Source of Tomorrow

Chapter Four: Alex

Mr. Powell left my room after asking me where I got the idea to write what he considers a child's story. He may not have said he thought that, but I could tell how he looked at me. It was like I was eight again. He gave me the same look today as he did when he came to tell me about my parents.

I was about ten years old when he walked into my old, white windowless room. I sat in the corner wall on top of my bed. Mr. Powell came in with a desolate expression across his face. His eyes were weary lacking sleep.

Back then his hair covered his forehead. Mr. Dillard had just started working there. I only remember when Mr. Dillard started working because I knew that the loss of Mr. Powell's hair was caused by Mr. Dillard.

Mr. Powell faced the left of the room where I was sitting staring down at the gold sheets. He stood there fiddling with his own fingers twisting them around each other in frustration. Mr. Powell glanced at me and then quickly back at the floor. Whatever he was going to say, I wanted him to spit it out. Why couldn't he just say what he was thinking?

He cleared his throat trying to speak. "Um, Alex? I, uh, have something I need to tell you,"
I looked up at him curiously. Looking up at him was common at the time. I always expected him to tell me my mom was there to see me. At least, I was hoping he would tell me she came back to visit after two months.

Mr. Powell stared at me for a few seconds before his eyes watered up making him look down to keep his dignity. "Your, um, your parents are, um," His voice broke off as if falling off an imaginary abiss. It was the first time I heard him stumble on his words. And the most I've heard him say, "um" over and over again.

He stood there, and stood there, and stood there in the center of the room without moving a muscle for a solid ten minutes thinking about God knows what.

It was at that point I looked down at my old gold sheets. Surprisingly I was gripping the corner of the sheet. Why was I doing that? Well it was quite obvious. I just didn't want to admit it to myself. My parents haven't seen me in two months. They gave up on me. They believed I was so demented and hopeless, they just left me here with no one except Mr. Powell.

Mr. Powell looked back up to me and reached into his pocket gripping something. What it was I still don't know to this day. If he'll ever give it to me is also something I wonder.

Mr. Powell had taken his hand out of his pocket holding nothing and whispered to me, "Your parents, Alexander Peters, left. From what we know both your parents are doing quite fine. Do not worry about them. They will be back soon. I promise, one day you will see them again,"

As much as I wanted to believe him, I knew they weren't, "doing quite fine" as Mr. Powell said. I don't blame him for telling me that. How would you feel if you had to tell a ten year old boy he no longer has parents? Would you look that kid in the eyes and tell the complete truth, or tell him a lie to give him some hope? Mr. Powell went with the lie. The only down side to Mr. Powell is that he cannot lie to save his life.
Mr. Powell left my room that day leaving me to study the golden sheets. That night I remember feeling the sadness fill my body until I exploded in tears.

That was the only night I cried in this living hell.