Possession

by Juliet Benson

It was raining out. No big deal, he’d handled rain before. Too often, in fact. Water dripped down his face. Funny how tears and rain were shaped the same. Whenever it rained like this, it made the world seem sad, at least to him. He spat and wandered around the outside of the looming building. Approaching the side entrance, he could hear his father and Medda laughing coarsely and gasping on the inside. Doing a quick turn on his heel, he tried to walk far away from the noise, making his footsteps loud and singing to himself to block out the sound. They had invited him in, to walk around while they "talked". He had declined, of course, and they had looked at him like he was crazy. He probably was. He was hoping to get sick out here in the rain and die. Mother had said that all the time: "Get in before you catch your death of cold." Or something like that. It was getting hard to remember stuff about her. That brought back the pain, and so he quickly dragged his mind away to something else. People walking by. Moonlight sighing on the streets, glistening in the puddles. A man grabbed for him, but he jumped back and ran down an alley. The man’s rough laughter followed him, reminding him of his father and Medda. Breathe. Wipe away tears. Or was that rain? He liked Medda, he really did. She was always nice to him, and never ignored him like some of his father’s other friends. He heard his father calling loudly for him and retraced his steps. They had been quick this time. When the moonlight illuminated his face enough for his father to see him, he pulled on his cowboy hat.

"Let’s go," his father said, grasping his arm and pulling him along behind him. He probably didn’t mean to be rough, probably wasn’t aware of it. He wasn’t aware of much, anymore. They got to the house and his father released him.

"I’m going to hang around out here for a bit," he said to his pop. He got another one of those looks. They came frequently, these days.

"Sure," was the only reply, however, and the hulking figure was swallowed up by the house. Confined, caged. While he was out here. Free?

His mother would have protested. She would have sighed like she was upset, but affection would be shining in her eyes. She had beautiful eyes. He got his eyes from her. Then she would hustle him in, wrap a blanket around him and make him some tea. Then they’d talk. He’d tell her some joke he’d heard on the streets, and she’d laugh, even if it wasn’t funny. She had a beautiful laugh, too. She could outshine the moon, just with her smile. He got his laugh from her, too. He was glad about that, glad he had something, something of hers in his possession. Pain again. Breathe. Wipe. Gulp. Look around. It was procedure now. No sound in the house. Father was probably passed out drunk. At least he didn’t have to try to carry him home. No, don’t think about that either. Just don’t think. Don’t feel. He heard someone laughing, somewhere. Not a happy laugh, like hers had been. A sad laugh, a harsh laugh, like Medda’s and Father’s. He tried to walk away again, tried to get away. As he walked in the house, the laugh still rang in his head. He had failed.