Broken

Written from a prompt. A brief insight on a lonely boy's life. Made to be repetitive.

There are so many pieces; one could consider it a puzzle, if only that none of these pieces actually fit properly with one another. They merely are pieces that perhaps line up, perhaps form a circle, perhaps a shape of sort, but what we know is that they are pieces, broken pieces of a something, a whole. Those pieces all have the initials LVR engraved at the back with a care that perhaps was not put into the pieces themselves when they were broken off of whatever it is they were once part of.

 

There are so many pieces; here is one of countless others, perhaps if we take a closer look, yes, here... look, there is a boy, he looks four, maybe five. He stands outside an orphanage that seems to be at the top of the ladder. There are children running around, wearing all the same uniform, boys and girls, they seem to be having the time of their lives, giggling and playing tag. But this boy does not play. He stares out a window at a couple leaving with another child. He had so wanted it to be him. Perhaps another day. If we dig deeper into the colors of this piece, we see that a few months later, a family does come for him, take him away and into a big, big house. There he has a sister that is barely older than he is. But they do not play together.

 

There are so many pieces; this one is so small it could nearly be overlooked. That boy again, he looks fifteen here. His face is littered in bruises and it is difficult to understand what has happened to him other than it seems he has been cornered, his books taken from him and dropped in the trash. But he doesn't look phased, as if this happens to him often. Such a sight really is heart breaking but there is nothing we can do about it. All we are looking at are shards, broken pieces, part of something, a whole, an everything. Or so it seems. Once he is alone, he only sighs, picks up his books from the trash and heads on to wherever it is he goes to, at this hour. Perhaps choir, this only said because he has his choir robes in his bag.

 

There are so many pieces; one does not know where to look, but there is another here. It is that same boy again. Perhaps all those broken pieces are about the boy's family. He looks almost thirteen in this one, wearing a midnight blue choir robe that perhaps too clearly shows how pale he is. It also makes his mismatched eyes stand out. He stands to the right of a row of other boys, two other rows of boys, all in their teenaged years, are standing behind him and the others of that bottom row. His voice rings clear and high, a soprano unlike any others; it could make one wonder if he is not castrati. He seems to be enjoying himself, but other boys are shooting him dirty looks as he steps forward for a solo. Jealousy is easy-come and easy-go in teenagers, in boys who pride themselves on what they do. That night the boy goes home with several bruises littered on his almost thin frame.

 

There are so many pieces; it is difficult to just pick one to look at it closely instead of picking up a handful and skimming. Each piece seems to hold nothing but bad, but dark things and it would make anyone cringe to look at more of them, but it cannot be helped. This one has the boy again; perhaps they are about him and him alone. He looks seven here. He is sitting alone in his room, on a wheelchair as his left leg is in a cast. He stares out the window. His sister is swimming in the pool, surrounded by her friends, they giggle and every time one of them looks up to his window, she giggles even more, whispers to the others and they guffaw in unison. Eventually he wheels himself away from the window, closes the curtains and makes it to his desk where he sits in front of a blank sheet music. He scribbles away, randomly, pieces that no one will ever hear.

 

There are so many pieces; too many almost, but it cannot be helped that morbid curiosity takes the better of us. Here, he looks almost six. He is sitting with his parents and sister, they are at the restaurant. They all seem to get alone fine and everyone is eating peacefully. Now and then, the parents exchange a few words. Eventually, empty plates are taken away and replaced by desserts. The girl, his sister, digs in with little manners, and he pokes with uncertainty at his own. Eventually, he does take a bite but near instantly begins to choke as air begins to grow sparse in his lungs. He cannot understand what makes him ill, why he seems unable to swallow anything. The next thing he knows is that he is at home, with an IV bag hanging near his bed, dipping through the long tube and into his pricked hand.

 

Here, look at this one. He looks sixteen, sitting near the back of a classroom where most students are paired together and talking. They all are boys and all of them are ignoring him. They all wear the same dark uniform. When the teacher comes in, they hush and take their seats, staring with wide, would-be innocent eyes up front at their mentor as a new student is introduced. It seems so that normally the boy tends to ignore new students, they want nothing to do with him and him with them. But something pulls his attention forward and he looks up. Staring at the new student, perhaps even moreso surprised when this new face sits next to him, the boy frowns softly and turns his gaze away, opening his books to focus on those instead. A new face in the classroom merely meant more trouble for him. When the teacher takes roll call, he only lifts his head when his name is mentioned and it seems that is usual for him.

 

There are so many pieces; yet so little time to look at them all. Still, fingers grasp another one and lift it up; staring at it for a long moment, to grasp what is going on within. He looks ten in this one. The night has fallen and he is running home. Choir practice has kept him late. He does not like being outside when it is dark, it seems the best of times for him to get cornered. The winter is cold; the streets are wet and slippery. The closer he gets to home, the faster he pushes himself to run. The moment he makes a turn into the driveway, his foot slips on a patch of ice and he goes straight down, his arm taking the brunt of it and breaking on impact. Still he does not stay down long and bring himself to heading back inside. The next few days are spent in the hospital again.

 

There are so many pieces; we seem to be traveling in time, years never in a straight line, but one cannot expect any different from pieces that are broken, from shattered fragments of a whole. The boy looks five here, dressed in his best Sunday clothes. They are sitting at church, nearly in the front row because his parents both are strong believers and they think that attending church will help the boy overcome all the trouble that seems to surround him. It is a hot summer day, and there is no cool air in the building. Most have small paper fans and cool themselves that way, but the boy is sitting quietly, eyes hazed as they begin to flutter shut. The heat gets to be too much for him and he slips from the bench, unconscious.

 

There are so many pieces; some are dirtier than others, and some shine brightly, as if they were polished recently. It is odd how one notices such things. The colors of this piece make him look fourteen. He stands with one of the servants in the kitchen. He is making his first meal himself though he is kept close watch over. When he picks up the knife, he gazes to the servant who only smiles at him and nods lightly. He begins to cut up the onions, but they are so strong that they make his eyes water. He lifts his hand to wipe the tears from his eyes, but the moment he sets the knife back down, he miscalculates and the knife slices right through his thumb above the top knuckle. He requires stitches but manages to keep his thumb intact; the nerve center is shut down, however.

 

There are so many pieces; at this point, one begins to wonder if any of them hold good memories, it is either that there are none, or we have bad luck when it comes to picking them. He is wearing his blackest of clothes today; he looks eleven in this one. He is standing alone, in a pet cemetery. He throws dirt on top of a small box, into a hole he has dug himself the night before. He is burying the only true friend he has ever had. A cat that had been wandering the streets, he had picked it up, fed it, and gave it all the love a child could ever give to an animal. He had loved it and would love it for years to come, despite that he was now gone from this world.

 

There are so many pieces; and though some of them seem to perhaps fit together, most only all have the same shades and colors, but otherwise there is nothing pulling them together in any way, other than their story. That boy again, he looks nine now. He is swimming alone in the pool, with no one to watch him, no one to taunt him. He swims peacefully for a long moment, until his sisters and her friend join him. Immediately they begin to giggle amongst themselves. He sighs and pull himself from the pool, rounding it to go and fetch his towel, but one would have it that his foot slips as he nears his destination and he falls back to the pool, his head hitting the bottom of it. When he wakes, he is alone in a sterile white room, and the date on his watch tell him that he has been out of commission for three days.

 

There are so many pieces; it makes one wonder if those really are all memories of the boy they seem to be attached to. Upon closer inspection of this one, he looks twelve, he is standing in the hall, his uniform soaked through and it seems he has to wait until it is dry before he can be allowed inside. It is not a usual custom, but the substitute teacher is new and comes from a foreign land. It seems he does this with every student who breaks the rules; they are made to stand in the hall. Still, he is not missing out on much, he is ahead of the other students in this class and so there is little to no loss for him. He can catch up quickly enough if given the right things to study.

 

There are so many pieces; so many times, so many years. It is as if every piece we have picked up until now was for a different year of his life, wasn't it so? Perhaps. He looks eight here, swinging by himself in the school yard swings. It is Sunday morning and so there is no one to bother him. He should have been at choir practice but he did not go, his throat hurts and he cannot sing. The bruises that surround his throat and mark a shiner around his left eye are clear enough that something happened perhaps the night before. Still he does not seem unhappy, swinging there by himself. He looks happy, for the most part, in any case.

 

There are so many pieces; but it is difficult to pick any more, so far every single one of them has been holder of a negative memory and it is heart breaking, one who could think of continuing would certainly be heartless. Though we may want to try and put the pieces back together, we are afraid that they would not stick together, that they would not hold together at all. They are, after all, broken pieces. Not puzzle pieces, and they simply do not fit together in any way, short of the boy whose story they tell. And so we will let them, and the boy named Liberty, alone.

Author's Note

Written a while ago, think of it as you will and review fairly.

Reviews

[Seracies]

I started to lose interest in the first paragraph, but I read on to the second, and the third, until I wouldn't consider the idea of not finishing it because I was so gripped by the story. I liked the way you wrote it, as though unaffected by humanity but rather intrigued by it. I'm not sure I understand the last sentence, but still it was a wonderful story.

[Thief Lord Alex]

That was very interesting. I found it a little hard to read at first but as I read on I found myself compelled to finish. Even though I really didn't know the boy I sympathized with him through the bruises and hospital visits. The piece hits me hard because that used to be me, until I got a backbone. Wonderful piece of work.

~Alex

[Emunah June.]

Nice.