Throw - Away: Post 1
The sky is frozen and still and wax from candles is on the door - this boy sits in the chilled room on top of a bed layered with blankets. He's dying, he's already stopped breathing, he'll soon leave all of us and we love him.
Michael sits on top of this heap of flannel and cotton and wool and he's thinking. This boy isn't wondering what he did wrong and he isn't thinking about us. This child is wondering when the next is coming. This boy is listening for nothing, because he knows that nothing will make the noises that he needed to hear months ago.
Michael is alone. Everyone has left him. There are meals cooked for him and clothes laundered and folded and placed neatly in his closet, dresser drawers, nightstand. The temperature in his room is monitored hourly, the vent has been checked to assure proper air flow, and heaters have been placed lovingly around his room--three ceramic tile heaters, one with an optional blower. The effort is useless, and this is because Michael is always cold. If anyone could touch him his skin would feel moist and slick and the colors reflecting to the eyes would show white: milk white, fresh organic butter white.
Michael is thinking. He's stopped thinking. Now this boy floats in the thoughts he's already thought.
This boy is eight.
Michael sits on top of this heap of flannel and cotton and wool and he's thinking. This boy isn't wondering what he did wrong and he isn't thinking about us. This child is wondering when the next is coming. This boy is listening for nothing, because he knows that nothing will make the noises that he needed to hear months ago.
Michael is alone. Everyone has left him. There are meals cooked for him and clothes laundered and folded and placed neatly in his closet, dresser drawers, nightstand. The temperature in his room is monitored hourly, the vent has been checked to assure proper air flow, and heaters have been placed lovingly around his room--three ceramic tile heaters, one with an optional blower. The effort is useless, and this is because Michael is always cold. If anyone could touch him his skin would feel moist and slick and the colors reflecting to the eyes would show white: milk white, fresh organic butter white.
Michael is thinking. He's stopped thinking. Now this boy floats in the thoughts he's already thought.
This boy is eight.