The child had become accustomed to his mother's strange taste. She would make all sorts of strange food that smelled as equally questionable as the material they were made of. It wasn't wise to push this though; it was all she could afford. He understood that. He understood a lot of things. Some people had called him a genius. A prodigy. He also knew what those were, he didn't feel the part. His mother told him everyday how precious he was, how she was so proud of him. He knew she was, because as it's been said he knew and understood a lot of things. He also knew why he had to be home schooled, and why he didn't get to see his mother for extended periods of time. He had gone to public school only to be beaten up everyday, and his courses were less than educational. As for his mother, she had two jobs, both with long hours and less than stellar pay. Another thing he knew was that they were poor. Well, not poor in the sleeping on the streets fashion, but scraping by with a few dimes to spare one. Her quirky and peculiar behavior made it hard for her to keep a job for too long. She usually worked as a waitress or a convenience store clerk. She loved people. She would come home and tell him all about what so and so did today. That Mr. What's his name had left her a big tip that she put toward his Christmas present. He lived to hear what she'd done, who she'd seen. He didn't get out; she didn't want him to leave the apartment. Again, he knew why. They lived in a horrible part of the city. It was likely they were the only honest people in ten blocks. So he wanted to hear about the world outside these four walls, and beyond the lives of characters on television.
Her strange taste didn't only apply to food and work. It seemed she also had an interesting eye for men. If it was something he wished he could change about her it was her unrelenting need to be with someone. She liked to have someone with her, to have a man to want her around. It had been a real source of bitterness for him for a long while. He wanted to be his mother's keeper. Wanted to make sure she was safe and wanted her attention all to himself. But, he was smart. He knew that she loved him, and that the attention she sought he wouldn't be able to give. So he sat back and watched her bring home boyfriends. Some of them he knew from her tales of her days. The nice ones were well, nice. He often found himself getting attached to them, but it seemed his mother was a bit too quirky for her own good. She would either call it off suddenly or scare them away. He hated to see her cry, but he figured he'd have to get used to the sight. The real point here is, the nice ones left. Always, for one reason or another they didn't stick around. The mean ones on the other hand, they seemed to hang in the air like bacteria. He wasn't sure why, but the mean ones always made her happier. He'd heard of women on T.V. falling for the "bad boy" but those guys either weren't as bad as they seemed or the girls wised up before the end. He was still waiting for either of those scenarios.
The one boyfriend that lingered the longest was Bradley. Bradley was in a business he never really specified. When asked what he did he'd respond, "oh little a' dis a little a' dat", with a smirk. He was a large bull dog that always seemed to be grinning about something. What that something was he never really wanted to know. Bradley teased his mother and was very forward with his, 'interest' in her. He wished harder than ever that his mother would call off this relationship, but it didn't seem to be in the cards. She liked him, an awful lot more than he deserved. But Bradley didn't like him at all. He hid this fact very well from his mother, but when the two of them were left alone for even a minute he found himself on the receiving end of an underhanded comment or worse. He might have been smart, but he still wanted his mother to be happy so he kept quiet. The work that Bradley seemed to do, apparently dried up when he found out his mother would provide for him with out question. It seemed like the darkest day in his young life when the bulldog moved into their cramped slummy apartment. His mother had been so happy.
"Oh Elmo, you'll see! It will be wonderful! Brad can take care of you when I'm at work!" She had told him with a kind smile.
Take care of him. Had she known exactly how he'd be cared for he suspected his wish would come true. Bradley hadn't even spent an hour alone with him on their first day together when he started up. Bradley's work had apparently taught him how to hurt a person with out leaving any bruises. Because no matter how hard he hit him, no matter how much it hurt, he had no proof to show his mother. No evidence at all that he'd been touched at all. That, to Elmo, was more painful than anything else. But even Bradley had his limits, it seemed. He tired of grounding his girlfriend's kid into a fine powder after the first week. After that, he was just didn't want to be bothered with him. Elmo would have gladly stayed away, would have even braved the world outside to get away from him. But Bradley knew that the easy life would end as soon as his trusting sweet heart found out that her precious little son was out on the streets of St. Canard on his own all day. No, he wasn't going to endanger a good thing. What he did instead was threaten the boy to the brink of tears, to not make a peep and then locked him in the small broom closet in the hall.
Elmo sat in that closet. He sat in it day after day. Hour after hour. The only thing in the small place was the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He would close his eyes and push away the musty smell. He would imagine he was anywhere else. He was a stowaway on a pirate ship, like Jim Hawkins. He was a marine in a ditch, a secret agent behind enemy lines, ready to become a hero. It helped for a while, but whenever he opened his eyes he was just Elmo Sputterspark locked in a closet. Bradley would always give him a good slap when he'd let him out before his mother got home. Told him he was 'okay' today, and told him to be even quieter next time. Next time. There was always a next time. And there was always a problem. He was told he breathed too loud, he got up too fast when it came time to leave, that he was wearing out the floor from sitting on the same side of the closet all day. There was no end insight. Despite it being a prison cell, he felt safe there. Bradley didn't hit him when he was in the closet. Only after he was removed from the structure was he beaten. In the small area, all he had to be with was the light bulb. And the light bulb certainly wasn't going to hurt him. Light bulbs didn't hurt anyone. When his mind was drained of cheeriness and games of his grandeur. He often found himself staring at the glowing orb. Wondering what it would be like to be able to shine light in dark places. To know that you'd never done anything to hurt anyone ever, that no one hated you for no reason. So many things came to him as he stared at the light, his vision going fuzzy and spotty from the act. He hadn't been allowed to eat in the closet since he left crumbs, so he found that when he was really hungry his mind started to slip. He imagined what he'd be able to say if he could speak with the pure essence of the little bulb. Also imagined what it would say to him.
After a while, he found that he didn't need to think up answers anymore. The light would tell him. It was surprising at first. He had stuck his thinning fingers in his ears to try to block it out. It was one thing to imagine conversations with inanimate objects, he wasn't about to start believing he was having them. He wasn't crazy. He wasn't. He was smart. A genius. A prodigy. He opened his eyes sadly. Who was he kidding? He was a little boy locked in a closet. He wasn't any of those things. But the tinny voice of the bulb corrected him. In fact, the light seemed to want him to be happy. Wanted him to know that he was as precious and special as his mother used to tell him he was. What did he expect from an object he was certain was so good? He tried to ignore it for a few hours, but couldn't help but be interested in the chipper voice. It was very knowledgeable. He found himself whispering to it before too long. It seemed that the bulb was more than happy to be his friend, to talk to him about anything. Elmo was more interested in finding out what it was like to be an object such as his friend. The kind soul was keen to tell him. They were prisoners together. Elmo and the light bulb. He had to sit here until his mother came home and then act like he was fine; the bulb just had to stay in its socket and burn until it died. Until it died. Elmo shuddered at the thought. It was thankless work, selfish of them to turn on the poor creature; it was only going to die because of it. He didn't want his friend to die.
The light bulb, being an understanding creature didn't mind. In fact, since Elmo had started talking to it, the bulb told him how happy he'd become. He didn't mind that he'd be burnt out, as long as he could talk to Elmo each day. It was the sweetest gesture anyone had ever extended to him, and he shed tears that didn't go unheard. It wasn't too long before the door was swung open and the door frame was full of bull dog.
"Stop dat cryin'! Or ah'll give yuh sumthin' ta cry about!" He barked. Elmo wiped his eyes. "Whut you doin' in here anyway?" Bradley eyed him evilly.
"Nothing!" Elmo answered a little too quickly.
"Nuffin?" Bradley sneered. "Wull why don't cha do nuffin' in da dark for a change?"
Before he could blink Bradley smacked the dangling light with his massive hand. Time slowed to a crawl as he watched the little bulb smash against the wall. It's light extinguished, its body shattering and falling to rest on the floor. It was at that moment, that he didn't care if he was crazy anymore or not. The seven year old rat, thin from malnourishment snarled like a lion and attacked the murderer. He didn't know where his strength came from; it certainly wasn't something he had before. It was as if he was the one being energized by the harvested electricity that pumped through the wires in the walls. Bradley stumbled away from him, stunned and angry. But Elmo wasn't Elmo anymore. He had changed. He wasn't Jim Hawkins, or a spy. What he was there was no definition for. He was aware. He felt the currents around him, knew that his friend was killed, knew that the only comforting voice he had lately was never going to be heard again. It killed him, but snapped something in his head. He wasn't a person anymore. He was a light bulb. But a light bulb that wasn't going to let anyone kill him. Wasn't going to let someone burn him out. He wasn't going to be a victim anymore.
When Edna Sputterspark came home from work that day, she smelt the unmistakable stench of burning hair. With her heart in her throat she dropped her groceries and ran into her home. A few odd things she noticed off the bat, but they were stripped from her mind when she saw Bradley collapsed on the kitchen floor. She ran over to him, he was dead. He was the source of the stench, and she couldn't stop her tears. Elmo. She thought. But before she could scream his name she saw him. He was standing in front of the hall closet with broken glass in his hand, she rushed over to him.
"Elmo! Honey are you hurt what happened to Brad?" She sobbed but received a shock when she touched him, literally. His blue eyes turned to her slowly, they were hollow.
"He burned out." Elmo said darkly. Edna tried to understand. He could see her struggling. "I killed him."
She stared at him, her breath catching in her throat.
"Why? How?"
He gave her a dreamy smile and looked down at the shattered light bulb in his hand.
"My friend told me to. I understand everything now. He wanted to burn me out, so I killed him. I fried him like chicken."
Edna couldn't understand the words he was saying, or her mind wouldn't let her. She heard the police arrive at the open front door. Apparently the neighbors had heard screaming. Her son confessed with that smile on his face, and he was torn from her arms. It was the last time she would see him with out a thick sheet of glass separating them.