Boy I

Through humid summer nights that follow long summer days, he lies with open eyes. The velvet air of the city creeps through the half-shut windows of this house. His breathing, short gasps that rush to embrace the city air. The clock ticks on but has given up trying to speak with him. They have not spoken since he learnt how to walk.
He does not occupy much space on the bed – the smooth sheet longs for him to throw his hands over it. He stands, walks to the window, fingers touch the curtains but he feels nothing as he looks upon a street flooded with light that the man on the moon bought from the sun. In the distance, neon lights blind strangers who walk incessantly, waiting for a night that never ends. He is too far away to hear the sound that well-polished shoes make on smooth concrete sidewalks; he knows it well, however – once he walked with them, on a dark night when the neon lights burned brightest; they penetrated his skull, effortlessly passing through eyes they had blinded. He hadn’t left his room for days, weakened by the vulgar attack of well-polished shoes and neon lights on his boyish senses. He sits in the chair by the window, rubber-boned arms wrapping around bloody knees.

The floor of the roof is still cold when he lies down. His bare body can feel the crimson hues of the yet youthful sun rush across the barren sky. The birds know he is there. Outstretched arms shoot out from his torso, chiselled by a sculptor with a strange sense of humour. He waits with a bowl held in each palm. Food. Water.
The sun crawls along the blue dome above his home while its rays pierce the air and caress his darkened skin. The birds descend from the sky and the rays of the sun lose sight of him. The birds walk over his hardened skin and their beaks travel along the ridges that they created long ago.
When they leave him to the sun’s mercy he shuts his eyes to sleep for a while. Drops of sweat appear along his temples, flow through the etchings on his skin; his naked limbs glow in the daylight. When the birds return, they cluster around his knees, freshly stained red.

the joker

This is what the boy said:

A spot of white paint still remains on his chin. He has been distracted the last few days, and a little careless. Everyday, he washes away his painted face, then folds his clothes and puts them into a bag. At work, he wears a tailored suit, exquisite and fine, of purple cloth and buttons gold. A shroud of jasmine perfume envelops his brow. There is silver wire that runs down the sides of his hat.

A joker of some repute, people come in droves to watch his show. Deepest night colours his pupils and the whites gleam under the circus’s harsh lights. The circus has acts aplenty but none as popular as his comical lines. At the circus there is joy, no doubt.

Now he heads home, the spot of white paint still clinging to his withered chin, the faint whiff of cheap perfume whispering to the man who sits to his left, the red lights of the cars hurting his restless eyes. In this city of fast cars and neon lights he is finding it harder and harder to breathe as nights go by. The shining numbers of the clock change shape incessantly, moving slower and slower as time passes.

His heart beats faster and faster every day to make sure that his face is as calm as before. The moon’s tranquil wisdom pours itself onto his drying skin; he watches the ground as he walks.

At home, he sits with a cup of tea warming his clammy palms. He speaks to the others, spies on the words of holy men creeping out of the silver box lying in the corner of the room, watches them drill holes in their skulls. The tea is still hot when he gulps it down.