Peter sat in the corner, pouting stubbornly. Like any child, however, his anger was fleeting and fickle, and he was soon back to his curious and inquisitive self. I played with him for a while, running around the pantry and playing hide-and-go-seek. After a short while, he tired, and I laid him down in my bed for a short nap. I took this time to get rid of the rest of the empty bottles and stale food. 'I really need to go shopping when he gets up,' I thought. 'In the meantime, I should walk by Chris's house and tell him the news.'
Chris was one of my beer buddies. Every Friday, we would go out and booze up. It was a ritual, and we were connected by it. He would be crushed to hear what had happened.
'WHAT?!' he exclaimed. 'I can't believe it! And you kept him? Why? Are you some kind of fucking moron? Do you know what this means? No more Friday Booze Fest! No more good times! What are you thinking?'
'Just calm down for one moment.' I replied. 'Nothing's going to change. We'll still be able to go out every Friday. All we have to do is find someone else to watch him.'
'Oh, and who do you think would be willing to do that? No one you know, for sure. You don't have the money to pay for someone to watch him, either. What, is he gonna watch himself?'
'If it comes to that, yes. He seems like a smart enough kid. He can look after himself.'
'Are you serious right now?'
'Yeah, why?'
'Nothing. Well, as long as we don't lose you, I'm down. You want a little something before you leave?'
'Nah, I'm straight.'
'Alright then, later.'
'Later.'
As I walked back towards the apartment complex, I wondered how much things would change because of Peter. I mean, sure, I would have to watch him, but only during the daytime. Most kids his age slept through the night, anyway. At least I thought so. As for Chris, we'd stay friends. Nothing could break the bond we had, and nothing would stop the Friday Night Booze Fest. All this kid did was set the clock back a little.
I entered the apartment and wlaked towards the bedroom. There he was, sitting up and watching cartoons. He was resourceful, if nothing else.
'What are you watching?' I asked.
'Looney Toons.' he replied cheerfully.
'Well, I'm going to the grocery store to get us some food. Want to come?'
'Okay!'
He leapt up excitedly and landed at the foot of the bed. For a kid his age, he was exceptionally tall, with his head sitting about a foot above the mattress when he stood straight up. He was bony, though, and looked almost like a twig, wobbling about, frail and thin and about to break. Yet as a person, he remained unbroken. Despite all that he had endured, he maintained a child-like innocence and seemed unaffected by the events he had been through. How I wished for that same innocence. How I wanted to forget the things I had seen, the things I had done, the wrongs I had seen. For a person so built, so seemingly athletic and strong, I was really broken and weak. My soul was full of cracks and my conscience a dark abyss of false logic and immoral assumptions. I try to remember'Ĥa man'Ĥa bottle'Ĥa belt'ĤI break away from my reverie with a sudden jolt. He is tugging on my leg.
'Watcha doin'?' he asks.
'Oh, nothing. Just thinking.'
'About what?'
'Ohh'Ĥ' I shudder, 'nothing. Come on, let's go.'
I go to the kitchen to get the keys and the jingle reminds me of the clink of a bottle-the sound of a belt buckle. A shiver crosses my back and climbs my shoulders to the nape of my neck. I find it hard to breathe. I grasp the counter with a sudden tension and feel a cold sweat on my palms. I try to keep my cool, but it's no use. I reach for the cabinet and grab the first thing I lay eyes on. I drink it down; with the burn comes a sudden serenity, a peaceful calm after a powerful storm. I close my eyes and exhale, a good long sigh. I put the bottle away again and look to my left hand. In it are the keys. I set them down and walk back to the living room.
'Why don't you have the keys?'
'Well, I thought we could use some exercise. We're going to walk.'
'Cool! Let's go!'
As he skipped along, he hummed the ABC's and seemed perfectly content. He didn't notice the pale tint of my skin, the sweat dripping off of my face. That memory'I thought it had been locked away, that I had managed to destroy it in the quest to destroy my past. I guess I was wrong. That haunting image still held some dominion over me, and that fact scared me. Yet the damned kid still skipped on and on. How could he be so blind? Or are we all just deaf? Is the answer actually out there, waiting for someone, anyone, to listen and not just turn a deaf ear? If youth is blind, then we are deaf and dumb.
