Tears & Dreams

"Boys don't cry," his mother had drilled into him. Especially not big boys like you. Back then he supposed he had been big, too many calories, too little activity. Feeding himself with what was in the pantry, none of which was ever healthy. Sitting on his lardy arse (not his words) and playing games where he could shoot, stab and kill, the stuff that 'real men' did. He didn't really enjoy it, but it was better than interacting with his parents. His right-wing father never had time for him, couldn't bear to even look at him. His grey mother, grey hair, grey clothes, drifted around like a shadow, hating him openly. He rarely went to school, and when the school inspector came around, his Dad would sit on the veranda, shotgun on his lap, so no complaint was ever filed. No action ever taken. He liked to learn, though, and had a voracious appetite for knowledge; he filled it up with information gleaned from Google, Wikipedia, and Podcasts. Sometimes he would watch American TV shows about blended families, cute kids with missing front teeth and ginger hair. Occasionally, he would wake in the night, feeling tears on his cheeks where he had squeezed out a few teardrops in his dreams.

When he was sixteen, his parents went out one day in their old truck and never came back. It was a few days before he noticed. He didn't report to anyone, and no one reported to him. Slowly, he explored the house, finding nothing much of interest until he headed outside to the shed he had never been allowed into. Unlocking the door, hearing it creak open, he peered inside, his right hand finding a light switch. He saw tools of all shapes and sizes, guns, knives and fishing gear. If he had any friends, he could have weaponised a small army. Walking into the shed, he tripped over something and, looking down, he saw a trap door with a handle. That's what had almost felled him. He tugged on it, and it opened with ease, revealing a rope ladder that led down into the darkness. Backing up, he found a torch and shone it into the hole, then, seeing nothing, he began to clamber down the ladder. Emerging into a large underground chamber, he looked around. Every manner of goods was stocked on shelves, all labelled: dried food, canned food, supplies to survive an apocalypse. There was a large chest in the corner, secured with a padlock. He climbed back up to the shed and found some bolt-cutters, then, returning underground, he sheared through the lock. Opening the chest, he gasped. It was full of money, all $100 notes.

The following day, he sat in the barbers' admiring his first proper haircut and his clean-shaven face. An hour later, in the changing room of a men's outfitters, he stood naked, smiling at himself in the mirror. He must have had a growth spurt as he now stood over 6ft tall, and there was no longer a trace of fat. Dressing in new jeans and a polo shirt, he paid for his new clothes and walked back out onto the high street. Men side-eyed him, women stared in open admiration. He suddenly felt self-conscious, as if he were an imposter. Ducking into a cafe, he slid quietly into a corner booth. Hearing a polite cough, he looked up into the eyes of the first human he could remember having direct eye contact with. Ever. She held his gaze and smiled. The sun came out. He smiled back, his heart beating a new rhythm. A lone tear slid down his face, and his life changed forever.