Different colored minds

The boy with the stack of comic books

JOE POV

I'm sitting in my living room when a boy passes by the window. He must be 12 or 13. In his hands, barely being held up because of the sheer amount, is a stack of books. he looks from left to right. My gut tells me something is wrong. He looks like he's running away. Not to say I judge him for it.
"Joe, joe can you come here," my mom is in the kitchen. I use my crutches to hobble into the kitchen. I'm trying to use the prosthetic the right way. And every time I put it on I'm showered in pain. Every movement is directly on my scar tissue. I hate crutches. I hate wheelchairs and most of all, I hate having to depend on this stupid prosthetic at all.
"What's up mom?"
"I made cookies, and I need help frosting them." I take a deep breath.
"Um, well," I want to say no. I gave up on drawing a long time ago. Anything with art—I don't do it anymore.
"It'll be fun! I'm making them for your teachers."
I pause. I don't want to do this. But I can see how much my mom wants me to.
"Can I go get one of my friends for this?" I ask suddenly.
She looks at me curiously.
"Okay," she finally smiles.
"Then give me a minute, I'll be right back."
I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what's gotten into me, but I hobble out of the front door and look down the long sidewalk towards the kid walking with the books.
"Hey kid!" He doesn't turn around. "Hey kid!" I yell louder. Finally he stops and turns around.
"Looks like some good comics you got there. If you want you can come inside and make some cookies with my mom and I. I have some old comics I could show you. Even better, if you like them, you can have them."
the boy stares at me. His eyes look lonely, they look lost and sad. Then he looks back at his comic books with a deep breath.
"You can eat some of the cookies too. I'm sure my mom made extra frosting." He's still looking at me. My fist clenches around my crutches. The kid continues looking lost.
"Okay," he says quietly, and slowly but surely I watch as the boy, while repositioning all the books in his hands, begins to walk towards me. I don't know what made me do it. But I can't help but feel relieved that he'll be in a safe space none the less.

The first time I ran away I was about his age too. It was my mom that made me come back. It was because she said she couldn't do this alone. That I was becoming a man. That I deserved the world and one day I would find it. She said that I should wait a little while and then I can make my own way in the world. She would help me do that and help me prop up my dreams.

My mom made me come back. Where is this kid's parents?

The first thing the kid does is ask to see the comic books. I grin. He's just like me.
"Why don't you come to the kitchen?" I ask after he has surrounded himself in a nest of comics.
I remember these days. Disappearing into my books so I could escape.
I could get away.
The boy doesn't move.
"Wanna come to the kitchen?" I ask again. The boy looks up with big excited eyes.
"Sounds good," he says trying to mask his excitement. Trying to mask his feelings. I see it in him because I see it in me.
This is what it feels like to be truly independent, when no one else has your back. The kid has been walking a long time in shoes that needed to be replaced months ago alone.
Nothing shows it more than that. The need to survive. The need to be able to survive alone. He can't depend on his parents financially, he can't depend on people emotionally, and he sure as hell lashes out like me. I can see it on his knuckles. I can see the scars that litter my hands too.
He's only a few years younger than I was when I started.
Started punishing myself. Workouts that were too long. Anything to numb the pain of disappointing my parents by still existing—
The boy and I are at the kitchen now. He slumps down next to my mom and bends over a cookie. She raises her eyebrows and then slides over the bowls of food dyed frosting.
"Hi there What's your name," my mom begins.
"Samuel Hernandez," he states.
My mom looks over at me.
"Do you have any siblings?" She continues.
"Sister," he mutters. He answers the questions robotically while he messes with designs in frosting.
"And what's her name?" My mom smiles wider.
"Pamela," he smiles.
Fuck.
That Pamela? He's HER brother.
She's such a know it all. She can't be dealing with all this at home. How is she doing so well in classes? How does she keep asking questions in class? Isn't she afraid of getting burned?

Thump.

There it is again. The feelings. Emotion deep within me that only one other person has stirred in me.

No.

I will not let this happen. I will not let this be. This is just coincidence that he's like me. Their home life can't be as bad as mine is. They'll be fine. I'm sure they'll be fine.
I clench my fist.
Pamela is shy when she's not asking questions.
What happens if Pamela fails?
My stomach is twisting in unwelcome knots of regret. She's only going to be supported if she succeeds. She's only going to make it out alive if she succeeds. I close my eyes.
"Joe, are you doing okay? You want to decorate a cookie?"
I blink at my mom. Right. I'm here now. It doesn't matter. I'm probably being stupid. It's probably nothing. Nothing worth me caring about.