The Day I Brought A Broken Boy

• Emily Benson, Grade 8, Caulfield Grammar School -
• Short Story
• 2022

Excellence Award in the 'Summertime Fun ONLINE' competition

Slave Markets, Victoria 1932

His skin was as rich as coffee beans, a brutal contrast to my fair complexion. His dark skin was beautiful in my eyes, bold and true but soon was proved to be an unpopular opinion as the remainder of the crowd looked down at him with murderous disgust, including the boy himself. The boy's harrowed expression haunted me, his eyes hollow, the cruelty of such a reality consuming his innocent soul. The broken boy stood barefoot on the makeshift stage already succumbed to the judgemental roar of the privileged crowd. His head tilted down with shame and his weary limbs went limp with defeat. My attention focused on a tag clipped around his wrist, already drawing the crimson of blood. The tag alone was powerful, its mere presence stripped the boy of his identity, blinding him, and silencing him.

My full stomach rumbled sympathetically. Taking a moment to understand him proved a painful task, the brutal wrath of empathy slashed at my heart, aching on his behalf. I was only young then, frolicking through the first carefree years of life, most things barely comprehendible by the immaturity of my mind, but my heart was humane enough to understand. This wasn't right. No amount of justification could change that. I painted my pained expression with innocence to pose such a risky question to my father.

"Daddy?" I asked fondly "May I please purchase a slave with my pocket money." The sentence sounded criminal, polluted my lips as dehuminising someone in such a bloodthirsty manner weakened me significantly, I could hardly fathom the effect it had on the poor boy watching.

"Are you sure son?" My father replied uncertainly. "This one is practically useless, any of the other ones tickle your fancy."

His words sickened me.

"Father, I'm sure," I say softly. My heart broke with his as we watched my father drop a fraction of my coins into the salesman's hands, uncovering the boys true worth.

I released the boy out the mahogany window of my bedroom that night, I watched him as he scurried away, the darkness concealed him. He left tentative however his gratitude radiated from him, he nodded thankyou and fled. I didn't need a goodbye as I knew that would never indeed be goodbye. When my father awoke stiff and menacing the next morning, his eyes wild with the prospect of losing even a mere slither of our undying fortune, I would tell him that my slave ran away.

Thirty grueling years later, I would be seated on the balcony of the same house, my sanctuary, constructed through the laborious hands of others. To my surprise I would find a familiar figure of a dinky boy, skin as dark as coal, his hopeful brown eyes consuming. I would have the pleasure of bathing in his warmth and bliss, which came to bless me while my own heart lay in pieces. I bowed to the son of my slave who ran away, the son of a friend, as he trotted through my worn front door.