and stuff, sir?” he asked, and was told it wasn’t necessary. Mr Herps instructed Alex to go over and sit next to “That black haired one with the squinty eyes.”

  Warren moved his table closer to the window as multiple kids groaned at the teacher’s decision. There was a shuffle of chairs to his side, but he paid it no attention, choosing to stare out the window at trees almost ready for winter. Then he noticed something tall next to him, and looked around. Alex was still standing, his hand held out and his face belching sunshine. Warren had to fight the urge to grimace or squint, careful that all eyes in the room were recording his every move for future reference. He smiled weakly in return but pretended not to see the hand, looking to his left again as those around booed him loudly.

  Another paper ball smacked Warren and his new neighbour took it and put it in the bin.