The Lost

"Please - Oh, he's just a boy, he can't help it if-"

"I don't want to hear it, Martha. I told you once, I'll tell you again!"

"Oh but-"

"No son of mine!"

"Theodore-"

"I'm taking him now, woman! He'll learn! Over my dead body will you raise a son that cannot swim!" The man's mad gaze fell upon the child in question, only to have it returned by a profound complexion of terror on the boys face. The angry father paused for a moment, thoroughly alienated by his sons blatant fear. Perhaps I've gone too far, he thought, contemplating letting the matter slide.

"Theodore, please-" his wife began, reuniting the father with his drunken anger. His moment of peace passed and what little compassion the father had drained in an instant. Shoving his wife aside and roaring a string of obscenities, he grabbed the boy by his frail arms and ripped him from his mother's presence. The woman screamed frantically as the boy was dragged out of the house.

"Please!"

A diesel engine roared to life, drowning the nighttime chorus of frogs with a new symphony - a gasping, choking mess with no apparent rhythm or time. Moonlight fell upon a truck speeding from a suburban driveway; a woman on her knees shrieking and crying doleful streams of tears; a small boy confused and horrified as he was hurtled towards whatever destiny awaited him.

The truck had found a new home alongside a small Ohio lake, the man dragging his son by the arm across a rickety wooden dock over an abyss of water. In daylight the dock was a sickly pallor brown, clearly rotting after decades of abandonment. Night had masked it a dark silhouette, the only thing visible being ribbons of moonlight on the water's surface. The man, bringing his son up to the edge of the water, set both of his arms on the child's shoulders. He brought the boys eyes up to his own, locking gazes and searching the youth's terrified eyes for some sign of defiance. He was met only with horror.

"Can't swim eh?" He whispered, applying a visage of kindness over his cruel scowl. The transformation from menacing and enraged to soothing and sallow was in no way subtle, but it had a profound effect on the terrified child. Wrongfully sensing that his father had calmed down, the boy nodded slowly.

"I tried pa, I did but-"

"In the real world there isn't a try, boy. In the real world it's live or die!" The father swung his son about and tossed him over the edge of the dock in one fluent motion of betrayal. The boy flailed desperately for a second in the air, eyes wide as his dire situation made itself clear. The gaping, abysmal darkness of the water rushed up towards him; a leviathan of darkness surging upwards with a distinct, tangible fury. He closed his eyes as it swallowed him, the invisible dark jaws of the water enveloping his helpless figure.

The first thing the boy sensed was the bitter, ruthless cold. It surrounded him, leeching his energy. Water filled his lungs. Just above the surface of the water he could make out the lip of the dock, and standing over him the figure of his father, arms crossed and just out of reach. In the distance, dull and menacing: "What'll it be, boy!"

He fought madly to reach the surface of the black water, his screams muddled underneath the deadly canvas of icy liquid. Recalled to his mind in this desperate moment was a chant from school, a monotonous eerie tradition that his peers would sing as they danced in a circle.

Ring around the rosy; the boy flailed uselessly, his vision clouding. His lungs burned.

Pocket full of posey; the boy passed into violent spasms as his consciousness faded. He was dying.

Ashes, ashes; a sudden will broke out within him; a will to survive; a will to overcome.

We all fall down! The boy's senses marched themselves out of madness, coordinating in a last second burst of effort. Palms outstretched, legs kicking madly he forced himself out of the water and into the cool nighttime air. Gasping, coughing, crying, he grasped the lip of the dock and pulled himself up beside his kneeling father.

"What did you choose?" The man growled, his eyes steady and motionless. The boy remained silent, heaving for air.

"I'll throw you back in, boy. What did you choose?" The boy wheezed, trying to form words. The father reached for his shoulder, his gaze unfeeling and ominous. And then, amidst coughs and spasms: "Live. I chose to live." The father nodded silently, helped the boy to his feet and carried him to the truck. Once again the classical orchestra of frogs was silenced by the invasive jazz melody of a diesel engine. Once again a boy found himself in the front seat of a large truck, an unknown journey set before him as he hurtled forward to some unseen, clouded future.