Smile (Complete)

The walking disaster

For as long as he can remember, Tharn has always been a loner. He looked at this life from childhood, often saying to himself: this is not the world I would like to exist in. And it's not the place, but the fact that Tharn has never felt firmly on the ground. He was never at peace with his needs. He never understood what to expect from others, and more and more shut himself in. Emotions became superfluous. Over the time, Tharn stopped paying attention to people's attempts to pull him out. Most of them retreated with nothing.

"Give it back!"

Today Tharn decides to take a walk after school. Even from afar, he notices the meager company of Sun, who throw a box of pastels to each other. And between these cackling bastards, Type barely holding back tears is running.

"Give the guy his stuff back."

Sun turns around at the voice, raising the box of pastels even higher.

"And what if I don't?"

Tharn frowns, but then his face returns to a neutral expression. He calmly repeats:

"Just give it back and that's all. Didn't they teach you as a child that you can't take someone else's things?"

Through an impudent grin, Sun winks at Type desperately trying to get his treasure:

"Catch it, baby, I'm kind today," he throws the box on the asphalt with all his stupidity, "don't forget to say "thank you" to your defender, well, you know how I taught you."

It seems that Type is no longer listening to him. Kneeling down, he begins to sob inconsolably: from the impact, the contents scattered on the ground, where all the colors of the rainbow are now smeared.

"Don't thank me," Sun openly laughs in the face of Tharn, and then nods to his company, so that the whole pack soon disappears from sight.

Tharn shakes his head: well, if I hadn't popped in, would it have been better? And what about this wet case now?

Type is crying over and over, he begins to disassemble this rainbow mess with his hands, obviously in the hope of saving the surviving good. Tharn decides to speak:

"Well, there's no point be so upset. It's just paint."

"Uh-uh..." this unfortunate child sobs louder, "mom gave me a piece of her salary, told me to spend it reasonably... until the next salary. And that's another whole month!.. How... how will I paint?.. They were brand new… J-just bought them today!..

And Tharn understands: this is some kind of pastel for him - a trifle, not worth attention, a trinket, but on the scale of this guy's universe, the opportunity to draw and paint is perhaps the only joy in life. And this brute took it and smashed it to pieces, along with a small, and so completely sealed, heart.

"Okay, Type, there's nothing to save here, only you'll be all messed up; let's throw the box out of the way, and I'll take you home. Do you live far away?"

Type does not hear him: he is grieving and grieving over his loss.

"Type, I'm a very crappy comforter," he bends down and takes the box by the edges, "that's it. I'm putting this case in the trash, and we're going to see you home."

Without waiting for this now quiet hysteria to end, Tharn does everything as he said, and then gives his hand to Type:

"Well?"

The boy looks apprehensively at the palm outstretched to him and rises on his own.

"That's better."

Type is shifting from one foot to the other. Tharn interprets it in his own way:

"Do you want to go to the toilet?"