The little boy was always loney. His parents left the house for work in the morning long before he’d get up, and returned long after he went to bed. He knew his mother only from the notes she left him with his breakfast, lunch and dinner, since those were pre-prepared by her and microwave ready. He didn’t knew his father, had never spoken to him, only seen his picture. There was one conveniently placed in his room. His mother he remembered from when he was little, still sucking on her breasts. Sometimes he thought she came into his room before she left, kissing him on his forehead, but he never caught her doing it.
The little boy and his family lived in a 3-bedroom apartment on the 47th floor of a huge building. He didn’t leave the apartment much, so he didn’t know a lot about the outside world, only what he could see from his bedroom window. It was mostly clouded but when the sun broke through it cheered him up.
The apartment consisted of 1 bedroom for the little boy, 1 bedroom for his parents, and 1 office room for his father. His father’s office room had a sign on the door prohibiting him from entering. His parents bedroom wasn’t much to look at. There were two single beds, two drawers and a large mirror mounted on the wall. Sometimes he would sit in front of the mirror and try to lose himself. It was then when small fragments of his memory returned, and he got the feeling that his mother had used to sit in front of the mirror with him on her lap, brushing his hair.
The little boy did not know for sure whether he could talk. He never had any reason to raise his voice, and preferred to just think for himself.
One fateful day in April (at least the calendar in the kitchen said it was April) he was sitting in front of the mirror again. He was a little bit on the chubby side, some may have said that he still carried around his baby fat, but otherwise he looked plain and normal. It was then when a thought, different from his regular ones, occured to him:
“Wanna go outside?”
He blinked. He turned his head from left to right, unsure if maybe someone had broken into their apartment. Then he sighed, and for the first time in his life, spoke a few words.
“It’s dangerous outside.”
It was barely more than a whisper, a croaking, but it was his voice. The unnatural thought returned.
“I’ll take care of us.”
The little boy looked at his reflection, then nodded. He got up and went into the hallway, then slipped into his little shoes and took his keys. His parents hadn’t explicitly forbidden him to leave. His mother just always reminded him in her notes that he shouldn’t go alone. And that he shouldn’t follow strangers, or take candy from them.
He opened the apartment door and stepped outside. The hallway was plain, with a brown, distasteful carpet on the floor and white walls, no decorations, nothing at all.
He closed the door. He started walking left, towards the elevators, but the voice stopped him.
“No, let us go right. To the staircase!”
He turned. Once he reached the door to the stairs he opened it and hesitated.
“Up or down?”
His voice was still no more than a whisper.
The little boy started climbing the stairs. He did not know how many floors the building had. He was sure to have read it somewhere, but it seemed to have slipped his mind.
“You haven’t forgotten. Top floor is number 50.”
So just two more floors, the little boy thought to himself after he reached floor 48.
“What am I gonna do then?”
The little boy did not know anyone else in the building. But the voice was not showing any doubts or other symptons of uncertainty.
“We’ll see then.”