Wide Eyed

Tommy

Let me tell you a tale. One of loss, and discovery. Of curiosity and fear, and a little mind that will never be the same.

Little Tommy, or Thomas if you asked him, looked up in wonder at the dark clouds over the ocean past Roghton's wall. They appeared to move slowly to his young eyes and approached from somewhere far beyond the horizon. The waves heaved and sighed, rose up and over the craggy shores, and battered themselves against them in a spray of white foam. The salt rode the wind and over the damp streets of Roghton, ascending air currents and coming to rest upon its ancient stone towers. They would fall one day, as the winds and sea cut at their structures like the teeth of a saw. The wet air gathered itself in the dark corners of houses and nurtured an eternal dampness, leaving the only thriving community to be the variety of moulds that infested every wooden structure. Little Tommy coughed into his fist.

He stood at the window of his room atop a small wooden stool. From here, he could see the comings and goings of the neighbouring houses. Yesterday he saw the house across having its doors and windows boarded up. He didn't know why, and he can't recall seeing anyone leave the house. He thought it was odd, but didn't think too hard about it. He would look out every morning and see the shambling masses going to and fro, off to their daily struggles and labour. The bent backs and crooked walk of those carrying the heaviest burden of all; Adulthood.

Tommy did not have to work yet as he had barely seen his ninth winter. Perhaps he could help his mother spin yarn at the mill and let her aching hands relax. "Stay home, read, play. Enjoy yer self while ye can, 'cause I'll need ye to find a job soon." She had said to Tommy the night before. He stayed up late that night reading by candlelight in his room, his mother resting in the next.

The books he read were far bigger than what the other children read, and the librarian was sure to tell him every time he visited. She never mentioned that other children scarcely visited the library, but perhaps Tommy had noticed already. She was always happy to see him and gave him bigger and bigger books every time he came. Tommy didn't always understand what the books were about, but isn't that the point of reading? To challenge oneself and find a path to understanding?

The view beneath his window had grown empty, so Tommy hopped down onto the wooden floor and walked to the corner of his room where lay the latest batch of books. These were due for returning, and he couldn't bear to imagine the disappointed look on the librarian's face if he failed to deliver. Would she stop giving him these big books? They sat in a stack on an old wooden chair, ready to pick up and go. He took one more look at the clouds on the distant horizon, then turned and picked up the stack.

His mother was not due to return until the day was done, so he left her a note on the table. He heaved the stack of books down the stairs and through their front door, stopping briefly to lock it behind with the key under the rug. Tommy couldn't see that well past the stack he carried, but his little feet carried him along the cobbled streets down the path they had walked a hundred times. He was happy to keep his eyes covered, as the other people he would often walk by scared him. There were old men who would sit on stairs, drinking some foul-smelling liquid that stuck to their breath, all the while ranting and raving to the empty air. Then there were younger men who would lean on the walls or creep within alleys. Watching and listening for the jingle of coin in Tommy's pockets.

Mother made Tommy promise to always carry his knife. A dull paring knife no longer than his palm, but it would work in a pinch. "If someone wants something from ye that you don't want to give, ye take your knife, stab right here-" She motioned to her groin. "And twist. Then yank it out an' run as fast as ye can into somewhere I can hear ye yellin'." He kept it in a pocket in his trousers, and he hoped he never had to use it.

He walked by a woman who smelled like roses and wasn't wearing as much as she probably should. Wasn't she cold? She stood swaying on the corner of the street like she was in a daze. She looked at Tommy and spoke through slurring lips painted red. "Hey boy, gimme a little purse and bottle of wine and I'll make a man outta ya!" She leered as he approached, his eyes fixed squarely on the books he carried. Tommy was a boy still, he would be a man later. Why would the woman make him a man? That just means he has to work sooner. He ignored her and walked passed her, and the smell of roses changed to that strange foul smell and made his head spin. She cackled and turned the other way, made it three steps, and fell over. Tommy pretended not to hear her stumble and walked swiftly around the corner.