Boy
Written by interest of the Thursday Scum Club.
She had always been fond of Boy. Boy wore dreadful clothes, but he was quite tall, and he had a pretty sort of face. He had beautiful eyes, though she didn't often see his eyes. But Boy was also upset. He was ill, he had been ill, and he didn't eat, and there was very little she could do about it.
She waited, though, very patiently, because soon he would get better. He must get better, after a while. She was sure of that. Boy had been ill before, and he had gotten better. Everyone got better. So she was sure Boy would get better this time, too.
He walked often, but that didn't surprise her. Everyone walked. Boy would walk, too. He walked stairs, and he walked over bridges. Everyone walked. He was agitated when he walked, sometimes, but that, like everything else, didn't surprise her.
But this time something was wrong, and it did surprise her. Boy was speaking with Old Woman, just as he had many times before, but this time something happened. Warm and hot and sticky was everywhere, and she was rather frightened. It splashed on her, whatever it was, and got her wet. She tried to understand what it was, and it finally occurred to her that it was the same sort of red that had come out of Boy's ankle once when he cut himself. Only this time there was more, much more, which was why she hadn't understood. She felt much better after that, but she kept hoping Boy hadn't hurt himself, since there was so much.
But Boy seemed to be all right, because he began to run. She was glad, though, when they finally got back to the small room with Sofa.
After that, Boy was sick for a little while, and when he got up again, he discarded her. He put her on the floor, took her back, and then put her back on the floor. She lay there, and looked up at him sadly. She was afraid it was because of the red. Perhaps she had been ruined. She really didn't understand.
Boy put on his shoes and left, and when he came back at last, he was sicker than before. She lay on the floor, and felt very lonely. She kept hoping he would get well, and take her back, but he didn't. He just stayed sick.
R, Boy's friend, came and looked after him. That made her feel better. R was a rather peculiar person, but he would take care of Boy. Then Boy began crying. He cried any time R came. She worried so much about him.
And Boy cried for her. He grasped at the air, and he cried for her, and called out for her. The Pretty Man with R searched all over the room until he found her, and then he put her in Boy's hand, and Boy held her close for a whole day. She could smell him. He had a funny sort of smell that was all his own. Pretty Man had smelled of perfume. R had smelled special and his own, too. But Boy was better, she thought.
Boy still cried. His beautiful face scrunched up, and hot water was smeared all over his cheeks. He never opened his beautiful dark eyes. He just cried and turned over and over. He even let go of her and lost her under the quilt after a little while.
When he woke up again, she had never felt so happy. She knew he was awake, even though she couldn't see from under the quilt. Boy still lay on Sofa, but he was awake, and he even spoke to R. R brought him new clothes, but, she heard proudly, R didn't bring new socks.
And when Boy dressed in the new clothes, he took her back and put her on his foot, just as she had always been sure he would. She felt warm, as he began to walk again. Boy had always walked. Everyone walked. Boy was just like everyone. She was glad, because she had always been fond of Boy. She was so pleased that everything had gone back to usual.
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