The day outside is too gray for me to breathe. The cobblestones and browning puddles spin in my vision, the air so thick with humidity that my lungs refuse to work. I gasp, clutching at my thin chest and leaning against my crutch. I can't fall over- I refuse to. I haven't had one of my attacks for a long, long time.
I have to force myself to walk back to the Lodging House. I hate doing this. I hate putting myself at that thing's mercy. I hate how he makes me beg for admittance into the dry air of the building. I hate the way he forces me into his office, to "talk" with him.
He gets lonely, he tells me. Sometimes he goes out and gets something to eat, but usually he stays in the House all day and reads a yellowing book. His wife died many years ago, and she was unable to give birth to a living child. One day I sat there, staring, as I was forced to listen to him describe her miscarriages. Once he even told me about how she gave birth to a child who was dead, its umbilical cord wrapped around its throat. Its face and body were blue, its small hands bloated. Its eyes were open, he said. Oh God.
I don't want to go back there. It's fine when the other boys are there- he treats me like any other kid when I'm with a crowd. I halt, struggling to breathe as fat, cold drops of rain pound against my skin. I'm about ten feet away from the door, staring at it in morbid fascination.
Where are the rest of the boys?
Why can't I breathe?
Why did God make the muscles of one of my legs deteriorate? Why can't I be like everyone else? Why, every day, every week, every second must I crawl back to him?
Why isn't life fair?
The others boys should be back. They should be. It's raining, after all- they shouldn't be out in the cold like this. They'll get sick. They'll get soaked to the bone. They'll be here soon, I just know it.
Lies, all lies. But they make me feel better.
I timidly rap on the door with my knuckles, my eyes focusing on my hand. I hate my skin. It looks like paper, making my hands look so...old. Like Kloppman's, but not quite as purple with veins.
The door, with its ugly, chipping paint and rusted doorknob, slowly swings open to allow me in. I'm hacking by now, nearly choking with the force of my coughing. Please don't let me die, God. I'm so young. You took my leg, please don't take my life as well.
Finally, I can breathe again, though it hurts. Each time my nostrils flare I can almost hear my lungs fighting, rasping with every breath. He's so ugly. It hurts even to look at him. I hope he wasn't this ugly when he was younger.
"A...little early to be home, aren't we, James?" Kloppman wheezes half-heartedly at his attempted joke. Why doesn't he just call my Crutchy? I hate my real name. I hate how it reminds me of my family, of my leg, of my fucking disability. The name Crutchy doesn't hurt me anymore- it's who I have become. But James is something else.
James is what I have left behind. James is...someone else.
I chuckle nervously at the horrible joke, pretending to be amused. To my horror my laughter takes on an incredibly nasal pitch.
He has that look in his eyes that tells me it's going to happen. So old, and yet so predatory. Tired brown eyes, behind thin glasses. I can see every vein poking through his skin. Papery and thin, like mine.
"Please, Mr. Kloppman..." I attempt to wheeze, but it doesn't faze him. This reminds me so much of what went on at the Refuge. Lately, my life has reminded me more and more of that dirty, stinking place. Be a good boy for Mr. Snyder. Let him do what he wants, suffer through it quietly, or you'll be in longer. Ten-Pin told me that. It was good advice.
But I didn't have to stand for this anymore. One voice, turning into a thousand. Right? That's what Jack said. That's what won us the strike.
But I'm the only one he does this to. That thin hand, so papery and dry, so old, rests on my shoulder with surprising force. He locks the door with his other hand. What? Here, in the open? Why not in his office?
He takes my crutch away. I struggle for balance but he shoves me down, hard, on the shoulder above my bad leg. I crumple, falling on my knees.
Oh God, not again. Please, dear God, I asked for life a few minutes ago, but I don't want it anymore. Take me away from this, please. If you're there, God, then save me from this eternal torture. Free me, please! Save me!
Block it all out, Crutchy. Block it all out.
The boys will be here shortly. It's raining out, after all. They'll catch their death of cold if they don't come back soon.
Lies, they're still lies. But lies are what give me hope.