Posted by: Shelly on: July 13, 2007
The next morning, the boy found that he was not himself, but a new boy.
A new boy who ate his breakfast with the rest of the family and not only waved good-bye to his father as he left for work, but even gave him a hug. He was a boy who played catch with his older brother, who was still very much not dead, and helped his older sister in her audition for a commercial for a family product. That day he was a boy who reminded his mother of her lyrics when she sang and even helped her put on her mud mask for the day. He did not even as much as walk past the front living room, the one with the family couch, the wide flat-screen plasma TV, and the newly made chip in the wall.
Oh yes, he was a new boy. A new boy that had asked to play with his friends at the park that afternoon. Friends that their shallow minds would not know he didn’t have, at a park that they didn’t know had been turned into a McDonald’s earlier in the year. He was lucky, this new boy. His new family did not venture out into the local area of their town, the local area that they did not personally own, the local area whose houses were molding and whose money was dampened with the sweat of the working class.
A new boy that only needed an excuse to get out of the house to buy a lighter.
Posted by: Shelly on: July 13, 2007
The maids had rushed into the room and he could tell from the heavy, fake sobs behind him that his banshee of a mother was standing on the stairs, most likely still with her half-dried mud mask on her face. But the boy could not spare even one brain cell to worry about anyone else, nor did he have the time to control his racing heart. His eyes frantically searched the television screen for his father, but to no avail. with each new clip being shown, the boy crossed his fingers and prayed silently to God to let one of the men being put onto stretchers be his father. He needed to see that one of those men was his father. He needed to see that he was still alive, he needed to know that he would be saved, he needed to know that his father was not already with his brother and grandparents.
Hours had passed, and the boy remained in front of the television without having moved a muscle. Thankfully, he had remembered to continue breathing before he passed out. In the background, the maids shuffled anxiously around while trying to busy themselves with something other than getting in the way. He tried his best to ignore the shrill voice of his banshee mother as she screeched and screamed into the phone, trying to get a hold of her husband — a man the boy wished he would not have to see on television that night.
Posted by: Shelly on: July 13, 2007
It had been four months since the boy was able to last spot his father on any of the local news channels, no matter how long he sat in front of the television and no matter how many times he clicked his remote. Although it was supposed to be a relief, he could not stop his heart from aching nor could he keep his mind from wishing to see his father again.
That morning was yet another regular morning, where whatever sunlight that could fight through the thick clouds of pollution shone into the high glass windows of the mansion. The boy opted to eat his breakfast in his room yet again, as he had done since his inception into his new family. But like he had done since his arrival, he had poured his soymilk down the drain, flushed his congee down the toilet and thrown his toast out the window for the flocks of pigeons to eat instead.
From his room window, he could see his adoptive father strolling down the walkway from their grand front porch, all the way down to his newly bought Lexus, which was parked next to his 3-month old Ferrari — both sitting comfortably next to the empty space that was meant for the Hummer that would arrive from special order next week. The boy eyed the middle-aged man with disgust and all but spit down at the man from his position on the window sill.
Posted by: Shelly on: July 13, 2007
“Little Master is doing it again.“
“Let’s not tell the Miss, for his sake.“
“If only he could watch cartoons like a real kid.“
“Let’s just pretend that he is, to make us and the Miss feel better.“
While he heard the two maids hoarsely whispering to each other in their not-so-hushed tones, he pretended not to care. If they were kind enough to sympathize with him, he would not complain. In fact, he felt extremely grateful for the two maids, who could understand that he needed to be this way more than anything in the world. His round light-brown eyes remained fixed to the television in front of him, with his short 8-year old legs hanging over the couch and small 8-year old hands gripping the remote so tightly that — had they not been 8-years old, could have crushed it to pieces.
On one side of the flat-screen plasma television stood a clean-cut woman dressed in a pale pink dress-suit and white heels with her microphone held tightly up to her mouth, a complete contrast to the blackened and muddy backdrop of which she stood. The boy, and nearly every other citizen in the country would recognize this woman, had they even watched the news once in their lives. She was the pale and delicate Miss Zhang, whose speech was clear as the waters of Hunan and rang louder than all of the angry mother’s in China.
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