His life was shaped into a box, existing of four walls. The roof vaulting overhead. His books. His bed. This was the formation of his life, every aspect crystallized in his mind, every line highlighted in bold strokes, scarred across his memory. This was all he knew of himself. This was the makeup of his world.
This was his life, but it was not what he lived for. Everything he knew streamlined towards the center of his existence. All of the walls melting toward the shining panel of suns and stars. The window. His only connection to the world beyond his own. A gateway into a life outside of endless wooden limitations. The window and the street below: they became his world of fantasy.
Every day he would stand at the window, projecting himself through the creeping vines that climbed over themselves, nearly obstructing his view, and down into the world below. A street. A regular street by anyone elses standards. But not his. For him this street was life itself, pulsating hearts and a million gasping breaths. It was cold air, and wind and leaves. It was sunshine and rain. It was life, a life he had never known. It was people he had never spoken to. He watched them as they lived a freedom he could never touch. He knew them like they would never know him. Like they would never know each other. Like they would never know themselves.
They had no names except for those he spun out of his own imagination. The man with the cane and his ginger cat, sitting in the wooden chair in the shade, listening to the radio. The man wore a sweater regardless of weather, and possessed a face so lined and creased, one could map out the many years of his life in wrinkles and laugh lines, each representing a singular sorrow or joy. The boy in the room touched his own face and wondered what he looked like; wondered how many sorrows were already present on the skin. Surely there would be no joy…
There was the young family. Young parents with three tiny children, all beautiful and brimming with youthful bliss. They shone like angels, blond hair shining in the morning sun as they walked down the street, and then back again later. He didn't know where they went, only that they traveled in a convoy, the mother holding the youngest in her arms, the other two children running and clinging onto her clothing. The father watching with a smile before he got into his car and drove away. They were so complete and lovely, his heart ached at times. The fragile preciousness of the children, the tender love of their parents. He felt as though he would cry when he watched them roll in the grass outside of their house. He had never known love like that. He had a family, but no, he had never known love like that.
There was the girl in black. Old enough to be past the cynicism of her teenage years, but still possessing a lingering edge, a simmer of discontent that radiated out of her at times. She stalked out of her house and into her car, long dark hair swinging, tinted sunglasses, oversized sweater that might have belonged to a man—her father? Tight jeans. She gave a wave and a smile at the woman he assumed was her mother, judging by the tension between them that sometimes erupted into flames. The woman waved back, her hands muddy from the rich soil she was constantly burrowing in. He liked to watch this woman and wondered at how she worked magic, overturning dirt and producing, somehow, pink and yellow blooms of life, tumbling blossoms of purple, brilliant flourishes of red. She worked at it and loved it. Once, on one of the many nights he couldn't sleep, he watched as the girl in black drove her car wildly up the driveway and into one of the flower beds, the tires crushing the delicate petals into the earth. The girl had gotten out of her car to stand and stare down at her destruction, the yellow incandescence of the porch light casting an odd shadow on her face, her expression unreadable. She got back into her car and drove away. He had hated her a little then.
There were others on the street. Those that lived farther down, that would walk past on hot summer days, laughing, arms swinging, or bundled against the wind in the winter, the cold air casting a grey pallor across their skin, but making their eyes sparkle and water. He loved to watch, but the more he watched, the more his heart broke. They lived the life he wanted, while he barely existed; a shadow, a half-life. He might as well be dead. Of everyone he watched, there were none that made him feel this desperate loneliness more then the boys across the road.
Directly across from him, in the house with gabled windows, and an expansive front porch lived the family he coveted and envied most of all. A mother and father and three sons. He sometimes imagined that he was part of their family, receiving the warm embrace of the dark haired mother as he left the house in the morning. Enjoying the amused exasperation of the father as he taught him how to drive, which was the latest escapade of the family. The youngest boy, who had a round and joyful face and was always at the center of the excitement, was jumping and yelling playful insults at his brother as he slowly inched the car down the driveway and awkwardly off the curb. The father gestured wildly, and his oldest son laughed from the back seat as his brother was forced to end his lesson before it even truly began. The boy in the room watched as the older boys stepped out of the car, running toward their younger brother and scooping him into the air. He shrieked with laugher, and it echoed through the neighborhood as the father ran his hand ruefully through his hair, shaking his head with a smile before heading inside.
Later the older boys would come out and sit on the broad porch, carrying with them polished wooden guitars. As they sat on the steps and tuned the instruments, deft fingers turning the silver knobs, the boy in the room would settle himself into his overstuffed chair by the window and wait. This was his favourite time of day. When the sun was slowly setting, making everything glow with warm golden light, and when the boys across the road would sing.
It was a moment at which he heart was most content, the melodies straining over the pavement and up into his room, shattering the four walls and enveloping him. He was never more free then when they sang those songs, and at times he wept with the liberty of it. In those moments he would escape. Escape the room. Escape the scarred woman. And the man with the teeth…
Then the songs would end, and he would watch the boys talk animatedly, gesturing to one another, picking the songs apart, rearranging, layering, improving, somehow, what he already found so perfect. He sometimes imagined he could sit and talk with them, and the oldest one would smile his crooked smile and ask him what he thought. And he would tell them that it was flawless, and they would laugh and ask him to sing along. He wanted to know these boys more then anything, with their brown curls and beautiful songs. He wanted a small piece of the familial affection they so openly showed each other. As they gathered up their songs and instruments and headed back inside, he wanted nothing more then to go with them.
But the sun was sinking below the earth and the curtain of night was drawn across his window, closing in the four walls once again. And his heart broke a little more.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, this is just something that was sitting in the back of my mind for a long time. I decided it was time to put it into words…but as I'm writing this at 2 am, I'm fairly certain it's crap. I would absolutely love some feed back on it, as I have a general idea of how to expand this, but not on where it should go…I mean, should there be a romance? Or should this strictly be an angsty/family story? If anyone out there is interested in my continuing, you need to tell me where you want this to go, because I have no idea…I honestly don't think I should even post this right now, but I'm going to because…well because it exists now and I don't know what else to do with it…
Sorry if it was a little confusing…if I continue, things will be further explained in the next part of the story….
Also, does anyone want to tell me how the Jonas Brothers became somehow incorporated into A Cinderella Story?? Not that I'm complaining, but it's baffling to me!