Je ne parle pas françias

My life is not one fit for a happy children's book. It's a life that I'm very frustrated with. It consumes me and spits me out into a deep tar pit of shame and pain. Ever since I was birthed I've been labeled a devil and a curse. I've been cast into a void and I can never, ever escape and find a light. No, I've been dealt the worst and I'll never see pure white.

My oldest sister often tells me about what happened when I were birthed. She scorns me and hates me late at night when she thinks I'm asleep. I was two weeks early and my mother had collapsed from starvation since I constantly made it hard for her to stomach food in the last month. My siblings had rushed her to the hospital while the oldest boy had went out to tell my father at work. The day was terrible. Rain poured from the sky and snow slicked up the roads making the dark journey frighteningly atrocious. My mother had gotten to the hospital fine and started to deliver me almost instantly. My father, however, was no where near as lucky. It's said that right when the bell hit nine, I was born into the world and my father and brother were hit by a truck and died.

I'm a curse, and every one knows it. My family knows it and leaves me to suffer the worst. What little food they have goes to them first and I live off the crumbs. I have to find my own clothes and water. I have to sleep by the door that squeaks far too much and doesn't have a latch. It's the only place for me to sleep in the house they say. I know that if some one breaks into the house, I'll be the first to die. They'll hear my death and run while they can.

Every night I go to sleep cold, hungry, exhausted, and frightened. I can hear disaster constantly. The poor get evicted. The drug dealers do their business and tie up loose ends. The cops come and go as they please. Alarms, sirens, gun shots, people crying and dying. These are my nightly lullabies.

I'm broken. I remember this every day as I walk the two miles to my school. Every one sees me as that toy that should have been left at the garbage dump. Some how I ended up finding the courage to walk out of the disgusting pit of filth only to be openly ridiculed by students, teachers, principals, and every one in between.

Every child knows the fear of being called on in class to answer the question out loud. For some, they don't know the answer, for others, they weren't paying attention. However, I simply can't answer. No matter how much I might want to, I can't. I can't talk at all. I'm mute. I'm broken.

I have very recently decided that I do not belong in school. Teachers refuse to work with me and teach me. Students hate me and mock me. My only problem is my family will almost certainly kick me out if I don't at least get a job to help support us.

Today is the end of the second week I've been looking for a job. No one has hired me. No one can understand me. I'm angry. I want to yell out my frustration, but I can't. I'm broken.

I've visited fish companies, shop keepers, café workers, and every one I can think of. No one will even give me the time of day. It's late, but I refuse to go home. It's nicer out here. The cool night air gives me my last spark of hope as I wander around the allies and side streets of Paris. There's a small slit of light coming from the moon, but it can't touch me here. Not in my black void. Not in my cursed world.

I'm far from any main road now and the sounds of a late night Paris barely reach me. The night is young, but I have nothing but lamenting to do. Time seems to march on slowly, letting me think.

I round a corner as I try to figure out what else I can try. I feel myself hit something and fall backwards. I hit the cold hard ground. My gaze sweeps the street trying to find what I hit. A small groan brings my attention to a small boy who, like me, was splayed out on the ground. He quickly jumped up and tried to help me up. This boy was odd looking. He had white skin paler than the moon. His eyes shined like bright red stars. His hair was white as snow, but was slightly spiked up in the back.

The boy speaks to me. I don't understand him. What ever he's speaking, it's not French. I look at him, angry and confused. He finally shuts up and tries again, but this time in my language. His accent is very heavy, but I can still make out what he's saying. The little Chinese boy in front of me asked how to get back to the Eiffel tower.

I'm so furious. I try to yell at him. How dare he interrupt my dark day to make it worse. I'm scraped up from that sudden fall and I hurt. I try desperately to yell at this tourist idiot, but all I can do is make faces and point angrily at him.

The boy in front of me seems to understand my problem though. He frowns for a second then smiles. He says something in his language again. Ignorant asshole. He tries again. "Ne sois pas fâché. Vous pouvez étre un mime." His quiet little voice echoed inside my mind. I could be a mime. That had to be the dumbest idea I'd ever heard. I could never be a mime. No doubt I'd mess that up. I slugged the boy in the face and pointed over towards where the tower would be. Maybe now he'd run off and never bother me again.

The small Chinese boy got up and dusted himself off. He started rambling about how his mother said never to get mad or sad at a person if they take out their anger on you. He started going on about needing love or something. I simply walked away from him. I'm tired of the people and this damn night. I decided to just go home.

The little moon light boy stopped me and held on to my hand. "Viens avec moi." He pleaded. His red eyes looked up at me glittering in the moon light. The way his tiny voice said the words made me break. I finally turned towards the tower and started to guide him that way.

I disliked the feeling of small red eyes on my back. I knew he was staring at me. Those red dots were taking in the look of the less fortunate. I'm sure my torn shirt, old ill-fitting jeans, and worn out shoes were quite the sight for this strange boy. I ran my free hand through my hair, trying to smooth it down a bit. I might have been ten, but I already looked like I'd been in a few bar fights.

As soon as we got to the main street, I could feel the boy running towards something. His little pale hand never let go of my dirty tan one. He pulled me along with him. God, this brat is annoying.

"Mama! Papa!" He exclaimed. He had dragged me right to his parents. I clenched me teeth, waiting for the inevitable. They would look at me, shoo me away, and call me names as I left. They'd insult me and my family. They'd laugh at how broken I am.

The boy excitedly started talking to his family in his language. They replied back, not bothering to notice me. His mother crouched down to his level and talked to him a bit more before nodding her head towards me. I think the boy introduced me. The woman smiled at me and said something odd. Why can't these damn tourists speak French? She tried again. "Voulez-vous vous joindre à nous pour le dîner?" My stomach rumbles at the mention of dinner. I look up her, unsure. Was this odd woman really asking me if they could buy me dinner?

I nod slowly. I'd be dumb if I ever gave up a chance at free food. The three of them laugh and start walking down the street towards the fancy restaurants. The little boy never let go of my hand. Instead, he held his mom's with his other hand. I was forced to walk along side these rich Chinese tourists as if I belonged with these rubbernecks.

They had found a wonderful and expensive place to eat right on the main street. There was an amazing view of the tower and the performers across the street. They let me sit facing the window. The mother asked me my name. I shook my head. She insisted. I gave her an angry look. The boy spoke up from his chair. She looked back at me with a sad look on her face. She apologized. They know I'm broken. I recede into my chair a bit. I don't belong here.

When the waiter came they ordered a great deal of food. They also let me poke to a few things I wanted. They talked, mostly in there language. The mother would ask me stuff from time to time. I could always just shake my head yes or no to answer. They seemed nice, unlike what I've known all my life. Maybe, just maybe, I could one day have a happy life like theirs.

The food quickly filled up the table, to the point where the waiter had to bring out smaller table to place some of the food. I gawked at the sight. Never had I seen so much to eat splayed out in front of me.

They dug in and told me to do the same. They were weird in etiquette. They would just reach for food on another's plate. If they wanted to eat it, they did. The mother finally explained that it's not uncommon to share all the food instead of stick to just one plate. She encouraged me to try it. I uncomfortably reached out for a bite of meat that I had wanted to try. The father suddenly slammed his fork down on the plate I was about to eat from. I bounced back in my chair and opened my mouth to scream. Nothing came out.

The wife smacked him and said something very angrily to him. He hung his head in shame and muttered a few words in their language before shakily trying to say "desolée". The woman finally coaxed me to keep eating and promised that this time he wouldn't do that to me.

The boy explained that his dad did that to see if I was really mute. He also said he was a bit of a jerk some times when it came to his friends. I looked at the boy. Surely he didn't think us friends.

I tried to forget the odd foreign family as I ate, so I stared out the window. Across the street was a tall man in a stripped shirt and some face paint. He used his body to talk. He was good at it. I could understand what he was doing even from across the street in a building. I stared at him longer, wondering how he did it.

I sat like that, slowly eating, even though I felt well past full. I didn't pry my eyes away until I felt the little boy staring at me. He smiled and looked at where I had been looking. Crap, I might have just proved his point. I ignored him for the rest of the meal.

When the family was done eating, they argued with the waiter until he finally found a way to package up the left over food. Damn these people had some weird traditions. We left the restaurant and they bid me good bye. The mom handed the boxes of left overs to me and apologized for keeping me out so late.

I made sure to hid the food near the house, but away from the family. Why should I share my food if they never shared theirs? I went to sleep quickly that night. For the first time in my life, I was happy.

After I had made my rounds looking for a job that next day, I went to the tower. I found more mimes, and I watched them. I found out that they could actually make good money if they were really good and people were nice. I stood off to the corner and tried to follow along with their movements and tricks.

A few hours of practicing later, an older mime came up to me. He'd apparently been watching me all day and noticed that I had a natural talent for miming. The man asked me to try sitting in a chair that wasn't there. I did what I saw another guy do earlier, but I couldn't quite get my butt far enough down to look realistic. He showed me and had me try again.

I smile. I don't feel as broken. Neither of us talk. We can understand each other very well. I try again and this time I close my eyes, waiting to accidentally fall backwards and fail miserably. I feel something. I look down and see I'm sitting on nothing though. The older man applauds. He smiles at me and coaxes me to try something else. I decide to do that lasso trick I've seen. I imagine I have a lasso and I swing it. I can hear air get displaced. I throw it, hoping to catch the man in it. He goes along with the act and acts like he got caught. I smile and pull it a bit. I see small creases in his shirt that make it look like he's really caught by a lasso. I silently laugh and try pulling again, wondering what he might do this time.

To my surprise, he is yanked forward. He lets out an audible yelp. I drop my imaginary rope and stare at him, scared. He's instantly released. The rope never existed, I tell myself. He was just pulling my leg.

The mime leaned down to me and made sure no one was looking before he told me that I was magic. He then had me sit on the chair again. I did, and once again I feel like I'm sitting on something. The guy walked behind me and picked up my imaginary chair. Sure enough, he was right. I was picked up with the chair and started to float in mid air.

Tourists and regulars alike gawked at us, trying to figure out the trick. Scared, I imagined the chair was no longer there, and fell to the ground. The older mime motioned for me to follow him. I went back to his little station he had set up for his miming business. He had me sit on my mime chair as he pulled out some paint and a sponge. He smeared the stuff all over my face and put two cute little red ovals on my cheeks. The man had me spend the rest of the day doing an act with him.

We steel the show from every one else and the money rolls in. We do this late into the night. When we finally pack up, he wipes off the paint for me and hands me some of the money we brought in. He handed me a small hat he had in a bag of his. He explained that it was his son's until the boy out grew it. He wanted me to have it and practice until I was perfect at all I did. The man smiled, waved, and walked off.

Early that next day, after finishing the food the Chinese people left me, I ran off into town to find some paint and a shirt. I had found my talent. I had found the purpose of being broken.

I really need to thank that kid if I ever run into him again.