A Poets Wildest Dreams

TW: Child Abuse

The first night that we moved in, we arrived in the dark. The street lights were on but the houses were all dark. I climbed up the stairs to what would be my new bedroom and immediately hung up my poster before laying the sleeping bag out. Although I had slept in the car for most of the fourteen hour drive here, I was exhausted already when thinking about the furniture that would have to be moved in tomorrow. Teeth brushed, pajamas on, and a glass of water beside me, I looked out my window onto the street below for a few minutes before crawling into the bag.

The second day that we moved in, I saw him. A short boy, no taller than 3’2”. He couldn’t have been very old. About five, if I had to guess. A slim waist below his narrow shoulders that slumped inwards, as if he was willing himself into nothingness, into nonbeing. Strange, I thought to myself, a boy of such a young age should be playing in the now slightly greening grass that had just thawed from winters frozen grip, not sitting on the porch beneath the overhangs shadow trying to disappear. I waved softly and he cringed, making himself even smaller.

The small bark of our dog snagged my attention and when I turned back, the boy was gone, the door not making a sound as it closed into place. I grabbed my new bookbag out of the trunk while mom and dad directed the movers on how to get the couch out of the moving van, as if it wasn’t the mover’s everyday situation. I was sure they knew how to maneuver the couch better then mom and dad ever could, having only now moved for the second time in my 17 years of existence. While my parents were hardworking people, they were certainly desk workers, their stomachs and arms showing as much.

Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I stepped inside our new home. As I walked up the stairs and to the left into my new bedroom, I smiled at my poster, THE poster. It was strange to think that I would only be here for one short year as I stared at the bedroom furniture that had always been mine… But the poster, that was new, obtained not even a month ago when I got the letter. Smiling and laughing faces with the words written across it stating, “Welcome to Northwestern University!” Receiving the letter left me in an almost dream state, soon I would be on my way to one of the best creative writing schools, one step closer to becoming a true poet.

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It was strange, the sounds I heard late at night, they had been going on for a few months now, not a night silent. I could never figure out where exactly they were coming from. Muffled screams terrorized my dreams and I often awoke to the sound of… well here I am wanting to become a poet and left without words, how ironic…. But the sounds were not something I could describe. Almost like a dog, or a wolfs howl, but mixed with an emotion that could only be human. Every so often I would ask Mom and Dad about it, but they always said they never heard a thing.

What was also unnerving was the feeling I got when I passed by the house I had seen the little boy at. I couldn’t put my finger on it but it gave me shivers every time. I hadn’t seen the boy since that first springy feeling day, but I did see what I figured was his father out in the garden every so often. What a wicked garden he had, all dead plants and thorns, I didn’t understand why he spent any time trying to get it to grow back to what I imagine used to be beautiful. Just like him. His hard body with thick angles must have once been so unbelievably breathtaking, but it was clear that certain substances had taken their toll. I had once asked mom and dad about the boy and his father, but my dad had looked at me oddly and told me the man lived alone, he had learned so when he went over to introduce himself when we had first moved in.

As days and nights passed, I often found myself looking out my window, at the house across the street and wondering about the young boy. Once or twice I thought I caught a glimpse of him, but I chalked it up to my overwhelmed mind playing tricks on me as stressed out as I was over the upcoming graduation. 10 months had passed, and I was so close to being out of this town. I thought about all the friends I would leave behind before remembering I hadn’t made any.

I would have laughed at myself if it wasn’t so sad. My life, at almost 18 years old, had already been filled with loneliness and disconnect, a poets dream that would same day spill out into beautiful lines that grabbed readers attention and held them close, ever so dearly, letting them know they were not as alone as I currently felt. There were more strange sounds tonight but, by this time, they had become background noise that I welcomed instead of shuttered away from. Any time I woke up in the night, they were the noises that lulled me back to sleep in my warm snuggly bed, with the university poster smiling down at me.

Two days until high school graduation! My parents were busy with the preparations while I was busy daydreaming about the publishers that would same day be begging me to write for them. I sat on my bed thinking about all the friends I would make and how getting out of this house would be the first true adventure of my life. Thrilling thoughts of romance, of walks around campus, and the interior of my soon to be apartment filled my head. I went to sleep that night thinking about all the wonderful things I would same day be, of my life finally beginning.

 I wake up thirsty and hungry, having forgotten to eat dinner the night before in my excitement. I checked the bedside clock and saw that it was shortly past eleven at night. Rubbing my eyes of sleep, I crawled out of bed and used my phone flashlight, as to not wake my parents, to help my decent down the stairs into the kitchen where I knew the leftovers would be placed neatly in the fridge in the medium sized glass Tupper wear my parents always used. Throwing the leftover spaghetti in the microwave I looked down and frowned at the old night attire I wore with holes in the pants and the collar of the shirt stretched out. This simply would not work in college, I needed to add pajamas to my ever-growing college shopping list.

With my stomach now full, I filled up a tall glass of water and crept back up to my bedroom, this time without the light. As I sat the glass down on my nightstand, I noticed something…. Or better stated, a lack of something that drew my attention. There were no strange noises tonight. In my hurry to the window, my fingers snagged on the glass and it clattered to the floor, breaking into a million tiny pieces. I held my breath, waiting for the sound of my parents getting up to check on me. Fifteen seconds passed, then thirty, then a minute, they must not have heard it.

Forgetting about the lack of sound for a second, I turned towards my door to grab the broom in the hall, but a small flicker of light brought me back to the window right as the clock struck midnight. I looked around at the ground so far below me but did not see anything unusual. Right as I was about to turn away, the light flickered again. It came from inside the house across the street, I was sure of it now. I peered out, willing the light to make another appearance. A few more flickers of light shown brightly for only a second or so at a time before disappearing again. Minutes passed, then it flicked back on, holding for over ten seconds before I truly saw what was happening.

My breath caught, my chest getting tight, my fingers – no – my full body shaking as I tried to get out a scream, but I couldn’t seem to make a sound. The man across the street, who had said he lived alone although I knew…. I KNEW I had seen that boy…. He was scrapping the still lit lighter across the flesh of a to slim figure. I finally got my scream to come out and immediately heard my parents rushing for me, but it was to late. It was way too late.

The boy’s body had already burst into flames, showing the bruised and battered skin before completely engulfing the child. Dad slammed the door open right as the curtains took the flames and the fist floors room lit up bright. It was to late. Dad was yelling at mom but I could not hear them, I could only hear the sounds I had come to ignore that now burned, much like the boy, in my brain as I realized they were never the sound of animals, they where the sounds of the terror the boys father had rained down on him. It was to late. It was to late. It was way to late.

I sat on the floor, forgotten shards of glass pressing into my behind, my head in my hands. I didn’t hear the sounds of the fire trucks pulling up, nor did I hear the words my parents were speaking to each other and then to me. All I could hear were my own thoughts, telling me how wonderful of a poet I would become. How famous, how loved, how others would hang on every single horrible word I would write down about a little boys lack of a future. How this sealed my fate. How all of this was truly a poets wildest dream.