On a rooftop, where the moonlight pools in tiny cracks of brick facades, sits a boy. He’s young, with hair settled with dust and pebbles. He wears clothes fit for a king, on the body of a slave. A long flowing purple robe, stars checked across the front and tight white slacks cut off near the ankles in what he proclaimed to his mother was “peak fashion”. Those who knew him, stayed far away and those who didn’t know him, loved him at first sight. They smiled when walked by, his innocent face portraying pure naivety. His bright smile always encouraged trust. New store owners snuck him small loafs bread and ripe fruit, winking when he hid them in his star checked coat.
Not only was his smile bright, but so was his mind. At school he raised his hand to answer the questions and to the teacher’s disgust, he always gets them right. His classmates would jeer at him, call him names behind his back, because they dared not say them to his face. He would sit alone at lunch time, sneaking a peek at the tables full of children laughing with one another. He would nod to those who passed him, that bright smile lighting up his face every time. It would entice those to sit with him, yet no one dared. For reasons that weren’t spoken of, he was made an outcast. The long-lasting tradition of exclusion never stopped children from talking about the young servant boy who went to their school.
When he would go home, to a small house, on the outskirts of town, his mother would chide him for being late. Once he produced the food he had been given she would sigh quietly and her argument died in her throat. Instead, she would fuss over his hair, remarking about the dirt he seemed to enjoy keeping in it.
“Alan, how many times have I told you to wash your hair?” She would ask.
He would smile at her, turn his head over and shake it slightly. “It’s not that dirty, mama.”
Each time she would begin to argue but it was cut short with one look at Alan’s face. The sight of his radiance despite the hard times caused her to pause. Instead of giving him another lecture she would hand him a plate of dinner, which he always wrapped. He would then bound out of the house, calling, “see you later, mama.” over his shoulder.
On those evenings, Alan would trek back to the city and past the store owners to a large building on the outskirts of town. He would knock and a man would answer, always holding a list of things Alan was to do before sunset. There he forced his young body into sweeping, mopping, serving dinner, and then cleaning up afterwards. Alan had gotten used to the hard stares of his employer and the shrill voice of his wife. Once they were satisfied, Alan collected his gear and quietly climbed up to the roof that overlooked the city. There he would sit, eating his own dinner and watching with admiration the business of strangers.
Shops closed not long after Alan finished work. That’s when the children came out into the streets to play, bringing a red ball with them. It sailed through the air as Alan’s peers kicked it left and right. When the ball came near Alan, he would duck behind the ledge and watch with held breath as someone came to retrieve it. The game would go on for hours until one of the parents called.
“Come inside! It is too dark to play now.” Yelled a father from a lit doorway. Alan smiled sadly at the murmurs of how ‘unfair’ it was. He shrunk down as they walked past him. After waiting a few minutes, he went home himself. Returning his empty dish to the sink, he crept silently up the stairs and into his bedroom. A bed lay underneath a small round window, a dresser pushed up against the slant of the wall.
Set on his worn-out sheets were a pair of red pajamas with bright yellow ducks on them, something he had told his mother he was too old for. But she never listened, insisting that he was still her ‘little boy’. He put them on and sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for the door to creak open softly and his mother’s head to poke in.
“Alan, you’re back. How was work?” She asked, the regret was evident on her face.
Alan smiled reassuringly. “It was great, mama. They were very nice to me.”
She nodded resolutely and came to sit beside him. Alan reached into his pants pocket and produced the small amount of pay he had received, a few coins that shimmered in the dim light. His mother hesitated to take them, pain flooding her features. Inside, Alan’s heart grimaced for her, he hated seeing her hurt. Slowly, he took her hand and pushed the money into her palm, closing her fingers around it.
“I can’t wait for school tomorrow.” He said and his mother’s eyes lit up at the change of subject.
With a proud glint, she pulled him into her arms. “My boy is smart. It’s late, are you ready for bed?”
Alan nodded and climbed underneath the sheets. His mother kissed him on the forehead, tucked the covers under his chin and turned to leave. For a few seconds Alan resisted the urge to call after her but it soon faded with the closing of the door. He lay there, waiting for the morning to come so he could get up and do it all again. Thoughts of how long this life would last invaded his mind. Would he be a kid again? When would he be able to play with the others? When his eyes finally closed, all he could see was that bright red ball, floating through the air and landing at his feet.