MALEDICTION

Forsaken was the house that Callahan had called home for eight years. The outside, the living room, the furniture, his bedroom, they were inundated mercilessly with the cold. Yet, nothing was truly amiss in his desolate house other than the absence of the people who owned it.

Their disappearance was sudden, unforeseen. And really, Calla wasn’t put off at the idea of an unconfined and empty house. Why would he mind? His parents were iniquitous people. They were weirdos, they came from weirdos, and they made their children into people who would turn out the same. He wasn’t scared because he found that it was not possible that their desertion could be any worse than their presence.

During the longest of days, Calla would entertain himself with books he had already completed, because nearly everything else was withering away. He didn’t read often but he supposed he could now. The white paint on the walls was chipping to reveal an old, yellowed wallpaper. There were flowers there, though hard to make out with the way age diminished the shapes of their petals and muted every color. Still, Calla guessed that maybe it was once beautiful to the earlier owners.

Eventually, enough time passed that he flipped the light switch on, expecting something he would not get. He fixed the issue the only way he could, by lighting the many scented candles that his mother had once adored. Each one had a different name, a unique scent, varying colors of wax. Vanilla Palms, Beach Touch, Fruit Filled Sunset. He snickered at the thought of such femininity in something as simple as candles. What did those names even mean?

They all smelt like her. Sickly sweet. Misleading. Because while these candles smelt nice, they didn’t burn too bright. Naturally, the lonely boy wondered why his mother left her candles behind. If she loved them so much, why were they gathering dust?

The charred wicks had kept him company in a way his parents would not, but it was only so long before he desired to leave them behind like his mother did. He’d rather live in the dark than think of her anymore than he had reason to, the one who was meant to be lighting the candles.

Time was quickly lost. Calla recognized that several nights and days came and went but he didn’t count how many. He spent a lot of time with his cheek pressed against a window frosted by the winter, a spot fogged by his breath anytime he was seated by it. He’d make a face or spell out a word, wipe it away, then focus again on the outside world. The outside was so intimidating to an eight year old. Little Calla wasn’t allowed in the backyard during the night and rarely the day. He used to be instructed to stay in his room from the evening to late mornings. He’d only been let outside when necessary.

Solitude didn’t only exist because his parents were gone.

When weight settled on his shoulders, it never went away.

The millions of stars outside of the abandoned little boy’s window were counted each night, because now he could do whatever he wanted to. He often let himself reach out to touch the outlying stars, though he knew, everytime without fault, he would quickly pull his arm back to the safety of his side when he found that it would disappear in the dark, no matter how vivid the moonlight was.

Calla, while longingly gazing at those stars, wished for a savior to come along and find him. But such miracles don’t happen for boys like Callahan Casas.

However long it took, maybe a month, maybe two, the rest of the food was used between Calla, another, and a stray cat he had caught a glimpse of one foggy morning. He felt pity for the creature because it was just as hopeless and cowardice as the boy felt he was.

The water stopped sprouting from the faucet and the water bottles were disappearing as well. He chewed on the plastic bottles out of boredom. Calla went hungry many evenings in fear of losing food. It was inevitable that they would, though.

He had sobbed, his thin arms hugging his own stomach, cursing at himself the night he ate the last minuscules of bread.

He had to pull himself together to look for some money to buy something- anything. He pulled apart the couch slowly, and found some nickels and quarters, along with a stale chip and an empty glass bottle that had been filled with wine. Not a single droplet was left. He dug in the unorganized kitchen drawers and his parents’ dressers. Their room was untouched except for a note that was too high for Calla to reach, even with a stepstool. He promised to himself that he would stay alive long enough to grow taller so that he could reach it.

Calla did not stop his search until he found it satisfactory, the amount of money he had gathered, from hidden spots to the ones most obvious, as well as a bundle of money tucked inside his parents’ mattress that wasn’t discovered until a last desperate attempt. It was wrapped up with a rubber band and he told himself that they left it there for him. It could have been true. He snapped the band against the paper, still and staring at the cold tiles of the floor. His body wasn’t accustomed to being deprived of nearly everything it required to function, and so it was frequent that Calla spaced out or found it hard to move. But he soon left the absents’ room and grabbed the coat from on his bed anyway.

Tears ran cold down his cheeks, but he had no other noticeable reaction. The throbbing in the eight year old’s heart was not visual. He didn’t let his lips wobble or his eyebrows pull together like they were fighting to do.

Nothing hurt more than knowing that his situation was a hopeless one. Calla was aware of the fact that now he could actually afford something to eat, sure, but wouldn’t he have to go through this whole process once again? And then how many times after that?

Calla found himself in a cycle barely in its beginning, yet there was no stop to it.

He had made sure to observe his surroundings after he found the courage to open the front door. The boy tucked his hands inside of his pockets, looking down at winter’s result; slippery, glistening grass and clear skies. His dad always stressed the idea of making sure that he was safe on the streets since anytime he left the house he was alone -even though he really only left the house for school- since the age of six. Calla didn’t think the reason for that was because his father would be genuinely perturbed if the little boy hadn’t returned back home one day, though.

Calla hadn’t memorized the streets so he felt lost, but he refused to submit to an inexorable end. With non-existent direction, he walked down the sidewalk which abruptly ended at times to make way for big lawns and then appeared again. All of the quarters and nickels and the bundle of bills were heavy on his weak legs. After walking in a straight line for some minutes, he came across a small gas station that he had passed by every time on his way to school. He found comfort in the familiarity of it.

He sniffled for the last time and wiped his red and running nose with the back of his hand. No one gave a glance to the miserable eight year old little boy with tear-stained cheeks.

His purchase consisted of chips and soda, maybe a candybar here and there. He hadn’t ever bought something himself, he’d seen his parents do it but he was still only ever a spectator. He was a little excited, though he could only just peek over the counter. Calla put down his items, and collected some bills in his hands. The cashier examined Calla for a moment and then scanned the store while simultaneously doing the same for his items. The teenager wouldn’t have bat an eye at any other child in the store but this boy in particular caught his attention, for his eyes were far too puffy, and nose much too pink for it only to be caused by the season. He saw how pale and thin Calla was. How he looked so eager to just rip into those chips.

The teenager raised a bushy eyebrow. He had many pits and pimples in his face but Calla thought they gave him a sort of individuality. The texture of his skin pulled his face together well because he had scary looking eyes and thin, chapped lips. The little boy thought it made him look tough, like a villain who wasn’t really bad.

“Where are your parents?” His voice sounded as if there were spit bubbles stuck in his throat. Calla cleared his own without thinking about it.

“You tell me,” the younger opted for. Calla hadn’t heard his own voice in a long time. It was a strange sound. The teenager didn’t acknowledge what he said, only told him the price of his items. He bagged Calla’s things but didn’t hand it to him afterwards. He stared at the young boy for a moment that was less than pleasant and he sighed, which caused his thin, brown hair to flutter upwards.

“I’m not sure I should let you go off by yourself looking like that,” he mumbled. His finger tapped against the orange counter in a pattern. Calla scowled in a way that he had seen his father do countless times and put out a waiting hand. The cashier scratched his head and groaned quietly but dropped the bag onto his fingers and Calla thanked him. As he turned around, the mildly worried and nameless cashier quickly told the boy to stay safe and go straight home. Only, Calla didn’t know if he could consider it that anymore.