Control Freak ✔️

31 crayon channel

The store hadn't opened yet. It still had the metal bars pulled down over it so no one could smash the windows. But he could see it on display: bigger screen, flatter body, with color. All the kids at school had one already. The dawn light hit the glass. Reflected in the mirror was a thin man in a blue jumpsuit, blackened with grease and soot. His dark hair was greasy and stringy in the front. He was a young man, but he looked older because of his thick, unkempt beard, which he perhaps grew that way for the very purpose of looking older than he really was. Under the shadow of his hard hat and the tangled brush was a pale face and eyes that emanated a quiet, somber blue. Above all, it reflected that which he thought of himself: a poor man unable to buy his daughter a video game. He let out a long sigh, and jammed his hands down in his pockets as he proceeded down the sidewalk. He stopped at an alley which led to a maze of stairways and tunnels. The alley was barely lit by cave lamps, with their dingy yellow cords fed through hooks that were spiked in the concrete walls, bound together in bunches that resembled clogged arteries, coursing every which way through the labyrinth. Every road he took seemed to end at the smoking black monolith that was the old factory. As the morning whistle blew, he reluctantly entered its mouth.

The foreman paced about as the workers, mostly boys and young men, halted their miscellaneous tasks of wheelbarrow pushing and heavy machinery wielding in order to line up in front of him and another man. As the men lined up one by one, the foreman's eyes stayed glued to his clipboard as he called each one by name. The second man lagged behind him, taking more caution in scanning their faces beneath the grime and dust.

Their faces told him stories: some were wrinkled, others were smooth. Some were annoyed, others tired.

"Nobody's in trouble here," the man assured. "After I'm done, you all can get on with your day." He was a tall young man with a weasley-looking face, a long overhanging upper lip, and a sloping beak. His eyes were small with dull and insouciant pupils, and he would lean in, with the eyes of an ostrich, peering through each worker almost as if he was glaring through them.

"Hey," one worker whispered to another. "What's your name?"

The blue-eyed young man glanced at him with a distrusting gaze, before turning to face forward again.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna rat you out or anything. Just about everybody down here runnin' from the law. What you do?" He gave a gruff, but sympathetic smile. He was charming.

"So what are you on the run for?"

"Nothin' much," he replied. "All I did was smash my boss's head with a pot and shove him through a pizza oven."

"Well, I didn't do nothin'. I just— I had to get away from my home."

The other worker sighed. "A runaway from home? You're young. Take my advice, kid. A pretty boy like you has no chance down here. You stand out too much."

"Fred Clark," droned the foreman as he passed by. The man trailing the foreman stopped in front of him and looked him in the eyes. They were vibrant, even through his matted brown hair and all the dust smudged across his face, they were noticeable. His eyes were very soft, though his face was very coarse. They tried to not stare directly into his, but at the same time, did not want to concede his nerves. Finally, the inspector moved on. Fred shot a side-eye and a tiny smirk in his companion's direction, who returned a begrudging scowl.

***

"Daddy, why aren't you eating, too?" a little girl said to him that evening.

"Daddy...ate already, sweetie, eat your food." It wasn't much: a small portion of beans and a slice of white bread. The father sat at the head of the table, forming a bridge on his nose with his fingers linked together as he watched his daughter and pondered. Her fluffy golden hair needed a brush, or someone who actually knew their way around one. She was such a pretty girl, looking everything like her mother, he thought, and thank God for that.

"You are too beautiful, you know that?" he muttered as he pet her head.

"Daddy, are you tired of this show? Want me to change the channel?" she said, referring to the crayon drawing she had scribbled on the white wall across from her, traced a box around it and called it a TV. He choked on his words.

"No, baby girl," he finally said. "This channel's fine."