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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1713580-A-story-about-a-boy
by John W
Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Adult · #1713580
This is a very short story about a boy. One of my pieces from years ago.
(Author's note; I really wouldnt mind some help on the beginning as Im told its the worst part of this story; I wrote this years ago to cope, I hope you think its okay xxx)



The room was quiet, bookcases surrounded the wooden walls, filled with hardbacks with illegible book titles and worn leather covers. A large fireplace spread warmth across the room like hot butter across bread, giving off the welcoming scent of burning incense. In front of the fireplace was a large, warm rug, with a dark oak coffee table on top. The smell of varnish emanated from the wood, moulding with the incense, the room around the fire was dark, and a huge window to one side of the room looked out onto a bleak, smoggy city.



An elderly man sat in a soft brown leather chair, one of the books laid on his lap, a cup of green tea in one hand and a saucer balanced on a small table next to the armchair with two rectangular biscuits laid slightly overlapping. 



He turned the page of the book with one shaking hand, and sipped carefully from the cup, placing it on the saucer as if afraid at any second he might drop it.



Looking up at a large grubby mirror above the fireplace, he caught sight of his own reflection, his hair dark grey, his skin sagging and wrinkled; his eyes forlorn, as if he was a child who had been wrongfully blamed for something naughty.



He stared into the mirror, images flashing before his eyes, the dirt on the sides of the mirror seemed to disappear, and he saw clearly a young boy, staring back at him.



The young boy was staring into a shop window, examining his reflection; his grey eyes shone with tears, his jet black hair combed and greased across his scalp to keep clear of his eyes. By the looks of him, the boy was barely seven, maybe even younger.



The boy took out a white face mask from his bag and placed it in front of his face, through the eye holes he stared, and the strange boy in the mask stared back.



Lifting the elastic band over his head, the boy put on the mask, and stared at his reflection for several seconds before continuing his journey home, passing many pedestrians who laughed at this weird boy wearing the mask.



The young boy approached his house with caution, noting the extra car in the driveway. He disliked the extra car, it was too blue, and anyone driving that car would be too blue for his liking. He walked up the gravel path to the large oak doorway, and rang a small buzzer on one side of the porch. Almost immediately, a man dressed in expensive clothes that somehow managed to look both like a suit and nothing of the sort opened the door.



“Young master, your mother is busy, I suggest you steer clear of the top floor for now.” The doorman hurried the boy inside before disappearing, locking the door before he left.



The boy stood in the hallway for a while, listening carefully, before creeping slowly up a grand staircase, still listening, he tip-toed along the hall, and pressed his ear against the large wooden door to his mother’s room.



From inside, he heard groaning, and strange, repetitive banging noises, he stared through the keyhole, watching what was happening inside with a look of horror on his face. He had seen it many times before, but it never got any better. He counted down after seeing the glint of the blade, and heard the ear splitting scream that followed.



He always hated this part, he ran downstairs, tears flowing down his cheeks, and ran into the kitchen, grabbing the kitchen knife. He undressed, sitting, completely naked except for the white face mask, in the large kitchen; he opened his legs, and pressed the kitchen knife against his thigh, pressing it deep into his flesh. Immediately afterwards, he grabbed a kitchen cloth and wrapped it tightly around the wound as the blood spread. He washed the blade and put it back, careful to clean up any blood on the floor.



The boy sat in the kitchen, still naked, waiting.



Finally he saw what he was waiting for; the man who dared call himself his father, without any blood or marital connection, he stared at the young naked boy for a good few minutes before an evil smile lit up his face.



“Been watching mine and your mother’s games again have you?” the man stumbled towards the boy, grabbing the frail figure by the waist and slamming the boy onto the counter, “It’s very rude to spy, I thought I would’ve taught you that by now, I guess another lesson is in order.”



The boy never screamed.



The old man blinked a single tear from his eye, looking down at his feet in shame. His poor old heart was used to pain, and his eyes dry from years of crying; now all he could manage was a single tear. The emotion and pain of a lifetime forced into a single tear.



The old man closed the book, placing it to one side, he picked up his cup of tea and leant back, he finished the last drop, and allowed the soothing incense to take him away on a deep but troubled sleep.
© Copyright 2010 John W (godzillaaa at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1713580-A-story-about-a-boy