1

It was raining-- he eyed the rain dubiously, but stepped out into it.

    It's like a shower, was his first, ludicrous thought, but with all your

clothes on!  The water dripped through his hair, on his eyelashes, down the

bridge of his nose. Yes, he decided, he liked the rain. He liked the sky here,

big and jeweled and moody. He liked the forest overhanging the rusting

buildings and junk metal that littered this place. He liked that too, even the

rust he liked... he'd never seen rust anywhere but when the plumbing under

the sink was bad, never seen it spreading bit by bit over entire panels of

metal like a painted-on texture.

    He shook the rain out of his hair and went back inside.

    There was nothing to do. He sat at the desk, played with his handheld,

got up and wandered aimlessly to the fridge, came back and curled up on

the couch, suddenly drowsy. Neric had gotten him a job out in the junkyard

working the machinery, but it had been obvious from the beginning that the

other “boys” didn't need him or respect him.... after a few days he started

coming only at the beginning to check in, and it seemed to relieve

everyone. He was called in once in a while, when some complicated

electrical issue or (more likely) government regulation made him useful,

but for the most part he stayed out of the workyard, and they kept to

themselves.

    He watched them, though- the blunt dexterity of their hands, the way

they talked and laughed and spit. He would look out in the evening, as they

came home, and see how a family would wait outside... the young woman

with a baby on her hip and three toddlers tumbling around, or the matron

with older children, talking excitedly. And how they would carry on when

daddy (and maybe brothers) came to meet them, and how their mother

would smile, her teeth glinting yellow in the dim light, and all would walk

inside together with a rough grace. The unwritten ceremony never failed to

play out night after night. It was odd to know that somewhere there were

children who had fathers, who believed in magic, who sat and drew

pictures in the dirt.

    I feel so old, he realized.  I’m too young to be old.

    He went through his contact list, half-playing with the idea of texting

someone, if only to laugh at their half-hidden shock. But he wasn't that

stupid. It wasn't as though he would really enjoy their conversation

anyway.

    He shook it off. Too much time to think, he was going crazy. What did

they say-- that genius was a form of insanity? Someone had said that once,

or something like it. And was he a genius? He looked at his expensive

surroundings, frowning, then shut his eyes, sinking deep into the couch as

his ribs were opened and squashed, opened and squashed, rolling beneath

the pillow to hide his head, to give him an anchor. Because he was

falling... falling... falling asleep.

  

Reviews

[A. Amos]

Interesting and capivating read, truly enjoyed thanks for sharing

[Flarare Weet]

That was a well-written opening chapter, despite the lack of action. Your use of words were short and sweet.