The Broken Boy

He looked in the mirror as he so often does, letting his gaze trail over his droopy eyelids, the sagging left corner of his mouth, the thin white lines branching across his cheeks. Gray fluff barely covered the papery skin that glided over his skull, and he fingered a piece. His hands, marred by the scarring between his fingers where webs once lay, were too awkward and big and clumsy, and a clump of hair released itself.

A low guttural noise squeezed out of his throat. His knobby fingers, creaking and groaning at the joints, brushed at his neck, and he wished he could let the words out, if only once. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many eloquent sentences and beautiful paragraphs, a thousand speeches and a million stories, but as soon as he opened his malformed mouth, beast-like sounds emerged. They were twisted and half-strangled, the syllables tripping over one another and melting to each other and searing until the letters, the meanings, were all screwed up.

He closed his thick, heavy lids, enveloping his weak eyes with blackness. The lamp was off and barely any light streamed in through the lone curtained window of his room, but the dusky blueness was still overwhelming for him. Only total darkness – total silence of the world – would be enough.

Slowly, painfully, he curled his fingers into a fist and then back again. He wanted to move them nimbly, freely, wanted them to dart over piano keys and violin strings, to guide a pen and stroke a girl's hair. But instead they were slow and dull and stupid, the bones within grinding and screeching with every movement.

He lumbered to his bed. He could feel his bony hips struggling to move his bent legs, his arms hitting his sides, his heart snickering against his ribs. A vacant sort of ringing started in his ears and became louder and louder, until he willed it away. That was the one thing he could use in his broken body – his mind.

Relief glided through his bones as he tumbled onto the soft mattress. Springs squealed, but the sound was welcome. His eyes were still shut, but he buried them into the pillow all the same. Faintly, he heard a voice outside the door. It was loud and harsh and hurt his ears.

"Can you hear me?" it was saying. "You should eat. Please, Charlie, you haven't eaten all day. It's important you get the food you need."

Leave me alone, he wanted to say. Let me go to sleep. Please. But he didn't even bother to try.

The door flew open, and he croaked involuntarily. Yellow light blinded him, even with his closed and buried eyes. He wasn't looking, but he'd seen her often enough to know who was there. A small woman – smaller than his hulking frame, at least – stood in the doorway, eyes plaintive and pleading, mouth turned up at the corner in undisguised disgust and pity.

She hesitated. He could sense her indecision, her uncontrollable fear of what an abomination like him could do. "If you eat your dinner... I have a surprise for you. A present. But you can only have it if you eat up everything on your plate."

His heart twitched, the spidery veins in him responding to the little jerk of excitement. Rarely did the woman give him presents, and he'd never celebrated a birthday or holiday, definitely not like in the books he sometimes managed to read on those days when his fingers cooperated with his mind.

The woman took a few footsteps inside the room, closing the door behind her but not all the way. She couldn't bear to be completely and utterly alone in a room with him. There was only one person in the entire world who knew of the sensitive creature within him, because that man – that being – was just like him. "There's spaghetti tonight, Charlie," she said, "and I know it's your favorite. You like it, don't you? It's very good. I made it myself, with my own tomato sauce and everything."

Her voice was slow and cautious, like she was afraid he wouldn't be able to understand. He hated the people who were like that more than those who taunted him.

You should eat it. The surprise might be a good thing, something you can actually use. There he was – the man who understood him, the one who taught and guided and spoke to him. You must seize every opportunity. That's the only way you will ever amount to anything.

He lifted up his head, eyes open only to slits to avoid the light streaming in. The woman was holding his special speaking device, a black-screened laptop with gray letters he could make by pushing the extra-big keys. He shifted to a sitting position, his spine aching in protest, and tapped out a message. With each key he pushed, pain echoed in his fingers and wrist, and he kept the messages as short as possible. OK. EAT FOOD.

The woman smiled, but her eyes were weary. She held out the plate, and he carefully balanced it on his knee. She brought the fork from the food to his mouth over and over again, feeding him like a very young child. He was used to this way as he was used to most things – his inability to take a shower by himself or the way, increasingly, using the toilet was harder and harder. He figured by his fifteenth, perhaps sixteenth birthday, that last bit of privacy, of independence, would be gone.

At last, the spaghetti was gone, and his stomach was smarting with pinpricks of pain that would get worse when digestion started. "Great," the woman said, a little too enthusiastically. "Now for the surprise! I'll be right back, so don't go anywhere." She left the room, shutting the door behind her.

His mouth twisted and a curious sound erupted from him – a cross between a bray and howl. It was the only remnant of laughter left. Don't be so down, the man chided. That's not what I taught you to do. Remember, you will amount to something. Someday you will have as much power, maybe, as I do.

She doesn't seem to think so, he protested.

And what does she know? She may be your miserable excuse of a mother, but don't you ever forget who I am. A spasm of pain, sent by the man, shot through his lungs and he gasped, frantic for breath.

Yes, I know, you are my father. It was still difficult to breathe, and his heavy hands, bent like claws, swarmed around his throat.

And what does that mean?

It means I am a child of Death. It means I will achieve great things if I do what you tell me.

The man didn't say anything else, but he could sense him smiling, a great, vicious smile, and the pain fled. Thank you, Father, he whispered.

The woman came back inside, and a pig-like squealing noise slipped out of him at the blinding flash of light.

"Sorry!" she said quickly. "I'm sorry." She lifted up a cardboard box. "But I have your surprise. See?"

She bent down, placing the box on the floor. A smile was plastered on her face, stark in comparison to her twitchy eyes. He could feel her pupils darting around in the whites, all her nerves on edge because she wasn't sure how he would take it. A sullen, resentful sort of anger began to rise in him, and the man-being stiffened. Don't care so much. Why does she bother you?

I'm sorry.

Yes. Control yourself. But this doesn't look so promising.

The woman opened the box and gently tipped it over. There was a squeak, and a small creature raced out. It was a puppy, with golden fur and deep black eyes and clumsy paws and a frantic tail. He looked at it through half-lidded eyes, and his perpetual grimace jerked spasmodically.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

His neck and shoulders trembled – his version of a shrug – and he saw her perfect white teeth worrying her glossy lower lip. Heat rose in his stomach at the thought of how exact her body was, how everything worked just right, how beautiful she was.

A pain seared his heart. It ground against his ribs, and he doubled over, struggling to keep his floppy lips shut. Bile burned his throat as the world dipped in and out of focus, and the man snarled, What did I tell you? What did I tell you?

And the woman only stared, her eyes now wide and frightened.


When she left at last, he wheezed in relief. The puppy huddled in a corner of the room, its tail tucked between its legs and its head ducked down low. Ears flattened against its skull, it whined, and he studied it. It was so small and scared and innocent. Those deep eyes didn't know anything about the world or abominations; all it knew was that a creature had been convulsing in pain, and now wasn't, and its only fear was that it too might be harmed.

He clumsily wet his lips and tried to say, "Here, boy." A low, guttural sound emerged instead, but the puppy didn't seem afraid by it. Its tail wagged tentatively, and its head cocked just a little bit to the left. He attempted a smile, and it trotted over, its ears pricking and tail whipping faster through the air.

Slowly, he reached down a hand, and the puppy eagerly licked it, its bright pink tongue flashing from its muzzle to his hand over and over and over again. He could only stare at the blatant show of affection, the utter disregard for his twisted fingers and deformed wrist, his whitish palm and flattened, pink nails. The tongue even reached his hairless arm, ignoring the lumpy moles and sagging skin where the bones and muscles were too weak to support it.

I want to take it outside. To play with it.

The man-being paused. Hesitated. Yes. Why don't you? It's nighttime now, and if you wear your goggles, the stars won't hurt you.

I hate the goggles. You know that.

Would you rather the light scorches you? Do you want your skin to peel and burn, your eyes to flash, your mind to be overwhelmed? The man-being sounded almost pleased as he said this, like he wanted the boy to be bitter and upset. If so, then by all means, leave your goggles behind.

What if they frighten the puppy?

It'll get over it, won't it?

He frowned and slid to his feet. Balancing the goggles on his fingertips, he carefully put them on, the monstrosities completely covering and shielding his eyes with dark-tinted lenses. He couldn't actually see anything, but that was all right. He didn't need to see to know what was going on.

The puppy cowered again, fear overwhelming curiosity. His pulse quickened; so it was afraid of his gear and not him. What kind of instincts were those? It was a stupid dog, he decided. A stupid, stupid, stupid dog.

He snatched it up, ignoring its squeals and the burning pain in his arms and lower back, and barged out of his room. The woman looked up from down the trailer. Her tattered blue dress was still fluttering around her legs when she froze, a sizzling black tray in one gloved hand. "Oh, dear, what are you doing?" She smelled of adrenalin and cookies and terror, of thudding hearts and second-hand books. "You're hurting the puppy."

He swung his hand in the direction of the door, and he could hear her swallow, the saliva being pushed down by smooth muscle, sliding in perfect rhythm to her pulse. "Outside? Are you sure you're up to it, Charlie? Maybe... do you want a chair? I could put it out, and you could sit down or something."

Her words were a soft buzzing, and he barely heard them. They were nervous and quick, hovering over the meaning of what she really wanted to say. His legs were burning, and the pain only compounded when he shook his head, which already started to tilt from his frail neck.

"Honey..." The woman leaned against the counter, finally putting the tray down, and pressed a towel to her forehead. "You must be tired. Why don't you go to sleep?"

Are you going to give in?

She's right. I'm not strong enough.

You are. You just don't want to be.

My legs hurt. And my arms and my neck and I want to sleep. I want to be normal.

It's only seven.

Please. I want to sleep.

Weakling. You're nothing but a weakling. I find it hard to believe that you are my child. But fine. Go to sleep.


The moment his eyes closed, the world changed. He was in a meadow, with the beautiful, rich sunlight speckling the lush grass, and he perched on a boulder. His tanned, muscular arms held a book, and not one part of his body hurt.

He lifted his head, his thick hair rustling against his neck, and gazed up at the sun. It was the brightest thing in the world, but it didn't burn his eyes. The sensation was even pleasant. Do you like this? The man-being was more powerful in his dreams, and he was everywhere.

The boy smiled. "Yes," he said out loud. "Of course. It's better than the ocean from last night." He paused. "Death. Why don't you let me remember these during the day? It would make everything so much easier."

Don't you realize? There was a ripple, and then a man sat beside him. "You are different here than in the real world. You're happy, and that makes you smart. Caring. Kind. Strong. But out there, you live in a foggy world, with everything overridden by your constant pain. It would be impossible for you to remember."

The boy placed his fingers on the stone, marveling as he always did at how easily the touch came. "Perhaps. It'd be nice all the same." He sighed. "This world is better, like I said, but I'm still lonely."

"You have me. Isn't your father enough?"

"It's not the same. I want friends. Or at least one friend. Please, Father? Someone I can talk to, who'll understand me."

The man didn't say anything, and only stared at the grass. His form was constantly shifting, and so the boy could never tell at any given time what he really looked like. At last, he said, "I do have another child. A daughter. She is like you, and I suppose you could meet her."

The boy sprang to his feet, eyes wide. "Really?"

The space beside him rippled, and then suddenly, a girl was next to him. She had beautiful dark curls that framed a lovely face, with topaz eyes and a perfect nose and pink lips. He turned to thank the man, but he was already gone.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"I don't have one." He frowned. "You're like me, aren't you? That's what he told me. So hasn't he talked about how names are restrictive and lock you in and trap you?"

She rolled her eyes and sat down. "Oh, only about every other minute. Come on. I have to call you something."

He bit his lip and sat beside her. "I guess... I guess you could call me Jason." The name leaped to his tongue and came out before he could think about it.

"And you can call me Iris."

She smiled, and he smiled back, wondering what the queer feeling spreading through his body was.

They talked a lot. From dusk to dawn they spoke of books, food, movies, everything conceivable, not even noticing Death's absence from the dream all together. They laughed at jokes and spent hours discussing serious topics, debating about anything they could. She had a quick wit and he was a solid thinker, and when they felt their respective bodies stirring from sleep, they promised to meet each other again the following night.


He woke up, sparks of pain jittering up his nerves. The man-being lurked in his brain, and urged, Sleep again. Sleep again. In his groggy state, the boy let his eyes fall closed again.


"That was amazing," he said in a rush.

The man smiled. "I'm glad you liked it. You want to see her again, I assume?"

"Oh, absolutely! Iris – she's gorgeous and funny and insanely smart."

"Very well. You may be with her, under one condition, of course."

The boy frowned. "A condition?" The dream world was colder now, with the sun starting to fade and a chill setting in. "What?"

The man set his hands on the boy's shoulders, and let his flickering eyes stop on a single, black color. They bore straight into the boy's eyes as he said, "You must not fall in love."


And the boy awoke. There was a strange, heavy feeling in his heart, and a sort of lightness about him. For a few minutes, he didn't even feel pain.

The door opened. The woman slipped in, quickly shutting the door behind her, and looked at him. "You're smiling," she said in wonder.

His eyes were wide open, despite the light trickling in from the blocked window, and he felt fine sitting up. "I want an iris." The words slipped out of their own accord, his teeth and lips and tongue moving in just the right way for the first time he could recall, and the woman gasped.

Then – just as quickly as it had come – it all went away. Pain ground everywhere, and he tumbled into a lying position. When he tried to speak again, only the grunting sounds came out, and despair weighed him down as always.

What's the matter? The man being asked.

I don't know.

But the niggling feeling that he had to have an iris was wedged in him, and it wasn't going away as easily.


"I hate that Death," Iris blurted the moment they were together. "I hate him!"

Jason stared at her. "What? Why?"

"Because he's horrible! Didn't he tell you?" She sank down onto the boulder. "He said we can't love each other."

He blinked. "Do you... do you love me?"

Iris glared at him. "You idiot. Of course I do. And I know you love me too, so don't even try to deny it. But now he won't let us be together."

"He only wants the best for us."

She threw back her head, her curls dangling, and laughed. It was short and harsh and bitter, and he cringed. "Don't you get it? He's only controlling us. He's the reason we're so ill, so screwed up."

"So broken," he whispered.

"He's not our father. My father is an alcoholic and my mother's a junkie."

Jason shook his head. His stomach writhed all of a sudden, and he fell, hard, to his knees. "Oh, God!" he screamed. Bile rose in his throat as pain, sharp, white, hot pain, pierced every part of him to a degree he had never known before. All he could think of was how much he wanted to die, and he was only vaguely aware of the wetness on his shirt front.

"Jason! Jason!" Someone was kneeling down beside him, screeching and sobbing.

A whisper was forced into his mind, and it only occurred to him now how awful it was that the voices, the man-being who called himself Death, was infiltrating everything about him. I told you! I told you not to love her! And you have defied me, and you will be punished.

She was shouting words, something that sounded like, "Find me!" And he knew that he had too, but he couldn't, and that everything was so wrong. He had no name and he had no age and he had no being, and he was


Awake. Pain. He couldn't think. The woman was someone near him, but there was only screaming and screaming and screaming. And a voice. Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. You'll have what you want if you kill her.

He reached up with one claw and wrapped it around the woman's throat. The pain was still there, but he could ignore it now, since he was doing what the voice wanted. It would all be okay if he followed directions, he thought, and he squeezed.

The woman's face was purple. She was scrabbling at his hand with her nails, and he could see fresh blood dripping from the back of his hand, but he didn't feel anything. Not exactly, in any case. And the voice was chanting, Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. You'll have what you want if you kill her.

She struggled, but his hands were strong all of a sudden, and he didn't question why. Her body was becoming limper and limper, and then two words seared his mind.

"Find me."

Everything came in a rush – Iris, the dreams, meadows and boulders and singing birds and Death. He jerked his hand away, and the woman tumbled to the ground, unconscious but still breathing. The pain was back, worse than before, but Jason knew what he had to do.

He gritted his teeth and lumbered out the door, ignoring all the protests of his body. Whenever it seemed unbearable, he clamped his jaw even harder.

He was at the door, and he slowly pulled it open. Somehow, he knew he had to hurry, and that if he didn't something bad – something terribly, terribly bad – would happen. When the light burned his eyes, he smashed his teeth together, and then there was a looseness and something small and hard landed on his tongue.

Jason forced himself to walk faster, faster, faster, and then he was running. His legs were pumping, and the burning felt good. There was a tingling in his scalp, and when he put his hand to his skull, there was hair growing. His fingers straightened, muscles rippled beneath his skin, and he was alive.

A trailer was in front of him, and he skidded to a stop. "Iris!" he yelled. He ran forward and struggled with the door. It refused to open, and he groaned in frustration. Tensing his muscles, he closed his eyes and kicked it with all his strength, and it swung.

Iris was inside, as beautiful was ever, crying. A chunk of hair was at her feet, and her face was buried in her hands. "I can't, I can't, I can't," she whimpered.

A man loomed over her, stinking of whiskey and late nights and sour sweat. He lifted his hand and started to bring it down, and she shielded her head with her arms. Jason roared in fury and raced forward. He grabbed the man's arm and snapped it to the man's side, strength coursing through his blood.

The man gasped, and Jason punched him in the face. With a groan, he collapsed to the floor.

"Are you okay?" he asked, kneeling beside Iris.

She looked up, blood covering her face and stemming from a cut in her forehead. "Yeah," she said weakly. "Of course. Idiot." And she smiled.

He smiled back. "We can beat Death, you know."

"Shall we?"

And they kissed.