The Other Boy

The boy was an only child. Often, he surrendered to the deepest depths of his imagination to not feel so lonely and to escape from reality. The house of his upbringing—broken. Broken like the dishes that mother threw at father because he was gone for hours only to return smelling of booze and cheap perfume. It was no secret to the boy, merely 11 years of age, that he was born by accident. Two kids, now known as mother and father, accidently brought the boy into the world. Knowing he was a mistake and alone, the boy had no other choice but to surrender to his imagination. He would imagine what it was like to have a loving home with two older brothers and a younger sister. He would imagine large plates of spaghetti shared at a table big enough to seat his robust sized family. Thunderous laughter filled the air. Plates smashing, mother yelling. Back to reality. The boy could only escape for so long. This night was different—he couldn’t take it anymore. His grandmother’s painting of frozen lake with a happy mother and father ice skating landed abruptly by his feet. Smash. Foot through painting.

The boy stood up in the corner that he routinely cowered in and bolted for the door before his fighting parents could stop him. Cold handle of the door. Short breaths. Cold rain on his back. The boy ran into the backyard and embraced the rain. Although it was raining, the sun was still out and it was quite warm. Sweaty palms. The boy ran.

And ran.

And ran.

At last, he had escaped to a park down the street from his house. He sat in the swing that was barely held together by ever rusting chain links. Warm tears—Cold rain. As he sat there, crying, he tried imagining the large plates of spaghetti and brothers he never had—

“I do that too…” said the other boy.

The boy opened his eyes. A familiar face he had seen before but couldn’t quite recall where exactly.

“You do?” asked the boy.

“At least once a day. To escape.” said the other boy.

The boy and the other boy became inseparable. The two used each other as a support system. Both had fathers that were absent, even when they were home. Both had mothers that would yell and break things. Each had their respective corner in their house in which they hid and escaped to their imaginary families. The boy and the other boy came to rely on each other throughout the years.

16 years old.

The boy and the other boy were in high school now and their problems extended beyond home. Now, the two were forced to choose which drug they wanted to do or who they wanted to sleep with. It was a rainy, summer night between sophomore and junior year and the boy had a lot on his mind.

“I don’t want this. I don’t want to do this anymore” said the boy to the other boy.

The boy and the other boy were at a crossroads. The other boy had no problem with drugs and sex, while the boy wanted to get out of this. The boy tried explaining to the other boy that if he stayed on this path then he would end up exactly like his parents and would be stuck in this hellhole. The other boy didn’t care.

The two stood face to face in the boy’s bedroom. Yelling at each other. The boy felt helpless and that there was no escape. The other boy stood there, yelling at the boy. Louder. Plates shattering. The boy wanted it to stop. He didn’t know what to do and thought the other boy would’ve understood where he was coming from. Louder. The boy and the other boy’s voices competing to be the loudest in the room. The boy found himself in the corner. This night was different—he couldn’t take it anymore.

The boy stood up from the corner and bolted for the door before the other boy could stop him. Cold handle of the door. Short breaths. Cold rain on his back. The boy ran into the backyard and embraced the rain. It was raining, the sun had set and it was quite warm. Bloody palms. The boy ran.

And ran.

And ran.

Thud.

The boy hit the ground. Before he passed out, he saw the bloody palms of the other boy and his own ever-draining wrists. The other boy cut the boy’s wrist in rage and fear. The cold rain continued to fall and the boy heard the laughter of his imaginary family slowly grow louder and louder.

Many years had passed and the boy didn’t see the other boy. The boy continued throughout his life, hating the other boy because of the permanent reminders of that fight etched into his skin in a light pink color. The boy’s broken home never got any better than when he was an 11-year-old boy. In fact, things only got worse as he aged. His father became more physical and his mother more dependent. It was a week until his high school graduation and the boy just felt angry at the world. The boy had nobody to share this exciting feat with. His mother and father were too interested in the next drink they could have and his only friend—the other boy—had been missing for years. He was tired of being angry. This night was different—he couldn’t take it anymore.

The boy paced his room back and forth as his anger at the world begin to grow. Pulse racing.

The boy looked at the corner that he routinely cowered in and bolted for the door before he knew where he was going. Cold handle of the door. Short breaths. Cold rain on his back. The boy ran into the backyard and embraced the rain. Although it was raining, the sun was still out and it was quite warm. Sweaty palms. The boy ran.

And ran.

And ran.

The boy arrived to the park he ran to when he was an 11-year-old attempting to escape reality. He slowly walked towards the rusty swing that was miraculously still together. Cold rain on his back. He sat down in the swing and began to carefully sway. Keeping his feet out of the puddle of water underneath that filled the trench that had been dug by the feet of many children throughout the years. As he swung, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine that—

Thud.

The swing broke. The boy fell face first into the puddle he was trying to avoid. He slid his knees underneath him. First hand down. Second hand down. Cold rain on his back. Both hands under his chest and he pushed up. In the reflection of the puddle, the boy saw the face of the other boy. He yelled angrily and swiped at the body of water underneath him. The reflection became distorted but gradually returned to its original state. The other boy. The boy stared into the eyes of the other boy.