The Windowsill Was Green

The windowsill was green.  Its ivy-toned paint was chipped in several places, and was beginning to flake.  It was old and musty; for sure some termites had gorged themselves on a significant feast of molded pine.  Despite the years and apparent weakness, it held firm under the weight of a small boy, who held his knees tightly to his chest and kept his eyes locked on a silver Pontiac across the street, which was blurred by the gently drifting snow of December.1

A voice shook him from his stupor, and frantically he pulled at the curtains that hung beside the window, hoping the thick burlap would conceal his presence from any passerby.  He returned his eyes to the shining car across the street, but its owners had since driven away, the only sign to their previous occupation was a blank patch of grass among the snow.2

From his small grey eyes, tiny drops of water forced their way, trailing from the tightly clenched corners, and gathering below the chin on the soft pink flesh of his neck.  The wetness was becoming a great discomfort to him, but despite his constant blinking, the liquid continued to cloud the soft grey eyes, leaving them chill like a winter storm.  On his forehead, a patch of blonde hair was matted from the congealed blood that was left behind from the morning’s events.  It had dried and crusted, but was still throbbing deeply as though whatever had struck him continued to do so.  He pulled a few tufts of his honey wheat hair over the forming scab, hoping such an action would eliminate its total existence, and yet knowing in his tiny heart that it never would.3

The snow continued to swirl outside his window, though harder now, and the little boy focused in on a frost-ridden tree, feeling very much akin to it.  This cold room, he thought, is like the snow outside, and the tree, I am the tree, trying to hide under the snow.  He smiled, pretending that the violent cold was all he wanted, all he really needed.  He wanted to think that all he needed in life was the comfort of the cold snow, that love could be hiding out there, somewhere, covered in sparkling frost.  A different kind of love.  He winced, remembering the pain of the morning.  Yes, he thought, not this kind of love.  In a state of comfort, he leaned his head against the window, and the cooling sensation numbed the throbbing in his skull.  Resting quietly, he stayed there, drifting in and out of consciousness until finally slipping off to a sweet and peaceful sleep.4

He dreamt only a little, but all his dreams were happy.  In each he was alone in a snow-filled landscape, hiding among the trees, peering through frosted windows of snow-covered cottages, hiding under the soft flakes of lace, safe from the world he lived in, safe from that voice that plagued him.5

When he awoke, it was neither to the cold peace of the snow nor the gentle comfort of its arms, but rather to the grasping, raking fingers of one he feared the most.  When his small grey eyes surveyed the angry face they began to tear up again, and the same old fear gripped his tiny heart.  “No!”6

“Damn it, Chester, is this where you’ve been hiding, you little…” – he didn’t hear the rest.  It was always the same.  Cursing, hitting, drop your pants, and pain.  He closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out anything connected to this powerful monster who ruled his life, and slowly his tiny lips began to murmur; it was almost a prayer.7

I’d give it all away8

Just to have somewhere to go to9

Give it all away10

To have someone to come home to11