Limited Son

Chapter One of something I was going to write, I have no clear motivation.

Paris, France. 1930.

The boys wears nothing but what he awoke with. Pale and thin, the pajamas he wear are a tattered and thick cloth. Opening the aging shutters of the small window that occupies the central wall of his room where his bed is the boy sees what he always sees through the small-framed window. A large monument occupies the central with a blaze from the early sun against the back of its large metal foundation, a large tower his father calls the eiffel tower. Men and women dressed in tuxedos and dresses of various colors walk through its streets, many who sit on high stools still being portrayed by struggling artists who rest at every corner, hope insinuates as they discover the inner-beauty of their projects, waiting as they reveal the portrait, that they will pay. The clowns, their small pointed hats, velvet-like cloth covered in red dots, entertain those that mock, throwing empty bottles of alcohol down the lower side. The boy is infatuated with a dream that only the birds who habitat their nest overhead can have. He reminisces about the doctor, an old family doctor on his mother side, who visited the boy who now is three. His long beard that starts from his chin to his lower abdomen is still as the man examines the pale, fragile figure half covered with a ragged, tattered sheet of the boy. He pulls out the stethoscope from the cracked leather bag that occupies the end of the bed and he puts the cold metal against the boy's chest with the right, stroking his white beard with his left and he sighs and smiles at the boy, staring into his blue eyes and he pats the mop of black hair that lays on his head. He stands up, leather bag in his left hand, and walks out of the small four-walled room of the boy's bedroom. The boy remembers hiding underneath the cloth of the dining room table, through the thin cloth he sees three feet and can tell from the leather that the boots belong to the doctor.

• Your son is a very sick boy, Mr. Struler - the doctor said, - sickest I've ever seen and I say this with no exaggeration,

• He was a very weak child, the maid thought he was a stillborn. His mother passed away only a few minutes after her death,

• Fair and honest, I believe that the boy will remain bed-ridden for most of his life. If not, he might die.

His father, A pale, ghost figure. Pulls a chair and gently sits, he covers his sharp, tall face with both of his hands and cries through his spiderlike fingers. Closing the shutters of his window the boy walks over to his bed and rests his thin face on the pillow, waiting for what he always waits for. His father paler and thinner aged he stands in the doorway of the room, the smell of alcohol. The smell the boy always smells. His father walks to the bed and sits on the side and strokes the boy’s hair. The boy hears what he will always hear through the breathe of his father’s alcoholic voice. Unearthed dreams, he hears the stories of his mother,