Want

New children came on Tuesdays. In a large, black van with a distinctive logo. It parked; two men, dressed in bright blue scrubs like nurses in TV hospital dramas, exited; the massive sliding doors opened; and the Wanteds were set loose.

What made them Wanted? They were perfect. Their eyes were bright colors like green, blue, or red; their skin was soft, fair, and unblemished; their hair flowed in the wind and glistened in the sun; and all their limbs were present, proportional, and in the correct number. Yes, these children were Wanted. Life simply had taken a tragic detour, to be swiftly corrected the instant Adoption Day reared its precocious maw. 

Then there were the children who arrived on different days. Always a surprise, and always in cars which were not the black van. These mystery cars parked; two people, one a man, the other a woman, both dressed in ordinary clothes, exited; unlike the stoic, professional masks worn by the “nurses”, these people looked distressed. Anxious. Disheveled. When they opened the mystery car’s door, it was to loose an UnWanted.

What made them UnWanted? Most of the time it was the skin. Or the eyes. Although sometimes, a child came along with the wrong number of fingers, or arms. Or with something extra. 

Oftentimes the UnWanted was very young. Young, and confused. They reached for the man, or perhaps the woman. But those people recoiled. Afraid to touch. Instead, they ushered the child on, perhaps with promises of play dates. Or school. But as soon as the UnWanted child crossed the threshold, the man and the woman fled.

Stone narrowed his yellow, gemlike eyes. He had watched this process a thousand times. Yet it never changed. Never stopped. Lacking a nose, ears, or any semblance of hair across the gray, stone-like exoskeleton he knew as his body–Stone was, unquestionably, UnWanted. Days like these made him curl his hands into fists.

As is the nature of things, the Wanteds and UnWanteds segregated themselves. It started as early as Breakfast, the very morning new children arrived. 

There were three tables in the cafeteria. The fresh-faced, brightly-colored Wanteds flocked together at the first; Unwanteds of various ills, be they three-eyed, scaled, or four-armed slumped together at the second; new UnWanteds tarried on the fringe, frozen by delusions of what was, but would never be again. They did not sit down. Not until an older UnWanted with half-lidded eyes approached them.

Born without crying, the size of a toddler, and fully capable of using his four-fingered limbs, Stone needed no one. He sat by himself at the third table, munching gruel through a mouth that barely moved. All around him, both Wanteds and UnWanteds moved their mouths, making sounds he could not hear, and expressions he did not understand. 

After Breakfast, Stone watched TV. The TV-Room was just that: a room with a Television. Just one. Stone always entered around the same time. Always to find it infested with Wanteds. Some levitated, others threw fireballs around like toys, another flipped channels without touching the buttons. All ceased when they saw Stone, lingering in the doorway. They all made the same expression. The same expression his parents made when they saw him for the first time. Then they left. One by one.

Stone always watched the same thing: the Nature Channel. He entered, used one over-large finger to push the antiquated buttons, and continued until he reached the correct channel. Then he sat down.

Stone liked the Nature Channel. Liked seeing the different places, what lived there. Most of all, he liked seeing the patterns. All things had patterns, if you watched long enough. Patterns, like the bright and colorful things getting all the attention. Patterns, like the weakest offspring getting left behind. Patterns, like the seemingly slow, dull, yet ever-watchful predator winning in the end.

Lunch, like Breakfast, was segregated. The Wanteds always went first. Whether the large women in aprons gave them larger portions as a rule, or if it depended upon relative brightness, Stone did not know. He saw one Wanted make his spork spin in mid-air. He received a double portion. When the UnWanteds went through the line, however, the portions were frustratingly small. Stone watched, hands curled.

In Nature, the largest predators ate first. Stone had always been large for his age. Taller and broader, even than the choosey serving-ladies. When he went through the line, he peered down at them with empty plate. Daring them to leave it so. They didn’t. In fact, they gave him more than double. Well more, all the while wearing that familiar expression. 

He never ate it all. Just as well, that wasn’t the point.

After Lunch, Stone met with his Counselor–while the other children went to Play-Time. She reminded him of that woman who refused to be his mother.

Every meeting was the same. Stone sat in a chair too small for him, in a room filled with brightly-colored things that meant nothing to him. His Counselor sat across from him–also in a chair that was too small–and made many mouth movements. She would then pull out her cards. Things with pictures of other things, or shapes that apparently meant things. 

After several meetings, where Stone simply stared, something finally changed. His Counselor, instead of raising a card and making a mouth movement, started raising a card in one hand and making a unique hand movement with the other.

This, Stone could understand. 

At night, Stone did not sleep. He was not capable of it. Instead, he sometimes wandered the halls after dark, occasionally crossing paths with other UnWanteds who also could not sleep. Like the girl who looked like a cat; or boy with eyes entirely too large for his head, and six very long fingers. Most of the time, though, Stone sat up in his room. Looking out of the window. Watching for the sun.

‘H-E-L-L-O. H-O-W A-R-E Y-O-U.’

At some point, Stone’s Counselor stopped taking out the cards. But not making the hand movements.

‘O-K.’ 

Stone found he understood well enough. His Counselor made that expression she always made when he used the correct hand movement. The one that pulled up the edges of her mouth. 

‘S-M-I-L-E.’

‘I C-A-N-T.’

It had been awhile since Stone was allowed at Play-Time. He did not know why. All he had done, since the day he arrived, was the same thing he did everywhere: watch. He watched as the Wanteds seized all the brightest, most obviously “fun” toys; watched as the UnWanteds filed in slowly and methodically, then pulled their own homemade “toys”–things made of paper, sporks, and spare time–from their pockets.

Two groups. In two completely different worlds. The pattern, repeating over, and over, and over again…

One day, Stone stopped watching. He turned his back to Wanted and UnWanted alike. The wall was less taxing. Unchanging. Unfeeling. Solid. Like him.

This was apparently bad. This was when he was brought to see his Counselor.

When the doors to the Play-Room opened to Stone again, he witnessed something that made him use his fists. 

UnWanteds, cowering in the center as Wanteds flew overhead, pausing only to make expressions Stone was learning to be “rude”. Others hurled fireballs at the UnWanteds’ feet. Then there was the one with many objects orbiting his head, which he periodically threw at the UnWanteds’. 

Stone tried to see the pattern in this. The commonality in Nature. The reason. He could not. Then he remembered the Killer Whale. The super-predator intelligent enough to be cruel. Flinging seals back and forth like balls. Toying with their lives. Terrorizing them for hours on end. Only to decide, once the amusement dulled, to let them go. 

What was that? What, but the Strong–those with everything, every advantage in the world–tormenting the Weak–those with absolutely nothing. And for no reason at all.

The Wanteds were not Killer Whales. The UnWanteds were not seals. And Stone was not watching the Nature Channel. 

He walked into the room, a grim shadow. His first act was to seize a flier by the ankle and slam him to the ground. That got the fire-thrower’s attention. Countless fireballs rained upon Stone at once, utterly destroying his clothes. The same flier was a useful distraction as Stone hurled him at the firing-line, then lowered his shoulder. The unyielding, unstoppable force of a rockslide slammed through the line, leaving Stone to remove his head from the wall–and the fire-throwers bleeding, barely conscious.

All that remained now was the one moving things without touching them. Stone bore upon him mercilessly. The lone Wanted boy was making that expression–the one they always make. The one Stone’s parents, the choosey serving-ladies, the Wanteds in the TV-Room, made. Then he started throwing. Everything. 

Wooden blocks splintered;

Action figures shattered;

Scissors, pencils, and other supplies scattered.

Even the craft table was of no effect. Stone felt none of them. He seldom felt anything, at all.

As he neared his final adversary, it occurred to Stone just how unfair it was. He, the size of two children; he, unable to hurt; he, strong enough to break the craft table in his hands. It just wasn’t fair.

Neither was life.

Stone was put in a room with four white walls after he stopped watching, this time. He did not know if the Wanteds were as well. Or if that mattered. All he knew was there were no windows to look out of. No TV to watch. He received food through a slot in the door. 

Stone spent a long time with those four walls. Long enough to start seeing patterns within them. It was around that time his Counselor visited. He did not hear the locks clicking as they disengaged, nor the shuffling of three pairs of feet as she entered, flanked by two burly “nurses”. But Stone did watch it. 

‘H-E-L-L-O. H-O-W A-R-E Y-O-U.’

The “nurses” bristled as Stone sluggishly raised a hand that was twice the size of theirs.

‘O-K.’ 

Stone’s Counselor smiled. Stone then looked at the walls. Then back at her, smile faltering. 

‘W-A-N-T O-U-T.’

Now it became something like an inverted smile.

‘P-L-A-Y N-I-C-E.’

Breakfast seemed normal. As usual, Stone kept to himself. He munched his gruel at his table, all-the-while waiting for the pattern to reveal itself. As it always had. 

It did not disappoint. Everything seemed as though Stone had never left at all. That is, until an older UnWanted girl with frog-like skin and rectangular pupils sat at Stone’s table. He did not know what this…this anomaly in the pattern meant. Nor did he know what it made him feel. Stone did not know if he felt anything about it, for good or bad.

Going back to the TV-Room was nice. Like Breakfast, things progressed as normal. Although the Wanteds were quicker to leave. Stone relished walking to the TV, pressing the button to change the channel. He did not notice when the first one entered.

When Stone sat down to watch his show, he was not alone. While his back was turned, other UnWanteds began to gather. Slowly. Timidly. Soon, the room was filled with children covered in fur, or that had wings, tails or extra arms. Again, Stone did not know what he thought–what he felt. But he did watch his nature show.

Lunch was more of the same. Stone seemed to be gathering strays. It reminded him of large predators, always surrounded by scavenging birds. That felt wrong, though. He wasn’t so different from other UnWanteds–not so much to make him a lion, they the birds. That’s when it hit him; he knew what was different. Stone had stopped simply watching the pattern. He was part of it, now. What his part was, however, he still did not know.

After lunch, Stone would have gone to see his Counselor. Instead, he was sent to Play-Time. 

‘P-L-A-Y N-I-C-E. N-O W-A-L-L.’ 

‘O-K.’

Stone did not know what he expected. As soon as he entered, many UnWanted children ran up to him. It was the first time he saw any UnWanteds smile. The frog-girl from breakfast was there. She took his hand, rough and massive, to lead him where the UnWanteds played.

Stone sat. Unable to hear, unable to feel touches of affirmation or affection, unable to move his face. But as he watched his fellow UnWanteds play with toys they made themselves, he found he finally knew his place in the pattern.

Stone was not the predator the birds flocked around. He was, himself, a bird; a large, aggressive bird. The largest and boldest of the flock. Rushing the lion’s kill to tear off chunks for his smaller kin. Yes, that seemed right. That felt good.