Das Wolf
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....And Life goes on Living: An Autobiographical Fiction.
On August 15th 1995 I watched a child die. On the eve of his brother’s birthday, a time of celebration and gifting, the long lingering shadow that had been blanketing his life, clouding his vision and threatening to consume him whole finally won. No longer could I reason with him, he wouldn’t hear it, his ears were gone, eroded by the waves of denial and negativity that constantly crashed against him.
I watched from the shadows as he stood above his father the previous night, kitchen knife poised above the sleeping giants’ chest. You can do it I encouraged. Just straight down then up, like poking holes into the lid of a jar. I wanted what he wanted. To live. To survive. To grow old.
Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, he chanted, like a mantra empowering him to fulfil his destiny and free his captive family from that which lay breathing heavily, peacefully beneath the cold trembling blade. What seemed like minutes passed as I watched as the boys resolve began to falter; the chant dropping to a whisper and it was then, when he looked at me with those sorrowful eyes, I knew he was done. He couldn’t do it. Like a dog that had been beaten one too many times by his master, his spirit was broken, his willpower to strike back flailed away by impact and abuse. I watched as he slinked away into the darkness, leaving me there in the giant’s lair holding the knife that afforded him no more power than a wet fish.
The next morning, I tried to talk to the boy. I found him sitting in his room, organizing his belongings into groups. His clothes lay folded neatly on the bed. Are you going somewhere I asked? The boy replied with a nod, his eyes no longer sad or angry as I had often viewed them to be. Freedom danced across his pupils and he afforded a little smile before continuing in his efforts to organize his life possessions. I watched as he spent the rest of the day outside, amusing himself with the company of his pets in what his parents would call antisocial behaviour before nightfall finally came knocking, bidding the day farewell.
I watched in silence as the boy ate his dinner in the company of what passed for his family, all except him in eager discussion of what was going to happen tomorrow for the stranger he called brother’s big day. Night after night I had previously struggled to sit silently through dinner conversation, wanting to step in, to speak the truth and not be denied, to give the boy a voice that would be listened to and not dismissed. But the boy, he beckoned me not to bother, night after night, he would look at me and shake his head. He had learned that it was better to be silent and submissive than to incite the wrath and ridicule of the adults. This night was no different. He finished his meal, excused himself from the table and we retreated to his room and closed the door.
It was here I sat, quietly, looking at the boy, looking at me. He showed me a length of rope, the professional kind. Blue and yellow striped and the thickness of an electrical extension cord. He smiled at me and I smiled back. I think I was more nervous at seeing the happiness then genuinely pleased. This was a boy that did not smile. He did not laugh. He carried around a black blanket of sorrow that he wore like a coat and it protected him from everything. I watched as he showed me how he had learned how to do a sliding knot. The kind people use for tying down objects on trailers and the roofs of cars. I was proud of him. His co-ordination afforded him little in the way of skill for such things.
As he placed the rope around his neck, I was mesmerized by how happy he looked. He told me, he was happy because he has found a way out. He doesn’t need his blanket any longer. The rope is his salvation, its fibres, his strength. He tells me to lie down on the bed, that he’s tired and that its time to sleep. I watch stunned, helpless to stop him as he is finally happy .He yanks on the rope, once, twice, three times. The knot gripping tighter each time, creasing and crumpling his skin. He turns out the light and we lay in the darkness till I drift off to sleep.
When I awoke, the boy was gone. I found myself on a strange bed, surrounded by strange people. I saw family there too. They had found me, they said. My father told the doctors I must have been playing around with some rope and got it caught around my neck. They called me an idiot but they weren’t worried. They told me to get some rest and nothing else was said. Nobody cared that on August 15th 1995 a little boy died. Nobody cared that when he went, he took all that was youthful and sensitive. He left me, alone and unfeeling in his place.
On that day, I died; and part of me will never come back.
On August 15th 1995 I watched a child die. On the eve of his brother’s birthday, a time of celebration and gifting, the long lingering shadow that had been blanketing his life, clouding his vision and threatening to consume him whole finally won. No longer could I reason with him, he wouldn’t hear it, his ears were gone, eroded by the waves of denial and negativity that constantly crashed against him.
I watched from the shadows as he stood above his father the previous night, kitchen knife poised above the sleeping giants’ chest. You can do it I encouraged. Just straight down then up, like poking holes into the lid of a jar. I wanted what he wanted. To live. To survive. To grow old.
Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, he chanted, like a mantra empowering him to fulfil his destiny and free his captive family from that which lay breathing heavily, peacefully beneath the cold trembling blade. What seemed like minutes passed as I watched as the boys resolve began to falter; the chant dropping to a whisper and it was then, when he looked at me with those sorrowful eyes, I knew he was done. He couldn’t do it. Like a dog that had been beaten one too many times by his master, his spirit was broken, his willpower to strike back flailed away by impact and abuse. I watched as he slinked away into the darkness, leaving me there in the giant’s lair holding the knife that afforded him no more power than a wet fish.
The next morning, I tried to talk to the boy. I found him sitting in his room, organizing his belongings into groups. His clothes lay folded neatly on the bed. Are you going somewhere I asked? The boy replied with a nod, his eyes no longer sad or angry as I had often viewed them to be. Freedom danced across his pupils and he afforded a little smile before continuing in his efforts to organize his life possessions. I watched as he spent the rest of the day outside, amusing himself with the company of his pets in what his parents would call antisocial behaviour before nightfall finally came knocking, bidding the day farewell.
I watched in silence as the boy ate his dinner in the company of what passed for his family, all except him in eager discussion of what was going to happen tomorrow for the stranger he called brother’s big day. Night after night I had previously struggled to sit silently through dinner conversation, wanting to step in, to speak the truth and not be denied, to give the boy a voice that would be listened to and not dismissed. But the boy, he beckoned me not to bother, night after night, he would look at me and shake his head. He had learned that it was better to be silent and submissive than to incite the wrath and ridicule of the adults. This night was no different. He finished his meal, excused himself from the table and we retreated to his room and closed the door.
It was here I sat, quietly, looking at the boy, looking at me. He showed me a length of rope, the professional kind. Blue and yellow striped and the thickness of an electrical extension cord. He smiled at me and I smiled back. I think I was more nervous at seeing the happiness then genuinely pleased. This was a boy that did not smile. He did not laugh. He carried around a black blanket of sorrow that he wore like a coat and it protected him from everything. I watched as he showed me how he had learned how to do a sliding knot. The kind people use for tying down objects on trailers and the roofs of cars. I was proud of him. His co-ordination afforded him little in the way of skill for such things.
As he placed the rope around his neck, I was mesmerized by how happy he looked. He told me, he was happy because he has found a way out. He doesn’t need his blanket any longer. The rope is his salvation, its fibres, his strength. He tells me to lie down on the bed, that he’s tired and that its time to sleep. I watch stunned, helpless to stop him as he is finally happy .He yanks on the rope, once, twice, three times. The knot gripping tighter each time, creasing and crumpling his skin. He turns out the light and we lay in the darkness till I drift off to sleep.
When I awoke, the boy was gone. I found myself on a strange bed, surrounded by strange people. I saw family there too. They had found me, they said. My father told the doctors I must have been playing around with some rope and got it caught around my neck. They called me an idiot but they weren’t worried. They told me to get some rest and nothing else was said. Nobody cared that on August 15th 1995 a little boy died. Nobody cared that when he went, he took all that was youthful and sensitive. He left me, alone and unfeeling in his place.
On that day, I died; and part of me will never come back.
