Callouses

A boy and a killer speak together, and the world keeps turning.

The boy slept underneath a tattered Star Wars poster that reflected the dull glow of the streetlamp outside. A shiny white blob covered Han Solo's cocky grin.

 

The boy's room sat on the second floor of a cozy little home on the outskirts of a city he had never seen. A section of the roof shot out from just below the window, lying fifteen feet above a gravel driveway. The boy's parents had warned him never to venture out onto the roof for fear that he might stumble and fall to his death, but the man crouching outside the window had never heard that warning.

 

There was a quiet tinkling of glass as the man patiently chipped away the window one section at a time. Bits and pieces fell onto the bedroom floor, muffled by the carpet. The boy slept on.

 

Now that the window was clear, the man slowly climbed through the empty portal, minding his footing, making sure he made no loud noises. The moment his foot came down onto the floor, however, he stepped on a toy truck, which shot out from under him and hit the opposite wall with a bang.

 

The man froze, looking nervously around, breathing hard. As he turned looked to his left, his eyes settled upon the boy, who was no longer sleeping. The boy was sitting upright, clutching a wool blanket and staring into the man with unseeing gray eyes.

 

"Hello?" the boy called softly. "Daddy?"

 

The man hesitated. The boy couldn't see him; perhaps it was too dark.

 

"Yes, son," the man replied. "Right here."

 

"What was that crash?" the boy asked.

 

"One of your trucks. Daddy tripped on it when he came in to check on you."

 

The boy blinked. "You don't sound like Daddy," he said.

 

"Why don't you go back to sleep?" the man said.

 

The boy held out his arms in front of him, as if he were sleepwalking. "Let me see your face."

 

Jesus, he's blind, the man realized.

 

After a moment of thought, he walked quietly up to the boy's outstretched hands, careful not to step on another toy truck. When he reached the boy, the man crouched and allowed the boy's hands to run over his facial features. There was a tiny scratching sound as the boy's palms rubbed against the man's unshaven face.

 

After a while the boy pulled his hands away, his mental image of the man complete. His eyes floated hollow in their sockets.

 

"You're not my dad," he said simply. "Who are you?"

 

As the boy spoke, a dark brown splotch on his left cheek caught the man's eye. A birthmark?

 

The man cleared his throat. "No one," he replied. "Just... Passing through."

 

The boy was silent. Now the man saw another brown mark just above the boy's right eye. Violent-looking.

 

"Do your folks love you?" the man asked.

 

The boy's eyes twitched. "Yes, I think so," he said.

 

Sighing, the man placed a hand on the boy's forehead. He fingered the bruise above the boy's eye. The boy winced.

 

From down the hall, the man heard a thick grunt, drugged by sleep. The boy's father having a stressful dream, maybe. The man turned and listened for a moment, and then looked back at the boy.

 

"Listen to me," the man said, taking the boy's face in his calloused hands. "You're good at listening, aren't you?"

 

Again the boy was silent, his eyes writing volumes but speaking none.

 

"Your folks... The only time they'll shed a tear is at their own funeral," the man whispered. "I am going to take everything from them. Everything. And you can tell the police exactly what I just said. You tell them when they come round here tomorrow, dogging you for answers."

 

The boy nodded, ever silent.

 

The man stood and wiped his eyes. He looked down at the floor, where bits of plastic and metal were randomly scattered: pieces of the boy's toy truck, a victim of chance.

 

"Sorry about your truck," the man said, and walked out into the hallway, a gun now held in his shaking hands.

 

When the city police came by the next morning to investigate a double murder, the boy solemnly told them he hadn't seen a thing.

Author's Note

My first story in a long, long time. Let me know if I can still write them, or if I should just abandon fiction for the rest of my life.

Reviews

[Juliet]

This story is excellent. Please don't abandon fiction. :P I really like the writing style you used here. It leaves a lot for the reader to interpret, such as "why is the man there to kill them in the first place?" It made me think a little bit deeper than usual. Great work.

[Robert Guttersohn]

Welcome back to the world of prose. I like the story. But it read a little shallow. Almost incomplete. You have an outline to work on but I, as a reader, would like to know more about the burglar. His past.

[Lyria Wellington]

Yes. you can write and should continue it, i really enjoyed the story. continue one day you might be the next j.k rowling

[Kenneth The Poet]

Yeah, you scored greatly with this piece. Whatever doubt you had with this, bury it now. This story rules.