Wednesday, January 26, 2011


The bare feet, dirty and wounded, climbed onto the dumps. It was a summer morning, and he was early. Maybe today, he would find something before the others did. He sat down atop the two feet junk and looked around the vastly spread garbage. It wasn't an empty playground and he didn't enjoy playing in it. He picked a dirty piece of cloth and worked on his left foot. He would not have cared to bandage the wound had it not hurt so bad. 

He started to rummage through the pile in front of him. An hour later, he looked content with his bulging sack stuffed with rag. He lay down on the garbage bed staring at the hollow sky. He liked the sky. He felt it to be just like him. Empty, clueless, no hint of happiness.

He felt a sense of desperation again. Ever since he was mocked by three boys last week. Ever since he wished for their white uniforms and shiny water bottles. He dared not to ask his mother, or he would get more scars like those on his arms. He continued to gaze at the blue and let the desperation swallow him. The desperation for happiness, love and grace. To tell himself that there's a place to escape and the desperation to believe that self taught lie.

He lost himself into the darkness. A place where he often felt alone and scared . He screamed for help, tried to run away. He shivered as he looked at those angry eyes, strong hands grabbing him tight, lifting him up and shaking him.

He woke up with a jolt. He stared at an anxious face, and felt a hand on his chest.

"He died.", said his friend.


"He died...They say he killed himself.... "

" ... "

"Are you coming?"

" ... "

" We were looking for you. Are you coming? "


"You should come."

He didn't listen to him. He lay back again and stared at the empty sky. He fought with him last night. Tried to talk him out of it.

 He didn't bother to wipe his wet eyes. He stared. He wished he could go away too. Like his friend did. His best friend.

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