the boy with the white eyes [muke af]

le garçon aux yeux blancs

le garçon aux yeux blancs

Michael begged and pleaded the screaming five-year-old to quiet down.

"Clémence, baby," he cooed, shutting his tired eyes.

He was on the verge of tears for two reasons; one, his princess was giving him a headache at two in the morning, and two, this was the fifth night this week.

"At least tell me what's wrong."

His pale arms held the toddler closer to his chest, bouncing on the pads of his feet. The small, blonde girl gripped onto the collar of his over-stretched sweater. Her entire body was shaking and Michael didn't know what to do, she refused to stop.

The twenty-six-year-old continued to rock his daughter back and forth, turning on lights in their two-bedroom apartment as he made his way to the dark kitchen. "Are you hungry?" He asked, hoping she'd stop crying for at least three seconds.

Clémence shook her head, still wailing and taking deep, shaky breaths.

"Thirsty?" Mike tried again, placing her on the ambiguous counters. He cleared bills and documents out of the way, making sure she wasn't going to fall off the counter.

She shook her head once more, still not saying a word.

"C, you've gotta tell me what's wrong."

She sniffled, looking up at her father with glassy green eyes. "I miss Mommy," Clémence said between shaking breaths. Her light skin was blotchy red and irritated.

Michael sighed, taking his thumb and wiping it under her eyes. "You'll see her next weekend. I'm here for you now, though, what do you need?" He asked, his fingers running through her matted curls.

"I want her now!" She yelled, breaking into tears again.

Mike furrowed his eyebrows, not understanding how a forty-pound child could scream so loud.

His arms grabbed her again, placing his hands under her arms as picked her up high and rested her on his hip.

Michael headed out the front door figuring yet another silent walk around their complex would do his daughter some good. Michael locked their front door behind the two, the hard carpet of their hallway creaking underneath his feet.

Clémence continued to whine and cry as he walked the fifty feet to the elevator. It didn't drown out the door behind him slam, followed by heavy footsteps and two voices.

Michael continued bouncing his daughter slowly as the elevator made its way up to the eighth floor.

He looked at the cheap paintings on the wall, most of them had holes and stains that he couldn't figure out—maybe they were supposed to be like that, Michael was never good at judging art.

"Is your daughter okay?" A voice asked from behind him.

Mike turned around, looking at two boys a few years younger than him. The one speaking has glowing brown skin, a few tattoos up his defined arms. He had black hair dark as the night outside with bleached blonde highlights on the top of his fringe. He had a face that made Michael think of a puppy dog. A light blue tee shirt with holes around the collarbones (revealing more tattoos) adorned his upper body. Loose athletic shorts were hanging low on his waist, black Vans on his feet.

The silent one next to him was tall and lanky, his blonde hair falling flat under his snapback. Black sunglasses were covering his eyes, Michael couldn't tell if he was a prima-donna or high, possibly both. Mike never knows with these college kids on his floor. He was covered in black from head to toe. A black ring was pierced around his lip, his tongue nervously sliding over the painted sterling silver.

They were both carrying heavy backpacks, uncomfortably shifting the weight from one shoulder to the next.

"She does this a lot, I'm sorry," he apologized to the two boys, giving them a small smile. "I'm trying."

"No, no, it's fine. Luke and I didn't want to study anyways, we're always up for some commotion," the one boy spoke again.

Clémence was still gripping onto her father's shirt tightly, sobs quieting down yet still falling from her mouth with every breath. Her eyes were fixated on the blonde boy. "I want down!" She suddenly spoke, her petite hands hitting onto Michael's collarbones.

"You're gonna run again," Michael said calmly, "then you'll get Daddy in trouble."

Baby Clifford started wiggling in her father's arms, he was worried she'd fall out any moment now. He prayed that the elevator would open soon, getting them out of the awkward silence.

Calum, the college student who continued to start up a conversation with his neighbor, felt bad for the young father. Purple bags under his eyes matched the color of his hair. He looked at Michael, wishing someone would help him out.

The elevator lights were stopped on floor seven. Michael knew this meant that the drunken students were just getting home, having trouble getting their group out of the elevator.

Michael ran a hand through his hair before placing Clémence on the ground, her small feet went running to the silent neighbor, gripping onto his legs. "You'd be a pretty princess," she informed him.

"The neighbor's kid is attached to your leg," Calum told Luke.

Michael tilted his head to the right, not understanding this entire situation. "It's too early for this shit," he swore. "Clémence, let's go. Let go of the boy."

"A princess, huh?" Luke asked, reaching down until he felt the softness of the toddler's curly hair.

"You should come over for a tea party, Daddy wears a tiara." The child hugged onto the lanky boys legs tighter, her suddenly happy face looking up at him.

Calum started laughing, making eye contact with Michael before glancing back down at Clémence. Any sign of the small girl crying was washed away as she was back to her normal self.

"What does your Dad look like?" Luke asked, his voice soft. He bent down so that his knees were on either side of the small girl.

"He's right there!" She giggled, wrapping her hands on either side of the boys' face.

Clémence liked the texture of Luke's skin, small bumps were around the cheekbones of his face, the skin around his eyes dry. She ran her fingers over the pale skin, her thumbs unable to let go.

"I can't see too well," he spoke in a slightly higher voice than usual. Luke wasn't used to having so much contact—or any contact—with small children.

Michael finally understood, Luke was not drunk nor high. He was blind. He smiled a half smile at the sight of his outgoing daughter befriending a blind college student. Her light pink pajamas clashed with his dark clothing as she held tighter onto him.

Michael liked when Clémence was smiling.

"Daddy has purple hair, he said I can dye my hair once Mommy says okay. He has pricks on his cheeks—like a porcupine! You don't have that, but I like that," the little girl told the tall boy.

Luke laughed, his smile wide with his teeth shining. He put his arms on the girls shoulder, feeling the thermal material of her pajamas. She smelled of fast food and something else he couldn't figure out. Her hair felt dry as he traced the bounce of her curls. His long fingers wrapped around the curve of her face, feeling her round chin yet high cheekbones. "I can tell you're a very pretty princess," he complimented.

Calum looked up at Michael and asked, "How old is she?"

"Only five," he smiled. "I'm sorry if her screams wake you guys up, by the way, she has nightmares a lot." Mike elected a sigh as he reached down, trying to pull his daughter back.

The ding of the elevator finally arrived as the older male picked up his child. With a nod of the head, he said his goodbyes.

Clémence started crying again, this time for the boy with the white eyes.