Call Out

Pablo Xavier Woodard

Fifteen. Prestigious school uniform, white buttoned-ups, overpriced clacking leather shoes, stuffy felt blazers and messy ties that never seem to last. The bygone era of high school was a time of discovery amidst confusion for many. Back then, no one at school wanted to talk to me, maybe it was the fact I would infinitely rant on and on about the crime fiction I read. Or maybe it was the fact that I was an obvious victim. A victim of many things. Perhaps, maybe, mayhaps.

Before I'd settled down as part of the bigger colony that is the central business district, before we sold the house, before the accident, everything was fine, to say the least. I had a sister called Amber who had turned six a few weeks after she attended prep, the primary school was just about a fifteen-minute walk with two turns. Walks are fun, okay? For about seven years I'd walk Amber to school every day before and after school, though she always became rather annoyed with me pressing about around grade six, wanting to walk with her friends alone. After school, I would always escape the facility and heed the boundless sky. I found this more entertaining than any form of education school may offer. Sometimes I would wish to hold the same sense of naivety she had as a child, oblivious to everything hidden underneath her ugly blonde fringe. Mayhaps when we pass on and are released of our suffering and pain will we, as humans, return to the state of naive innocence will our state of mind be relinquished to a child-like state?

My parents were good people.

They saved up to buy a house, they paid for our wants, and our needs and they genuinely cared about what was going on with our lives. I'd say they're good people; they're the reason why I met Shawn after all.

They also took care of me until I was eighteen but never after that. I couldn't blame them.

The symphony of the crunchy brown leaves ringed beneath my feet and the chilly wind brought me back to the car drive towards that gloomy brick building of an orphanage. Can you really call a sad brick warehouse with fourteen awning windows a living space? Shawn said it wasn't that bad but I know that the place made him feel lonely.

It was about a 40-minute drive down to Richmond, blurs of colours amongst the shreds of tyre tracks lasted throughout the journey, and the precipitation from the night prior left puddles and cars shaded of black and white methodically drove along the soaked road, splashing water into the already dampened air. My parents were Beatles enjoyers, so naturally, that was the only thing often blaring through the speakers.

The alleyway was full of warehouses and old factories made of time-worn bricks. Written in blue, an old sign read 'Bottom Carpets' that had begun fading with the test of time, street soul graffiti sporadically imprinted the tawny walls, stupid teenagers who were either peer pressured into vandalisation or wanting to spread their own message onto walls that weren't their own. How could an orphanage even be in a place like this? Like, how?

Some floater woman came along and brought my soon-to-be step/foster brother - I didn't know the difference between them back then. He was quiet, so was I. We both awkwardly shuffled, as if the ground was an interesting art exhibition to be looked at. Shawn had a pair of dusty glasses, a buttoned-up shirt which I now knew was the best-looking piece of clothing he had at the time and a really tired look on his face.

At first, I thought, who is this loser?... Maybe I was too harsh at the time, I didn't want some rando intruding into my life, and Amber would have agreed with me.

We sat at the back, Shawn to the left, Amber in the middle folding her arm, displeased and I was to the right, not knowing what to bring up to this outsider.

How did your mother die? Where's your other family? Grandparents? Aunties? Uncles?

Our ride home was quiet.