(I decided to take a new turn today in my writing. Share what you think.)
Some had seen him as the young boy that had witnessed his father’s death. It was hard to shrug off such a memory like that. There on the kitchen floor of his childhood home. He sat there, his blue orbs devouring everything in sight that his young curiosity desired.
He remembers the kitchen being bland. The white coloring was everywhere. White paint covered the fridge, the cabinets, and the walls. All over it was there. Bland and simple just the way his mother had liked it. He sometimes hear her comment when she’s cooking, “that hold place was just set up perfect!” She would think back to the days when she was happy.
Even now, when she’s cooking you can see the hint of pain in her eyes. It was obvious in her hair. She used to wear it up in a ponytail, keeping it away from distracting her sight.
She never placed it up anymore. She always had it down, mangled like vines hanging from trees, blonde leaves as if autumn had arrived. Her eyes barely reflected his. He had been handed down her beautiful, pure blue eyes. Ever since the young boy had arrived into the world, greeting her with a small mirror that they privately shared together. When her husband was taken from her, they turned to a shallow, murky swamp blue. No longer full of the life that she was rudely robbed of. Her skin was now that of what the kitchen had once been of a bland white shade.
That day was burned into his skull. A hot iron placed deep within his skull with the burning of flesh a forever scar.
The boy watched as a man entered their domain. Even as a young boy, three at the time, saw him he knew he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was an intruder in the sanctuary that he called ‘home’. Sitting in the middle of the kitchen, right where the man had entered through the front door. The boy had been playing with a tub of legos. They were his favorite. Building and stacking together all sorts of shapes, the boy and his father had been pours hours into the little plastic blocks.
Placing a blue one over a green one, a slam of a door turned his head. It certainly hadn’t been his mother. He knew she only placed the door slowly, greeting the home to her presence. When father came home, he knocked four times and yelled for his boy. The father nicknamed him his ‘little joy’. It brought a smile every time to the boy’s face when his father came home.
Who could have been at the door?
It was a man, clad in a set of dark blue clothing. His jeans were cut at the knees, worn on the edges that touched his demolished sneakers. The man’s facial appearance matched his clothing: worn and battered. The boy still remembers those blood-shot, brown eyes. They sat right under the backwards blue cap the man bestowed over his cranium.
Just as the boy had been startled, the owner of the home had been called to the front room. Before the man could search for anything that would have value, the home’s guardian had entered the room. Startled at the image that was in front of him, he held his hands up high. The two figures yelled at each other, father keeping his cool tone.
The stranger bellowed out loudly. The boy thought he had been bitten by a bad doggy. That was what his father had once told him would happen to him, when he was getting near to play with a dog who had wandered into their background. It was mad, barked, yelled at everyone in the house. The little boy thought petting the animal would calm his mood. His father said he wish it had been that easy. Warning not to go near or he’d end up just as the dog.
As the two exchanged glances, father had been eyeing his young son in kitchen. He remembers about forgetting his blocks. The lad had forgotten about his massive project to cover the entire kitchen floor with his projects. Just as any young boy had dreamed about.
Finally, father did as any sensible man had wanted to act in that situation: protect that which was most precious to you.
Father dived towards his son in the kitchen. Suddenly, a loud noise sprayed against the boy’s ears. They popped, causing the three-year old to cry out widely. The pain that he felt, the ringing, it wouldn’t stop. The stranger left the room, going somewhere else in their home. Invading their privacy and taking what he desired.
The young boy continued to cry, making small whispering words that sounded like a blur between ‘Daddy’ and ‘Moma’ as the male bearer that had created him lay on the floor. The boy pressed against his shoulder, pushing on him to awaken. Red began to cover father’s dark, tan shirt. Sticking to his skin as the boy continued to push on him.
The young boy awoke in his bed, a crying causing him to rise. A small murmur was heard next to him in bed. It was his turn.
Standing up, he walked out of his bedroom and made it over to the room right across from the hallway. A small glow of a dim blue light had touched the room with a shine of light just enough for someone to sleep peacefully. Unafraid of the dark or what may lie in it.
As he made his way to the crib in the middle of the room, it held his precious joy. Holding the young bundle in his arms, he didn’t let her go. Joy was her name, the name of his daughter. The young boy held his Joy in his arms, her skin that of her possible grandfather.
Holding her tight, he understood then, that the young man’s father had protected that which he cared most in his world.