6
Little Robby is sleeping on his bed in the middle of the night. His body is wrapped under a heavy blanket. Only his little legs in blue socks are hanging from the edge. His head is neatly resting on the pillow. Robby tried to keep it in place with his hands and yet, he failed. His cute snoring is audible all over the house.
And look! He’s about to wake up. He is blinking his sleepy eyes while taking off the blanket.
It’s long past midnight. The moon is high up today. It is blooming. And yet, like a flower, every few minutes it is covered – the land grows black. No one would see this if Robby was asleep.
He gently stands up from the bed, stretches his slender limbs.
Then, he takes a step towards the bathroom. Full eight hours Robby has been sleeping. He needs a relief.
While on the toilet, he thinks what he should do. He cannot sleep any more. School is not soon too. It’s only 3 am. Some leisure would be fortune.
He takes the path back to the bed, but remembers about the book. The book was received just a week ago by his parents. “From the collection”. His parents were happy to receive such a gift. Especially to be not forgotten by the retired author.
The book is downstairs. Somewhere between the lines of accounts and stories parents keep.
Robby goes down there, into the darkness, like a brave boy he is. He did not grow that older in two years. He is a good boy too since he tries not to bother his parents in such a late hour.
Old steps crack under his feet.As soon as he thinks that he is in full darkness, the moon comes back, illuminating the whole floor.
Something magical is in emptiness. Some truth or a sweet lie. A sweet want.
Robby hops down the stairs. His tiny body seems even smaller in a room like this. To the bookshelf he goes. His eyes search through the titles. And there it is, tightly inserted into the middle of the row. “White fuzzy man: the lost paw”
Robby pulls the book. It seems thinner than he remembers it to be. The cover is pure green besides the golden letters.
“There lives a man in far forgotten land;
A land of hopes, being turned to sand;
A land of love and purple tainted skies;
A land of sorrow, hunger in disguise.
He rests in there under pile of dirt.
To live and die is his own resort.
So, he lingers, where all the love ran dry;
He knows he can run, knows he can fly.
And so, he flies in a sky so deep,
And so, he lingers, steady pulse and steep.
He flies through skies searching for redemption;
He craves for the resolve of tension.”
The room went dark again as the moon hid.
Is a boy just like my reader, you!
He searches far and wide for that beloved boy;
He searches weeks for real, not a stupid ploy,
And here he sees him walking down the street
From school, returning to the mama’s heat.
He follows boy from roof and to the roof,
Hopping between buildings, our little goof!
He sits on the tree, above the garden earth,
Waiting, starving with not a slight remorse,
Cause soon the sun will finally set down,
Soon the night will swallow the whole town.
He watches the kid who early went to sleep.
The parents go to bed, so he takes a leap,
Holds onto the roof and climbs down the chimney,
Going deeper, tougher, dirty, not a whimsy.
Now he’s inside, now he’s near.
Only couple hours – what he wants, appears.”
Robby can’t make sense of the words. They make the story by far too jumbled. This is not like any kids book he usually reads. This is something too difficult to comprehend.
He takes a look around the room. The moon is slowly coming back. The room is bright once again.
“He crawls slowly up the wooden stairs;
He knows, where they are, our little hair;
He creeps in the shadows to the parents’ room,
And leaps forward in the moonlight gloom.
He bites, brakes and mangles
All the way though night,
But does it so quiet,
So boy won’t get a fright.
And now adults – dead;
Their teeth on their pillows.
It would be very sad,
But does not really feel so.”
Robby doesn’t like the words. They take an awful turn. Dead parents? Such an awful thought. This book is something wrong.
Robby wants to scream out of fear. He wants to run to his parents. But instead, he sits silent with a lump in his throat. The room remains silent.
Robby imagines something upstairs. Something so scary, it’s hard to think about. It’s hard to stay like this.
He sits like that for maybe a dozen of minutes, looking at the stairs leading higher, behind the railing. Leading to the parent’s room. Soon, he understands he needs to do something.
He won’t go upstairs, so he should read. Something this moving. Something that will tell more. He is such a smart little boy.
The next page is empty though. So are the next 5. Blank. The poem continues afterwards.
“He stairs into the darkness of the night,
Waiting for the hour of the crow’s flight,
For little boy to come out of the room,
For him to go down and read the little book.”
Robby starts crying. What is this?
The darkness fills the room again.
“He’ll wait a little more,
He will win the bet.
Maybe takes a glimpse,
No more than that.
As the book is ending slowly,
Here he surely comes.
Nothing here will stop him.
No one outruns.”
And the book ends there. Nothing more. No illustrations. Plain text. Robby stairs into the darkness before him. He doesn’t see, but feels that there must be something there. He feels like it’s moving between the furniture.
Standing there, near the coffee table.
Someone.