Fractured

1

August 18 2003

The day was cold but the boy was not. Rugged up in a variety of warmer garments, he braved the wind and rain, he left his house and went for a walk. Of course he didn't know what he would find. He was new to the neighbourhood, had never ventured to this part of the world until his mother started a new job. With a misty deep breath, he took purpose and walked from his house, never looking back.

He looked left; he looked right; unsure of which direction to take. He turned two steps to the right and began walking. The boy was of reasonably average height, not too muscled but not thin either, he was lithe, with the body of a distance runner. His hair was a hazelnut brown and his eyes gleamed with a dark brown gaze. He didn't know what he was doing or where he would go, he just needed to do something, to go somewhere. The emptiness of his home was maddening, he needed to escape. And so he walked.

Each step brought with it a sense of satisfaction that couldn't be achieved without doing what he was, exploring. Even as a small child, he felt wonder when experiencing the mundane. Perance Street was anything but mundane; it was an in-between world's kind of place. There were old street lamps and old sidewalk benches but new roads, dark pitch asphalt, the houses varied in architectural styles, a variety of older, more interesting housing sitting next to small brick boxes. Every house the boy looked upon visited a new wonder in his mind. Each had the potential to speak a thousand tales, and hundred lies, and hinted at dark secrets. But none of the houses caught his eyes enough for him to stop; he reached the end of the street and turned back the way he came, looking for something. A feeling of restlessness in his belly, he could not explain.

Retracing his steps, he passed his own house continuing to the left in search of that elusive something. A mild breeze blew a white plastic bag into his path. His eyes followed it as it was lifted into the air, spinning and turning as if dancing on the wind. The breeze dropped suddenly and he lowered his gaze from the bag. It was then that his eyes widened, his breathing stopped, his heart skipped and his mind tripped, he did not understand what he was seeing. There was a house where there should not be one. A house where there was not one a moment before. A house that should not be, but of course it was there or he wouldn't have seen it. It was intriguing, it was everything and nothing at the same time, and it was astonishing. His eyes drank in the mystery, the contradiction of the building. It was beautiful, but ugly. It was squat, with a tall roof, it didn't match the era, it looked as though it was centuries old, but this neighbourhood was only developed in the 1950's. The door was what captivated him most; it was ornate, carved with a scene from a battle long ago. The boy desperately wanted to get a closer look and hurried forward.

As he moved, he lost his footing and tripped midstep. He lay there mystified over his discovery. That was when he started breathing again, something that felt strangely foreign and after a few breaths his natural instincts kicked in, and he wondered about the possibility of dying from asphyxiation. After propping himself up he looked back to where the house was, it was gone. But that's crazy, houses don't move, disappear or hide. He thought maybe he had imagined it, but no one could imagine a house such as that. He knew the last year or so had been rough, but he also knew that he was not crazy. First, there was a house where one should not be and then, there was not one anymore.

Maybe there was a trick to seeing the house, so he stood to see if it revealed itself, but sadly it did not. He tilted his head and stretched out his neck. He would've looked ridiculous to any passers-by because he seemed to be looking more ways than one. One moment his outstretched neck would be pointing one way, and then in the next second he'd be bent down looking with an upside-down head. But no matter which way he looked, he could not see the house. He could not see its straight pointed roof. He could not see its heavy-looking door. He just couldn't see it. He started to feel a panic rising inside him, as if he knew this house was the key to a happy future, to a resolution of his past, and he so desperately needed it to reveal itself. Luckily there were no passers-by in vicinity because what he did next would have damaged his pride if there were witnesses.

He broke down and cried, screamed to the crowded sky, the clouded ceiling. He sobbed into his jacket sleeves and curled up in a ball. Being as tall as he was, he didn't make a large ball. To a giant he would be a pea. Nothing more, nothing less. To a person he would be an obstruction. To a ball he would be a joke. But to himself he was broken. He felt as if something had stolen all the love from his heart and dropped it from the highest heights, shattering it on the cement of the pavement. He had that feeling you get when life hits you back after you fight it. Life doesn't like to give you only easy times and happiness. Life is like scourer - harsh and abrasive.

He lay there for a long while curled in his ball, invisible to those without a care, only seen by those with the same pain. Fortunately there were none of these. And so he was alone. He felt as though his heart was spent and his life was bent. He was cold, so cold. He needed to be warm. He needed a hug. So after a time, he stood, wiped his eyes and turned toward home, realising time had gotten away, and the day was nearly done. He walked past the houses, past the streetlights and leaving the house that wasn't there behind him. As he went the windowed eyes of the hidden house looked on as he shuffled away.

After a time, he could see his porch light in the distance. But sadly that didn't raise his spirits to inspire him to run the final stretch. Hopelessness drove him on in a weary lope. With the disappearance of the hidden house, there was nothing to go back to, so he had to run on. He reached his home. He forgot about the key-ring of keys deep in his jeans pocket and hammered against the door with both hands raised. His disappointment and exasperation and sense of loss driving him to slammed all his weight into the door, he would be heard. Inside, his mother, thinking a burglar was at the door, jumped to her feet and ran to the kitchen where she retrieved something heavy. She had walked the hard road in life and so was prepared for the worst. She opened the front door, frying pan in hand.

And then she cast her eyes down on him. She dropped the pan when she saw his eyes and she drew him into a warm loving hug. She checked him over, made sure he was alright murmuring softly. She carried him to his bedroom, sat him down and held him. He was shivering from shock so she went to get him soup that was simmering on the stove. He pulled his jacket over his head and lay back against the pillow of his single bed.

Before the hour was up his mother had fed him a bowl of soup, he'd drunk a tall glass of water and she'd held him for a solid half hour. He wouldn't speak. He was still too shaken. He couldn't tell his mother, he just couldn't. She'd send him to the crazy ward at the local hospital. So when he could finally speak he simply said, "I was cold, scared and lost. I'm sorry if I worried you." With which she replied, "I understand, its fine dear."

She left him to sleep and went back to the lounge room to watch her late night soap operas. He lay in bed staring at the roof above his head and wondered what he was going to do, but after a while he needed to sleep and so he slept. He also dreamt