Balloon

• Adelaide Pope, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2017

She turned, and hurried back down the cobblestone steps. She was not in the mood to see the boy's dejected face as he tried to sell balloons. He was there, in the elements, in the park, every day. People would rarely buy balloons and if they did, it was out of sympathy. Everyone knew his story. When he was only four, his parents were taken and executed, leaving him, only seven years of age, to fend for himself.
 
She went around the park, feeling slightly guilty but not nearly as much as she would have if she had gone past the boy. He was always so polite and he pleaded with his eyes for you to give something. When you apologised, and said that you had nothing, he would reply with "That's quite alright. You have a nice day, now." It wasn’t alright. He would go to sleep hungry, if he even slept at all.
People were willing to give to him, although their excuse was the truth, with the new rations put in place due to the shortage of grain, people really had nothing to give without missing out themselves.
 
She arrived at her tiny, cell-like room and sat on her bench, thinking about her day. It went quickly. It seemed like only a few minutes ago that she had walked past the boy on her way to work, exchanging only smiles, not daring to engage in conversation because of the pity that she felt and the shame that she could not help him in any way.
 
She glanced up at the small, analogue clock on the wall of her room. She had found it in one of the old buildings after it had burnt down, still in working condition. It was made nearly fifty years ago in 2020. Its mahogany case held its cracked glass face.
 
The clock reminded her of the boy. Rescued, yet living only to stay ticking.
 
The clock read 7.52. In eight minutes, the power would be shut off and she would be expected to sleep. Due to the protests, the government put in place a new curfew. Anyone out after 8.00 would be shot on sight.
She drifted to sleep.  

She dreamt of the boy … She saw an opaque, black balloon, floating aimlessly through the air outside her window. She was mesmerised by it, its dark colour, the way it moved with the wind, completely weightless.
BANG! The balloon was shot, yet it did not burst. The sound shocked her, snapping her out of her daydream. She looked up to see the boy, holding a large rifle, gazing down at her. She stood still, shocked.
The balloon was attached to him, its lifeless plastic hanging from a large, silver chain.
 
The boy shot again, this time aiming for the chain, obviously trying to detach it. He did not succeed. His demeanour did not change. He calmly shot at the chain, achieving nothing but the waste of bullets, all the while floating himself, although slightly pulled down by the chain and balloon.
 
She woke up, unsure if what she just witnessed was a dream or not. The clock read 7.52, the same as last time she checked. She pressed the button that peeled back the curtains so she could look out the window - it was morning.
 
She could see the boy through her window, at his same place in the park, with his pitiful bag of balloons hanging from his shoulder. It amazed her that he could remain so hopeful, stay so persistent.
 
She got ready and left her house. In the mornings, there was no way of avoiding the boy - the path around the park was closed until 10.00am due to the protests.
 
She began to feel nervous, she did not know why - it was just a dream after all and the boy did not try to hurt her, he was merely trying to free himself from the black balloon.
 
She neared the boy, he did not move or make any acknowledgement to her presence.
 
She kept walking, making no acknowledgement of his presence.