I was invited to enter the house for some lemonade. The day was hot; I was sweating because I was mowing the lawn.
I didn't want to enter, to bother.
Oh lucky day I decided to walk in and meet him.
The sick woman smiled as she handed me a cup of refreshing lemonade and pointed one door, told me to walk in and take a break from working. It was her sons' bedroom.
I didn't want to enter, to bother.
Oh lucky day I decided to walk in and meet him.
The bedroom reminded me of a battle field, for some odd random reason. There were mountains of clothes climbing up the pale-blue flaking wall, assimilating to high mountain peaks, and toys were scattered all over the wooden floor, like lanndmines that couldn't be stepped on. Dust hovered in the air and the shelf where an old red and black casted toy train was put showed clear signs of woodworm. Leaks made drawings on the ceiling. It was all epically dramatic. Both beds were a nest of soft cotton wrinkled sheets.
I looked across the room to see a small boy, sat on the floor, his blonde hair and blue eyes both reflected from the light that entered through the window. I couldn't help but notice how awkward he looked compared to the rest of the kids I've met.
For one, his clothes were too big. It looked like he was swimming in them rather than wearing them. He wore a white shirt and some brown shorts that were still baggy, despite the fact that he was wearing suspenders. In fact, the straps were rolling down his shoulders. The shoe laces were untied and the toe caps of his shoes were worn out, easily explained with the fact that he would crawl the entire bedroom, playing, scraping his shoes on the floor.
Secondly, he was fragile and pale. His eyes were too wide, his mouth too small, his nose just a little bit crooked, as if his face didn't quite match his head. He was small for his age and could be compared to a mouse in the belly of a cat, so tiny and insignificant. He was rickety as a wobbly dandelion being caressed by the lightest of the summer breezes. His shoulder blades and kneecaps stuck out like two spears and his jawline was sharp and angular.
I watched him enjoying the loneliness to himself as he made "vroom" noises, playing with his toy cars. I giggled and his head snapped up. He looked at me with frightened eyes.
I held out my hand and said, "Hi, I'm James…" I pulled a face and mended, "Bucky."
He looked at my hand, his blue eyes glistening. He planted a truck in my palm and he said, "You can be the police person." His attention turned to his elaborate pretend play, "I'm Steve."
"You're a punk," I told him as I sat down next to him.
"You're a jerk!" He answered me, rather offended. I recall having laughed; the kid had guts to defy me. I was twelve-years-old and he was seven, I was far taller and stronger than him, but he was not afraid or intimidated with the fact. "I don't like bullies."
"Still a punk to me, kiddo" I closed my hand on a fist and enlaced his neck on my arm, rubbing my knuckles on his hair. "I'll kick your bullies in the ass."
"Will ya?" He asked expectant.
"Yeah."
From that moment one I realized he was the nicest guy one would ever have the pleasure to meet. He's always been pure and kind, without a smudge of sin or evilness on him, always fighting for the good and the weak ones, even when he was the weak on himself. But he was still my punk, the one who I'd always save from trouble. The one I'll always be there for, 'til the end of the line.
Hope you enjoyed it. :) Reviews are always nice.