'Little Boy'

• Grace Greenwood
• Short Story
• 2020

He lay against the tallest branch of the old weeping willow, looking out over Vaiguva. The little girl looked up at him, a petite smile spread across her face. She whispered, "Little Boy, what do you wonder?" The little boy looked out over the horizon and replied, "I wonder about our world, Little Girl."
 
Cars flew past red lights and stop signs. Feet never removed from accelerators. Engines ablaze. Two babies are the only survivors. A dainty orphanage run by nuns is their sentence. Their parents' lives just ended. Inseparable companions, they became, the past a faded mystery to never be uncovered.
 
"Little Girl," he whispers. "What is a little boy like me doing coped up in this infernal orphanage when I don't even know exactly who I am? How can I write a future without a past? Little Girl?" As he waits for a reply, he hears pitiful snoring and bestows his raglan to the sleeping little girl. She doesn't know, but she doesn't wonder... the little boy thought to himself. But I wonder. Who am I?...
 
The little boy sat in the tree for longer than all the other orphans, even after the little girl. Sister Catherine questioned his tardiness to Grammar, but the little boy ignored every word. The boys in his dorm called him names and threw poorly made paper planes at him. With every stagger the little boy grew slightly more irritated until he could feel his eyes stinging with red, hot tears. He ran down the corridor and hid in the men’s room. He started weeping mercilessly. “Why am I here?” the little boy sobbed. He sat there, not expecting an answer, but he heard a small mutter from outside the door.
It was the little girl. “I don’t know,” she whispered, “but you’re my best friend.”
“I’ve had enough,” yelled the little boy, “I don’t belong here.”
“What do you mean?” muttered the little girl.
“I’m leaving!” exclaimed the little boy.
With that the little boy ran and ran. Past the nuns’ rooms and out the large bay window.
“ELI!” cried the little girl.
She has never called me that before… questioned the little boy. Then, he did something no one expected. He turned around. He stared at the little girl and rejoiced. “That is my name!” he cried. “This is my home,” he exclaimed, “I will never leave it again.” With that remark he flung his arms around the little girl. “Yes,” she laughed, “This is your home and so it is mine too!”
Home is a word so rarely digested.
You don't need more than what you have... to figure out who you are.