Memory Lane

Subtle Beginnings

He had always been a child of a queer nature. He often stayed inside, grasping his mother's hand as shadowy grey eyes stared vacantly at a fireplace that flickered gently. Small feet swung back and forth next to a steady pair of legs that stood firm upon the dusty floor. When he found his mother standing up and leaving, he would turn and reach for her, without a single utterance escaping his meek lips. He would spend hours sat upon the beige couch with many tears prominent, simply staring idly as time wasted away. All the while, his hand limp at his side, reaching for that of his mother. He never played with toys, or ran about in the grassy fields with others. He simply stayed within the walls of a grey fort that protected the innocence that his mother valued so very much. One hand picking at the couch, the other grasping for his mother. His lips quivered, and his eyes stood firm. The fixed eyes of the cowardice little child who had no idea of the fear that built up within his grasping fingertips. His mind mulled over the words her mother shouted as she frantically stumbled throughout the faulty home. Words were ever present in his young, unharmed mind, and this is what he thought about for most of his childhood. Years passed through his developing mind, though words rarely passed through his lips. He knew their importance, and rarely abused their pristine ability to convey what he wished. At a young age he received a music box that he kept next to him. He noticed that his mother always hummed the tune, but he always felt lost in the music. It lacked feeling. It lacked what he valued so dearly: words. He seemed to have the belief that each person had a set amount of words in their life before they would never whisper another goodbye. A single tune lingered in his mind for hours every day before he muffled the music that taunted him with its lack of value with a cushion. Then he would stare at the cracked ceiling until his messy black hair covered his vacant eyes that never noticed the bruises upon his mother's face, or the father who stayed locked up in his room, just like him. His mother would cut his hair twice a year with a blade that often led to a bleeding ear, and then he was left with his music and mind again. Every day, for 8 years, he sat with his box and his careless eyes, his mind slowly rotting away. Never questioning anything that happened in his home. He assumed it was a normal life. Just ordinary, until he couldn't take another lifeless day sitting in his coffin of a sofa, his hand still reaching for his mother, while his other reached for the door. He didn't want to be alone, but he didn't want another day of blank eyes staring at a chipped ceiling.