story #1

the story i really wanted to develop, outlined, and abandoned. the beginning and the end is left.

I remember the belt buckles, the broken plates, and voices from my childhood. Eric, who was like a brother, was my first friend. I don't remember his last name, and I haven't talked to him in years.  He would tie my shoes and I would tie his. The soft sand would lick my knees, the glee only children knew covering our faces, and we were off, racing up and down the slide, while our teachers wore grins, and we would play until his mother came.
"Eric, honey," she would call out, "it's time to go."

We supposed there was never enough time to play. But there was always a tomorrow, we understood. And so he would be gone, leaving me to wait. My father would come, but he never spoke even a word. A simple grunt would do.

My room was simple. It had a bed, desk, chair, and bookcase. The bed lay in the far right corner, with the bookcase on the far left corner, facing my bed. The desk was faced away from my bed, on the right close corner of the room. The only window in the entire room was directly opposite to my desk, right on the left, as soon as one passed the door. On my desk, I had pictures of my mother, old ones that I think my father forgot about.

They say my mother died on the happiest day of her life. Ever since Aunt Ellen told me that, I always cried on my birthday, until I learned, as my father said, "Boys don't cry." From then on, I never cried in front of anyone. But, in my room, with its comfortable, over-sized bed, and its beautiful, worn-down walls that only I touched, I would cry, and always, I would imagine what my mother would have said to me. Her picture in front of me on the small desk, my eyes brimming, until I could no longer keep them open - closing them shut, there was her face again, and instead of just a picture, she was alive.

"Here's your lunch, and don't forget to give this to your teacher."
Or, "Sorry, I promise I won't be late again," as she picked me up into her arms, walking towards the car to take me home, though I was home in her arms.

She was alive. "Don't cry. Mama's here." My cold back would feel the warmth of her loving fingers, radiating a mother's love I would never know. When my eyes opened, I knew none of this was real. It could not be real. I never knew my mother, I never knew what her voice sounded like, I never knew how big her hands were, I never knew what words she would say - maybe she would be silent and brooding like my father -, and I never knew if she loved me.
Of course she loved me. I was surprised at my own insolence. Then why did she leave me all alone? But I had Eric, and I supposed I was not alone, though a brother or sister may have been nice.

After the tears and even after my mother was gone, I could be happy. And somewhere in the third grade, I came home and my bed was gone, the smell of fresh paint reeked from my room, the bumps in the walls were hidden, and my book case was nowhere to be seen, though my books were in unfilled boxes that lay everywhere throughout my house. That was the last time I would call it my house. That would be the last day I could call Eric my friend.

Lost, he went outside. For years he searched - dug into his past, deep into his childhood and even into his parents heritage, hoping to find the answer that would bring him home, wherever it was, to that familiar, soft but worn-down desk, surrounded in those four comforting cracked walls - to that window, except this time, he hoped he would see the rising sun. And when he couldn't find it, he reached his hand up, demanding that the world recognize him. They did, but he was not satisfied - like a meteor he rose, but he would come crashing burning to the ground, he thought.
            He closed his eyes and moved his arm. Deliberately it rose until between his fingers he imagined the stars. He stretched his arms farther out still, hoping to approach the stars, to be as close as possible. Upon opening his eyes he could see a handful of them ready to rest upon his palm. Closing his eyes again he took a deep breath. The stars were in his hands now. Incandescent. After the warmth had spread throughout his hands, and because his hand could no longer keep it in, the light begun to shine all around him as the night grew stronger still. Although but a reverie, he believed in this moment.

A cold wind shook him, and he opened his eyes. Like a meteor he crashed headlong into reality and found himself dumbstruck. The stars could never be his. Then, he realized that as long as he could wake, he would never be happy. Never be happy. He repeated those words in his head. Never. While the rest of the world was sleeping, he was worrying. "If only they knew me." The world was too impersonal for his taste. Never, as long as he could wake up. And since he had nothing else to find in the dark, he put his hands on the floor, pushed himself up, but while doing, he grabbed a handful of dirt. A sick smile grew on his face, reaching the corners of his mouth in a way only insanity evidenced. "Never be happy? Hah!" His fingers trembling to the beat of his rampant heart, afraid, he whispered to himself once more, "Never be happy." He gripped the earth in his hands. From dust, of dust, and to dust he was. In his madness and anger, he consumed it.

The next day, they found him, dead, sitting at his desk. He died, watching the setting sun. He was remembering his mother. He was trying to remember, trying to imagine, what his mother would say. There were no tears. There were no tears left. The stars were in his hands now.