Not mine

Not mine

At some part of the world, the sun shines through clouds almost white. A breeze lifts the hanging tulips from the garden patch, and rustles the sweet berry bushes. The sound of the dry leaves tells a short tale of a warm and sunny week, and a weekend that gives smiles in peoples heart, as the plans for a pause of sun and relaxation seems to be ever more nearer. A small water sprinkler, that should have been moved now, spreads its wet miracle on the soaked grass. The rest of the green not getting its drink yet.

The street is without motion. Not many are home at this time of the day, and its not a trafficated road as much. There might be some hint that a curtain was moved, or even a pet in some bushes. But it all seems like a trick of the mind, as the motionless moments scare most people. It carries a creepy kind of feeling. But it's not completely without motion, as the small breeze moves everything ever so slightly. Bushes shudder, grass flickers, trees wave and somewhere a wind chime whistles.

In the front yard sits a kiddie swing. It, and some other children's playpens, are making some sort of makeshift playground of plastic. The sandbox is some plastic boat half-filled with sand, as some or most of it has been taken out of the box too many times. A small plastic playhouse tells a tale of many years of usage, and too few rainy nights under protection, seeing as most stickers have long since disappeared and its colour is fading away. The slide is some plastic combination with lots of walls, holes, stairs and bars. The slide has apparently been used by someone who had grown to old for its use, and a crack has been made down the middle of it.

On one of the swings, both made of plastic, as the other one don't seem to be able to support anyone any more, sits a young man. A boy in his rise to adulthood. A broken teenager. He sits as motionless as the street, just faintly letting the wind move him some small fraction. He is not really holding on, as the need for that is gone with both his feet well planted on the ground. He sits there resting his elbows on his knees, looking down. Staring down. A small tear has gently made its path down his cheek and onto his chin, where it settled for awhile before letting go. The moist pearl of sorrow falls quickly towards the grass, but is interrupted by his folded hands.

Those hands are almost white, as they clench hard on its content. The blackness of it makes an unreal opposite to his hands. And the boy stares at nothing else. A gun. The whole of his body holds it, and it all points down at the moment. Everything always points down. His hands are feeling the wetness that has been applied to it, and it all feels wrong. Very very wrong. Again a movement flickers somewhere else, but nothing can be seen moving. Few sounds beside the rustling and whistling of the wind can be heard, as clouds move in between the sun and the neighbourhood.

No, not right. There is a faint sound. Something in the distance, and meant to be heard. Like a starting whisper it comes, before it instantly becomes clear as a voice in your ear. Sirens are calling. Beckoning for stretching of necks, peeking out windows or scuttling of footsteps. But nothing moves here, and no one seems to hear. With tiny movements, if nothing more than figments of imagination, the boy seems to lift his ears. Or at least his attention to the sound the wind brings.

«Nothing ever works right» the boy throws at the insides of himself.
«It never feels right and never goes right.» He flicks his eyes to the right and looks at his neglected playground. «Abandoned and forgotten. Just like me. Just trying not to be forgotten. Always forgotten or abandoned. Dad left early, so early I cant remember him. We moved after that. You could say that it was we who left, since he remained. But it was him that left the family. Left me. I never met my grandparents much after that. And they died before I got old enough to remember their faces. Never had much friends, but some. My elder sister managed to get herself killed in some motorcycle accident when I was in early grade school. We always had our rivalry and sibling hate, but she was, in heart, my best friend. We moved again. Changed school, and never fitted in. Just me and my mum, who wants her daughter back. Forgotten by all. Abandoned by everything.»
The gun feels warm in his hand and the moisture between his skin and the gun, is giving him some sickening feeling in his stomach. It feels heavy. Holding it bears in mind that it could kill him. That's what it's for. Owning a gun means you are willing to kill someone. In the throw down of you versus someone else, someone evil or desperate, you stand at the threshold of murder. «Why would mother have such a thing?» The purpose eludes most, he would presume. Safety perhaps. Or more a sense of safety.

The sounds of sirens and the commotion of urgency grows ever closer. Its clear that its destination is here. The wind stops to tinkle and play, and then dies away. A tabby cat find he can move now without getting all the attention, and scuttles over a lawn and into a half open window. The gun is raised to the boys forehead, resting the top of its muzzle to his sweaty brow. Pointing to the sky. The boy has his eyes downward still. A car, the owner of one of the sirens, can be heard coming up the street. The boy sighs and lowers the gun, and drops it with a muffled thud and a rustle of the grass.

The boy looks up as an ambulance stops outside his house, and hurried people rush out of its doors. The crew splits into two, one running of into the house, completely ignoring the boy. And a pair working together to retrieve a stretcher, before they too rush past the boy without a glance and quickly gets in the front door, already opened by the first one. The many aggravated and effective sounds of medical shouting can be heard out of the doorway, followed by some faint wailing. The second siren is also closing in, but it is still in the distance. Out of the door the crew bustles out trying their best to keep alive the boy on the stretcher. Mother follows suit all in tears, and the boy's blood. His mother. His own mum. The kid looks from the two to the gun again. It has blood on it.

The last of the sirens stops as the police stops up behind the ambulance, just as the personnel come out of the house. An officer quickly exits and runs up to the mother. Words are exchanged quickly, before she hastens into the back of the ambulance with the others. The car starts up, and the sirens scream as the ambulance quickly gains speed and disappears up the street. A second officer exits the car as well, and the former one starts to walk towards the house. «forgotten.....» The kid thinks sourly, «already abandoned.» He sits there in silence for a while looking at the gun, and the mix of blood and sweat on it. The second officer carefully treads towards him, before stopping before the swing. He squats down and carefully picks up the gun. The elderly man looked ready to retire, but a firm and somewhat understanding stare comes from under his hat as he looks up. «What happened, son?» the officer utters quietly. One small «...she's not mine....» could be heard, before the kid finally brakes down, and falls to his knees in tears, as the rain starts to fall.