TELL ME WHY YOU CRY

IX

-A River Runs Through It.

With a few words, the kid follows obediently and pads along after me, loose leather sandals flopping behind him. The metal walls of the power plant echoes his last steps as he unseeingly follows me to his doom.

Plop plop plop plop

Flip flip flip

'Father, how can anyone work here? It's dank and awfully dark.'

'Son, this is my empire. Mine, and soon to be yours. A factory is like a wonderfully crafted wooden clock. Each piece working by each other, in delicate harmony. If but one of these pieces are offset, the entire city will rumble and fall. One must take care to...'

A young wan boy hopped over a puddle and half sprinted to keep up with his father's pace, struggling to stay dry. A large amount of condensation the hit the top of his head like a bullet, immersing his head in a hell-like coldness.

'Where does the water come from, father?' He was hesitant to interrupt.

Kezia slowly turned to look at his son, stopping his monologue. 'The river flows overhead. Run between the raindrops and hurry along, son.' There was no punishment for stepping out of line this time.

Arden gave up running and wrapped his arms around himself, shivering as his dark brown hair plastered itself to his forehead in greasy strands.

He followed his father.

Plip plip plip.

'Mister, it's really wet in here. I'm cold.'

'Mister?'

Distantly, I hear a quiet voice, but my thoughts are drifting; every sound as noisy and boisterous as the river that runs through this town. The rapids that power the factory, and the water that ends up in our drinking reservoirs. I walk down stairs- Cross the plankway- twists and turns.

Deeper and deeper into the abandoned power plant. Few windows allow minimal amount of sunlight, shaping my late father's thriving utopia. The machines were his subjects, and the construction workers his slaves. He cared little for the outside world. The machines in this world are alive. Warm. Though you have the blue sky and green grass, there's no telling how long until they fade away. Then what are we left with? The same dull colour as – I kick a railing- this mundane place.

Our world isn't kind to strangers.

I wonder if there's one that is.

He keeps up with me, running to keep up with my pace. I turn sharply and unlock a door, the plate of which once read Manager. Something inside of me hoped he would turn back and run.

"In here," I say.

"I'm not supposed to follow strangers into places like this, Mister. Mother'll be upset with me."

"I'm not a stranger. I'm here under God's will to give you sanctuary."

I chuckle inwardly as he walks in, his sandy hair glowing in the dim light.

Halo.

I watch from above as I pop in a video in the crackly retro TV Kezia kept in his office. The boy, cold, huddled by the decorative fireplace, admiring the odd crests and metalwork the old man left. His sandy hair glowed in the dim light; only his back was visible. I hear a click as as the briefcase opens and I feel a heavy weight in my hand.

"You ever play hide and seek, boy?"

I see an affirmative nod, clearer than ever, the flames flickering around his slight figure.

"Well, we're hiding. Sometimes He leads us down the wrong path and we need to find our way out."

The boy gazes silently into the red beyond. "You mean... in there?"

I handed him a cold utensil, more than half his height and as heavy as solid gold. I prayed that Derrick was not yet old enough to read the newspaper, for if he did, he'd know...

With doe eyes, he looks at me for the first time, trusting. Automatically, he takes this from me, and, as if I had entrapped in my thoughts, and rests it in the fire. The flames consumed the branding circle at the end. Silver and orange danced before my eyes...

And in another blinding flash, it was Christmas, and I was that boy staring into the fireplace. Staring into the unknown. Fascinated. Carols leaked in from the streets as boots crunched the white snow. Presents were being opened, Kezia was home. And there was a woman. A middle aged woman who always smelled like roses, like clean soap. Like home.

And I was crying. From sadness or happiness, I don't know.

As soon as the next hiccup bubbled from my throat, the lights were whisked away and it became dark...

And then we were watching. Just like that. I hear the screams. The screams, pushed out from the tired speakers, the screams, very much real beside me.

'A mass suicide today was reported...'

Thousands of bodies drop off a skyscraper. Blood splatters on walls, on clothing, on the camera. Still in pans in the midst of chaos and shrieking.

'Twelve soldiers today were killed instantly as they attempted to cross No Man's Land...'

Young men, loaded down with armour, scrambled over trenches and ran blindly towards the machine gun fire... The bullets rained down in a hailstorm, blood exploding from bodies like firework. It was beautiful. They were all dead. All dead.

Derrick stared, innocent eyes scrunched together as he chewed a hangnail. He was shivering.

"Boy," I say. "What is this?"

"B-b-b-bad things," he shudders.

Time passes. The boy screams. He pulls his hair. Cold sweat rolls off him. But he wouldn't cry. He didn't cry for the mothers, the casualties. None of it. He kept fucking screaming at me to "Turn it off, turn it off..." What a shame.

"It'll be over soon," I soothe him. Pulling my hat over my eyes, I stand up...

... And it's a blur. Everything. I watch from above as I pick up the branding tool, iron heavy in my hand, burning with power.

It was judgement day. Grab his hair with one hand, palm pressing against his skull. Before he realized, I'd flipped the 60 pound boy onto his back. His was squirming in his Church suit and tie. I smile at him, the epitome of an angel, tell him it'll be over. I'll get him out, I say. I'll save him. I raise the white hot branding tool. I wait. I wait, and in that moment wherein he sees, he realizes the image... The teardrop.

I was God-send.

Ssss...

I carry the body, surprisingly light, over my shoulder. He flopped around with little resistance. He was not dead yet. He was on the verge, he was slipping away. I pad down to the rapids running behind the plant, deposited his body, so wan, so natural, onto the bank. He slips away...

I bring my fingers slowly - tap my forehead, then to both shoulders.

Show him You're out there.

He'll come back to us. Maybe in our drinking water. In my dreams and yours, the kid who never lived to see the double digit. He'll come back in my parents, his friends, his teachers. He'll come back to us on the news. On those rainy days. And like the water cycle, he'll be one of us. A bit of sweat on my face.

I watch as his body drifts away – Oh, there was movement. A kickkicksplash, a gurgle. A hand. A small hand reaching for salvation. But oh, it was too late. Too late indeed. For from day one, he had never learned to cry. Never learned what sin really was.

It was to stand and watch. To do nothing.

They'll discover his body, all right. And they'll wonder how a small boy in Church clothes ended downstream with a teardrop branded on his face.

He was down the river of no return.