Ponto
The room was a storm. Wild and treacherous, it erupted with distraught screams. It bounced from the walls. Constant; present; inescapable. The gusts of chatter whipped one from the ground to cavort and hurtled them back like a discarded toy, whilst pencils crept off tabletops and crashed below like fallen trees. Then rainfall came, as it always did. It always rained when there was a storm. They broke their favourite tree, so the drops fell, ripples in the ocean, and were dutifully accompanied by howls, throaty and rough. Cries that grew and fell until they found another tree - their real favourite tree. Although, silence never followed. The clammer of the storm struck on.
The savages fought over resources, snatching and biting over precious blocks of plastic, gnawing at each other’s limbs with teeth unsheathed. Tiny blunt stumps unintimidating in nature but white, pure white, glimmering with playful rivalry. And the feet, how the bare feet hammered on the ground, slamming down like doors left ajar on the hinge. And the laughs, how the laughs bellowed, overcoming all the roars, but there was nothing more discomforting than how they would hang, imprinted in the air. And the ball, how the ball rolled and rolled. So slowly approaching as if it had been directed when to stop. Such small a detail in the room, exactly how he liked it, and stopping just as it reached him.
* * *
I skipped over to the corner where it had gone, my hands clasped behind me. With a light foot, I made my way through the classroom, half-empty from lunch break, and across the tempting hopscotch scribbled in pale pink chalk below. I passed Eddie and Jasper, wrapped in a bundle of clothes and teeth and hair, scrambling over the Lego bricks that they stuffed desperately into pockets, pathetically uncertain who’s was who’s within the scuffle. I slipped through the gap in the bookcases, trod carefully across the felt rug of snakes and ladders rolled unevenly along the floor. I weaved in between tissue paper vines hung clumsily on the ceiling from several years before. Then I reached him. I reached it.
Snuggled tight to the wall to his left, in a dingy corner, like a cocoon eternally sealed, the little boy with the little hands and the big eyes huddled. To his right side was my ball, just centimetres away from him, and I could tell it had been touching him once. Simply from the way his eyes were scrunched tight, concentrated, focussing on anything other than the present, I knew he had felt it nuzzle up to his side for comfort, and the warmth had burnt him. Burnt him badly and he needed to escape.
He could hear me. Those small ears quivered so slightly. Although he was nestled down deep in that bulky, dark coat of his, it was no protective shell, and I could see his little hands fiddling beneath the fabric, making it swell and diminish like calm breathes. I could hear that slow ticking noise, always a ‘tik’; never a ‘tok’. That sterile, constant ‘tik’ which puzzled Miss Jared for weeks, resulting in several technicians having to crudely dissect each clock in the building. Drove her mad and still does to this day. You would think she would become accustom to the rhythm, to the pattern, but it was always an intrusion to her. Our clocks weren’t supposed to ‘tik’.
I needed my ball back, but there, next to him, it felt an ocean away. If I stepped within three arm stretches, I was washed with guilt, salty to the taste. He would quiver and shrivel with each pace onwards I made, wrinkle up as if he had been awash for an eternity longer than I. Eventually I was soaked enough that it drew me heavily to the floor where I sat crossed-legged, my hands placed on top of one another upon my frilled yellow skirt. I was comfortable again, but I still had the reoccurring thought, ‘I need my ball back’, whispering in the forefront of my mind.
The silence was icy, stinging your throat so that you couldn’t break it even if you pleased. The air in the corner was heavy, as if weighed down by a sea of fog. However, unlike this, the evermore I stared at the little boy, his large eyes now deeming it safe to gaze at me from afar, the more he began to blur before me rather than becoming anymore clearer. All I could remember, as his image faded, were those features burrowed within my memory. That little boy with the little hands and the big eyes, those big observant eyes. They were either tight shut or wide open, never blinking, often stuck on a victim, prey, which he stalked and imitated after. Eventually, they were all I could see, the only light amidst the fallen fog. Anxiously, I called out to them, my voice barely denting the ice. ‘Could I have my ball?’ I called, and the fog lifted as swift as it fell. I expected no answer and I received none. Words weren’t where success lay.
I capered back, a basket swinging playfully at my side. I skipped on across the hopscotch, and the felt rug, and the vines, all with steps lighter and lighter. Gentle enough so I could only just hear the soft pitter-patter of my bare feet petting the wooden planks. Although, I had to slower my pace as the darkness settled in, as the nails began to warp out of place, twisting and toiling in their positions. Following along this trail, those observant eyes came before me again, penetrating the mist between us. I’d felt it settling again as I left, thicker and denser than before, but he could still see me and there was nothing more unsettling than that thought. I could be seen but I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see my ball. It had been swallowed by the shadows, but I trusted it was there, still tucked at his side.
‘Here,’ I groped into my basket without a glance, resistant to avert my eyes from him, and plucked out a toy car I had wretched from Joey’s grasp. ‘Yours,’ I delicately rolled it over, but it fell short by half an arm stretch. He stayed put, so I shuffled backwards until it was within his reach. However, despite the equal distance, he still snatched it apprehensively from where it had stopped and scurried backwards, back into his den, to properly feast on my gift.
I could see it better now with the air clear. As good as I ever could, anyways. Black mould lined each edge and the flooring, nails loose and free, seemed abundant in moss. Then as I glanced upwards, crawlers adorned the adjoining walls like some intricate art piece. And, when my gaze fell again, the little boy was staring at me hungrily, still beating around the small metal car, and I was struck with a new kind of wariness.
From my basket, I brought forth Lego bricks spewed out of full pockets, wooden blocks snatched from fairy castles and Miss Jared’s glasses left balancing on the edge of her desk. I chucked them and rolled them and left them put for him to ferry away. By the time my basket was empty, I could no longer see his haunting gaze. I couldn’t hear a ‘tik’ striking the stagnant air. The little boy sat in the corner, his big eyes looking down before him and his little hands splayed out in front of him, appearing bigger than they ever had before.
‘Hello,’ I attempted to interrupt him to no avail. ‘Could you pass me my ball?’ I repeated myself three times and only then did he release his grip on the pair of glasses, sending them falling to a shatter. I tried once more, pointing towards his right side that he’d neglected, where my ball lay in wait. He followed my directions and noticed it, what he’d been escaping from before. Much unlike his usual behaviour, he very tentatively approached it, gently cupping his hand round its foamy surface and studying it further once It was in his grasp.
He began to clamber up from his kneeling position, finally standing, and as he drew nearer, I noticed that those large eyes were fixated on my hands rather than my face, that his height was equal to my own. I noticed how slowly he crept forward, flinching with resistance, and began to lift his arm with all of gravity against him. However, his palm opened like a lotus, young and pink and giving. Letting the ball hover, balanced there, with his hand spread wide open, fingers deadly stiff.
I couldn’t refuse his generosity. I should’ve refused his generosity.
Returning his gradual movements, I grasped my ball with no hurry. I gazed at him while I did so, his eyes flickering around in their sockets, from my ears to my chin to my hands again, my approaching hands. Paws slowly nearing his own. The pace of the ‘tik’ quickened with each inch, hurrying me on like a timer until I seized the ball, round but sticky from nervous sweats, so I slipped. My finger slipped, touching his, flesh to flesh, and I withdrew like a reflex, but I knew the second I did, that I’d burnt him.
I knew because he screamed. An agonising scream that pierced me straight through with needle accuracy. My fingers were stuffed deep within my ears, but it muffled nothing; I could hear it beating on within me and a wave rear up above me and I squeezed my eyes shut so tightly because I didn’t want to drown. It had to stop. I had to make it stop, so I frantically struck out, swatting my hands in a frenzy, until a thump sounded. Hesitantly, I peered through one eye to find him spasming on the floor. Contorted; malfunctioning; helplessly convulsing in sheer panic as he replaced his screams with a dreary series of bumps and thuds. Raised nails were catching at his coat and his hair, tearing him apart bit by bit whilst I watched.
Then the thunder of heels came marching up behind me. Heavy boots striking the wooden planks, hammering the scraggly nails back into place, and I felt a hand on my shoulder as they all gathered round.
A warm breath brushed my ear and I glanced to my side to see Miss Jared there, staring onwards. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, dear,’ she slithered her gangly arms around me, ‘you did the right thing.’ However, I could only look on in horror.
At each limb, they restrained him. They carried him onwards, still awkwardly flailing in their grasp, flopping around like a fish out of water, and he’d started to squeal again, to howl.
I wriggled from the woman’s clutches, retrieved my fallen ball and tucked it dearly to my chest before backing into that dingy corner. I reversed carefully into his den and slid down the walls, still watching them dragging him away. I huddled there, watching the scene unfold, upon the moss, amongst the creepers, timidly taking in the sublimity of the storm.
* * *
I’ve barely seen my brother since. Although, that year, my parents bought me a dog, and, despite their complaints, I called him Ponto. Ponto was very friendly; I cuddled with him in the garden on sunny days and he always fetched back the balls I threw. However, no matter what I’d say, he wasn’t allowed to sleep on my bed with me, so instead I’d watch him from my window on cold, rainy nights, alone and shivering in his kennel. Although he couldn’t hear me, I found myself whispering over to him nonetheless, ‘I’m sorry, Ponto, it must be so lonely out there. But we both know mummy doesn’t like having animals in the house.’