Watermelon

 

WATERMELON

 Synopsis 

In a peaceful port town, young Micky sells watermelons on the beach every weekend. Despite the serene setting, Micky faces significant challenges, including a troubled past and uncertain future. Micky harbors dreams and secrets that set him apart from the carefree crowd. His weekends are a delicate balancing act between survival and hope, where each watermelon sold brings him closer to an unseen goal. As he navigates these hardships, Micky's resilience and hope are tested.

In a small port town, life is more laid-back than in the bustling city. The people live in harmony, always ready to help one another. On weekends, families flock to the beach. Children play in the water while adults relax under tents, savoring fresh, cool watermelon. In the scorching summer heat, the taste of watermelon is a heavenly delight, heightening their weekend joy. Yet among the crowd enjoying the refreshing fruit, there’s a boy who has never even tasted it.

His name is Micky, a young boy who sells watermelon on the beach. Every weekend, he strolls from one end of the beach to the other, carrying a large sack almost as big as he is, searching for customers to buy his fruit.

As the weekend begins, so does his work. The beach is already crowded, and more people are arriving. It promises to be a profitable day. The thought makes Micky so happy, he can't wait to leave the beach with an empty sack.

He doesn't have to walk far for his first sale. A family of four, just setting up their tent, calls him over. After receiving payment, he watches the two sisters eagerly waiting for their father to open the watermelon. A pang of jealousy hits him, but he quickly brushes it off and keeps moving. The day has just begun, and he needs to work.

Today is a good day for Micky. The sun is still high in the sky, and his sack is already empty after less than an hour. He runs through the crowd lounging on the sand, almost stepping on a woman's hand as she sunbathes. Being the polite boy he is, he turns around and apologizes before continuing on his way.

As night approaches, the roads fill with cars, people, and tourists, all heading to their evening destinations after a long, tiring week. Micky weaves through the crowd, a group of young woman, laughing with friends as they occupy the sidewalk between the beach and the road. He sees the pedestrian crossing light ahead turn green and rushes across, not wanting to wait for another turn.

Anyone who passes by can see that Micky is in a great mood, smiling brightly from ear to ear. He skips along the sidewalk, passing rows of shops, crossing several zebra crossings, and narrowly avoiding a motorist who can't wait just two more seconds for the light to change. Finally, Micky reaches his destination, a nice apartment complex.

He walks past the guard, exchanging greetings as always. Unable to contain his excitement, he runs to the elevator, repeatedly pressing the button, hoping it will open faster. When it does, he jumps in, hurriedly pressing the button for the top floor before changing his mind and selecting the 17th floor instead.

Skipping the stairs, Micky quickly arrives at his desired floor with a beep announcing his arrival. He walks down the familiar hallway towards the door at the very end. However, instead of entering as if it were his own home, he presses the bell and knocks repeatedly. Finally, a woman opens the door, her anger visible on her sleepy face, clearly annoyed by his usual antics.

“Oh my god! Can you STOP already? How long will you do this? THIS. IS. NOT. YOUR. HOUSE! Stop bothering me every day...” she rants, but Micky doesn't listen.

He peeks past her, disappointed by the messy state of the living room, smoke filling the air, and the pungent smell of weed assaulting his nose. He glares at her new boyfriend, clearly high and exhaling smoke, ruining what was once his home. Except, it’s not his house anymore.

A year ago, Micky still lived in that house. At that time, it felt like he was living in his room rather than the entire house. He locked himself in his bedroom, doing nothing but lying under the blanket in the darkness. Despite his father's pleas for him to open the door, he kept it shut, still grieving months after his beloved mother’s death.

His father tried his best. But as a single parent, it was hard for him to make time for his only son. Often, they missed each other. The father would wake up early for work, leaving Micky two sandwiches on the kitchen counter. A few minutes later, Micky would come out in his school uniform, eat the sandwiches for breakfast, and walk to school just five minutes away. When his father returned home late at night, Micky was already in bed. He would try to check on him, but sometimes Micky locked his door. They went through this same cycle every day. The weekends were the only times they could see each other but still he rarely respond to his father.

One weekend, the father tried to mend their broken relationship by introducing a young woman named Elaine, who would soon be his new wife. It wasn’t hard for Micky to understand that this woman, with her expensive blouse and flashy crocodile-skin handbag, would soon be his stepmother.

His father’s efforts to replace his mother were met with anger. For days, Micky locked himself in his room, refusing to go to school, furious at his father. But his father did not give up on convincing his son. He believed that Micky needed a mother to provide the love he couldn't, so Micky could grow up feeling loved rather than yearning for a love that would never come from his deceased mother.

Eventually, Micky began to open up to Angela. She treated him well, and seeing his dad's smile, feeling the love of this woman, made Micky realize how fortunate he was to still have a father. He started to feel grateful to his father, not wanting to lose him as well.

A few months later, the two of them tied the knot in marriage. Micky now had a new mother, but soon he realized her true colors. She wasn't the woman she had been portraying for the last few months. She never took care of him or did any motherly things, except when his father was in the room. But seeing how happy his father was with this new life, Micky didn't dare ruin their 'happy' family. Little did he know, that happiness would soon fade away.

One cold night, rain poured for hours. Micky hid under his warm blanket, drinking hot chocolate while watching his favorite anime in the living room. He was alone, waiting for his parents to come home from their date. He waited until he fell asleep on the floor. At dawn, he was woken by the doorbell ringing repeatedly, disturbing his sleep. He slowly walked to the door and opened it to see two men standing outside, delivering news that would forever change his life.

He followed them into the car, blankly looking out the window, still processing the dreadful news. The two men were surprised that the child didn't even cry in such an unfortunate situation. But tears appeared the moment he saw his father lying on the hospital bed, covered with a white sheet. After lifting the sheet to confirm his dad's face, his tears flowed even more. His injured stepmother joined his cries in the hospital room, filling the air with sadness. It finally sank in: he had lost the last person he loved.

Once again, Micky locked himself in his room, only coming out to cook some foods, mostly easy-to-make instant noodles. His stepmother still lived in the house, but she never once knocked on his door to ask how he was doing. She spent her days sleeping in the living room, making a mess with her alcohol cans and leaving her favorite soap opera playing on the TV.

Not long after, only two weeks in fact, she finally left the house. Micky was surprised, thinking she might be going to work, being a productive member of society. But he was wrong.

While he’s making his new favourite meal, a curry flavoured instant noodle, boiling water in the kettle, the door opened, and another man walked into the house. She followed him in right behind. After a quick smile from the man to Micky, he followed his stepmother to her room, the room that used to be his father's.

Micky had always been a hot-headed boy. Once in kindergarten, he threw a pen so hard it nicked a classmate's forehead just because the classmate borrowed his crayon without asking while they were doing school work.

Seeing another man in his father’s room made Micky's blood boil. He stormed inside before his stepmother could even shut the door.

“This is not your room! GO AWAY!” yelled Micky.

“Relax, dude. I’m not taking your room, I’m borrowing it for a few hours,” said the man with a smirk.

“Micky, get out now before I make you,” his stepmother chimed in.

“No, you get out, WHORE!” Micky shouted.

The man laughed, while her jaw dropped in disbelief that a little boy had just called her that word.

“What did you call me? Say that again!” she demanded angrily, cupping Micky’s face and squeezing his cheeks.

He managed to mutter the word again, which angered her. She slapped him as punishment, then lifted him up and carried him out of the room. Micky gripped the door frame tightly, but she pulled hard, demanding her new boyfriend's help. Despite his efforts, Micky couldn't win against two adults trying to break him free. She threw him to the floor and angrily stomped back into the room and slammed the door. Micky couldn't do anything but run to his room and hide under his blanket again.

The next day, Micky woke up to an empty house. He rushed to his stepmother’s room, only to find it empty. He sat in front of the door, guarding his father’s room from the woman he regretted calling her mother. He waited a long time for her to appear until he fell asleep in front of the door. When the front door opened, he assumed his guarding position as he saw the man again.

“Hahaha, Elaine, look at your kid here,” the man burst out laughing, playing with Micky, pretending to sneak through.

“Not my kid,” Elaine clarified, disappointed. She dragged Micky by his arm, pulling him away. Micky thought he was strong enough to hold his ground, but to his surprise, the woman was strong enough to pull him back into his room, push him to the floor, and slam the door shut. Micky was furious, both at her behavior and his inability to do anything about it. Like any other 12-year-old boy, he threw a tantrum, trashing his bedroom and screaming his heart out.

The next day, she brought another man to the house. The day after that, another man came. Over and over until Micky couldn't take it anymore. He paced in his room, breathing hard to control his anger. He decided to confront her again, rushing to the door, but before he could open it, the door slammed into his face, knocking him to the floor.

Elaine came in, carrying a small canvas suitcase. She didn't wait long and went straight to Micky’s wardrobe, throwing his clothes into the suitcase. Of course, she was met with furious resistance from Micky. She didn't check what clothes she was packing, not caring if there were enough underwear or socks. It didn't take long for her to complete her task and close the zippers. Without saying anything, she dragged him out while he frantically tried to break free. She opened the front door and threw him out of the house with the suitcase.

“There’s some money in there. Don’t come here again,” said the woman before shutting the door right away. But Micky managed to stick his foot in between the door, preventing her from closing it.

“I don’t want your money. Let me in!” cried the boy.

“Micky, I’m asking nicely, get away from here.”

“No! This is my house, not your house. Let me in!”

“No, no, no, this is NOT your house. It’s MY house.”

“It’s NOT! My father bought this house. IT’S NOT YOURS!”

She opened the door suddenly, pushing him off to the ground.

“Listen to me, you little shit! Your father is dead. I don’t care if he bought this place. It’s mine now. If you want it back, buy it back from me then. Until you have the money, I don’t want to see your face. You hear me?”

He lunged at her, almost scratching her face, but she acted quicker. She got in swiftly and slammed the door on his face. Micky banged on the door, screaming to be let into his own house, not accepting that it wasn't his anymore. Despite the cold weather from the rain outside, he stayed warm, fueled by his anger. For a solid 20 minutes, he just kept screaming and banging on the door, but she never opened it again. Eventually, tiredness overcame him, and he sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. Suddenly, he realized how cold it was in that corridor. The cold wind that flowed in was freezing him, wearing only a short-sleeve shirt and shorts. He still waited there, hoping the door would open, but as he couldn't stand the cold anymore, he got up and took shelter in the stairwell. Luckily, his stepmother wasn't totally evil for at least giving him clothes, which he took out: a red sweater and long pants to beat the cold. The stairwell was a closed area, so no cold wind would get in, but he left the door open, peeking out to maybe catch a glimpse of his stepmother walking out.

Micky stayed huddled in the stairwell for what felt like hours, his eyes fixed on the door in the distance that never opened. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten for a while. He pulled out the money Elaine had tossed into the bag—crumpled bills and loose coins, more than he thought she would give, but not enough for a boy like him to stay by himself. Reluctantly, he zipped up his jacket and stepped out into the cold, leaving the apartment that was no longer his home.

It had been three days since he last slept on a comfy bed. Now, a cold cement floor next to the stairs had become his bed. A piece of cardboard box he found by the trash areas behind the block had become his savior from the ache of sleeping on the hard floor on his first night of being homeless.

As soon as he woke up, he peeked through the door, looking at the door of what used to be his home, trying to catch a glimpse of the evil woman. But she never opened the door again. Maybe they missed each other when Micky left to buy food from the nearby convenience store. Occasionally, he went by the door, repeatedly pressing the bell and knocking, without any response from Elaine or maybe one of her boyfriends.

He went back to his cardboard bedding, taking out the bread that he had divided into six equal pieces, only to eat one and store the rest. His bottle of water was almost empty; he needed to go to the nearby park to refill it from the drinking fountain again.

His money was running out as well, regretting that he splurged on the first day by buying an extra-large pizza to satisfy his hunger after not eating anything all day. Everything finally sank in—he needed to move on, find a better place to sleep, and try to earn money to make a living and buy back his house. With a heavy heart, he left the home that had been his since he was born.

….…

Elaine is still scolding him from inside the house, not realizing Micky is not even paying attention. After a last scan of the house through the door,  he climbed the stairs to the rooftop. The elevator did not go directly to the top, forcing him to climb step by step. He was used to it already, so the stairs did not tire him.

The bright sun made his eyes squint when he opened the door. The sky was beautifully filled with an orange tint, and soon it would be dark, with only the city lights illuminating the night sky. Micky walked to the edge, where there was a vent with a small opening to the building's ventilation system. He knelt down and carefully removed the loose grate. Then he reached inside with his small hand, taking out a small tin box. Inside, there were many coins and crumpled bills. He added today’s profit to the stash, sealed it shut, and placed it back into the vent, reinstalling the grate. No one suspected a thing, so his money was safe there.

Life on the streets was tough, but Micky adapted quickly. Each day, he woke up early and headed to the market to buy watermelons. He'd haggle with the vendors, trying to get the best price. With his sack full, he made his way to the beach, knowing that weekends were his most profitable days.

The beach was always bustling with activity. Families set up their tents, kids played in the water, and adults lounged around, enjoying the sun. Micky would weave through the crowds, offering his watermelons to anyone who looked his way. The bright red fruit was a hit, especially on hot days. People would smile at him, complimenting the freshness of his melons.

Micky learned to spot potential customers from a distance. He'd see a group setting up and approach them with a friendly smile. "Would you like to buy some watermelon? It's fresh and sweet," he'd say. More often than not, they'd buy from him, and he'd move on to the next group.

On weekdays, Micky found other ways to make money. He helped at the grocery store where he had gotten his first job. The manager liked him, also pitied him, often gave him extra work. Micky would stack shelves, clean the store, and even assist with deliveries. The steady income helped, but it was never enough.

His routine became a montage of survival. Every morning, he counted his savings from the vent on the rooftop, adding whatever he had earned the previous day. He'd then go to the market, buy watermelons, and head to the beach. After selling out, he'd return to the grocery store or find other odd jobs around town.

In the evenings, Micky roamed the streets, looking for more opportunities. He'd carry groceries for elderly neighbors, help street vendors pack up their stalls, or run errands for shopkeepers. Many of them pays him, mostly out of pity. Every little bit counted, and he saved diligently, never spending more than necessary.

The nights were the hardest. Micky would find a quiet corner to sleep, usually he go back to the apartment complex and sleep in the stairwell of the building. The resident rarely uses the stairs so he’s never been caught. It wasn't comfortable, but it was safe. He'd curl up with his cardboard bedding, dreaming of a better future. He missed his old life, but he knew he had to keep going.

Despite everything, Micky remained hopeful. He dreamed of the day he could buy back his home. Every coin he saved brought him closer to that goal. He knew it would take time, but he was determined. But what he didn’t know, it would take a long time for him to even have the correct to buy back the house. He worked hard anyway, hoping to earn enough. The beach, the market, the grocery store—these were all stepping stones to a better life, a better home.

One day, after a long day of work, Micky headed back to his usual spot to store his earnings, carrying his woven sack that he used to carry the watermelons on the beach. As he walked past the trash area of the apartment complex, something caught his eye. Among the discarded items, he noticed a few belongings of his late father—his clothes, his family picture frame, and his father’s books. Rage and sorrow mixed within him as he realized Elaine had thrown them away.

Determined to confront her, Micky rushed back to the apartment. As he approached the door, he saw Elaine and her new boyfriend, both drunk and laughing, leaning against each other. They were kissing, completely oblivious to Micky’s presence.

“How dare you throw away his stuff!” Micky shouted, his voice trembling with anger. She turned around, annoyed and slightly confused at the sight of him.

“What are you doing here, Micky? I told you not to come back,” she slurred.

“This is my father’s stuff! How could you throw it away?” Micky dumped out all the items from his sack, pointing at the them angrily.

Elaine’s new boyfriend, a burly man with a mean look in his eyes, stepped forward, pushing Micky back. “You need to leave, kid. This isn’t your place anymore.”

“No! I won’t leave. This was my home. My father’s home,” Micky protested, his voice breaking.

The boyfriend, now visibly agitated, took a step closer. “Get lost before I make you.”

Micky stood his ground, tears streaming down his face. “I won’t leave!”

In a swift motion, the boyfriend grabbed Micky by the collar and threw him to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of him, but he tried to get up, only to be met with a hard kick to his stomach. Micky curled up in pain, gasping for air. The pain from his ankle, stomped in a madman's rage, added to his misery.

Elaine stood there, watching without a hint of remorse. “I told you, Micky. This is not your home anymore. Get lost and don’t come back.”

Micky struggled to his feet, limping and clutching his stomach. He cast one last look at the woman who had torn his life apart, then turned and stumbled away, the pain and betrayal cutting deeper than the physical wounds. Tears blurred his vision as he wiped them away, took a deep breath, and hastily climbed the stairs to his hiding place on the rooftop.

Anger brewed within him, ready to erupt. He decided he would work as hard as he could, earning as much money as possible to buy back the house. Sadly, he had not lived long enough to fully understand the harsh realities of the property’s prices.

He rushed to the top, dragging his injured ankle up the stairs. After retrieving his money, he went straight to the market. Though his ankle was slowly feeling better and the pain was subsiding, his movements were slower than he wished. The distance to the market was far, requiring him to cross many roads. Despite the gloomy sky above, threatening his plans, his agitation overpowered him.

The market bustled with people as always. Ignoring the sellers' attempts to divert him with other fruits, knowing his preference for watermelons, he reached the stall he wanted. Normally, he only filled half of his sack, but this time, he was determined to fill it completely. With one more watermelon in his left hand and the sack over his right shoulder, he set off.

The people around just looked at him, wondering why this little boy was crossing the road with so many watermelons. He did not pay them any notice and kept on moving. Suddenly, he looked at the sky and realized it was quite dark. He completely forgot to check the weather, as usually people buy more from him when the weather is hot. He had no choice now but to keep walking towards the beach, hoping there would be many people to buy from him.

The weight of his load was heavy, causing him to walk slowly. His little frame also could not handle the heavy weight of all the watermelons, but he kept pushing, motivated when he thought of dragging the woman out of his house. A young woman stopped by and offered to help him, but he was so engrossed in reaching his destination as quickly as possible that he did not hear her and kept moving.

After about thirty minutes, he could smell the ocean breeze, carried by the winds that kept getting stronger. Only a few more roads to cross now before he reached the beach, which was already visible through the buildings in the distance. He waited for the crossing light to turn green, but it was not turning fast enough as he would have liked. He put the sack down to rest a bit, but as soon as it touched the pavement, the light turned green and others started crossing. He lifted it up again and rushed but fell, dropping the sack but managed to save the one in his hand. He standed up right away ready to move again when a cold drop of water hit his eyes.

After one drop, more followed. The rain suddenly poured. He stopped in his tracks, in the middle of the crosswalk, unable to believe his luck. He set down the sack again, and just looked up at the sky, crying and angry at the rain. The light turned green, signaling the vehicles to start moving, but they could not as there was a little boy with a giant sack of fruit standing and crying in the middle of the road. He could not hear the honking or see the flashing lights from the cars; he could not accept this reality.

….…

The night grew colder after the rain subsided, allowing people to move about freely. The enticing aroma from a nearby Chinese restaurant drew hungry patrons who lined up eagerly outside, waiting to be seated.

In the alley next to the restaurant, a boy sat in the shadows, discarding watermelon rinds on the ground, creating a messy heap. He took out another bruised watermelon from his sack and began smashing it open with a stick. He filled his already full stomach with more watermelon than anyone could eat in a day. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the juice of the fruit. He couldn't stop eating now; he still had so much to finish, or he'd suffer even greater losses from the money spent on unsold watermelons.

His stomach rebelled, begging for no more of the red fruit. The pain suddenly intensified, a final warning to him to stop. He had to give in, the pain becoming unbearable. He lay down on the cold ground, curled up tightly, clutching his stomach in agony. Time seemed to slow down as he lay there on the dirty pavement, crying from the misery of his life and the ache in his stomach. But soon, his tears stopped flowing as exhaustion overtook him. He closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.

When Micky awoke, the morning sun was already warming the alleyway. His body ached, both from the hard ground and the pain in his stomach. The remnants of smashed watermelon lay scattered around him, a vivid reminder of his failure the previous day. He sat up slowly, his thoughts a jumble of exhaustion and frustration.

As he looked around, he realized he had to make a decision. Some of the watermelons he had bought to sell are ruined and some of them are bruised from the fall, leaving him with little to show for his efforts. His money was dwindling, and he was growing weaker from hunger. The sting of Elaine’s betrayal still burned fresh in his mind, but he knew he couldn’t dwell on it if he wanted to survive. With a heavy heart, Micky gathered what was salvageable of the watermelons and headed towards the beach.

The sun was already high in the sky, casting a golden glow over the sand. Families and tourists were beginning to populate the shore, seeking relief from the summer heat.

Micky approached the first group he saw, his voice weak but determined. "Fresh watermelon! Sweet and juicy!" he called out, holding up one of the intact fruits. A few people glanced his way, but most seemed indifferent. He pressed on, moving from group to group, offering his melons with persistence.

He grew tired, the weight of the watermelons slowing him down. Many hesitated to buy after seeing the bruises on his fruit. He walked along the shore, squinting at the bright sun. His vision blurred, and the headache that had plagued him since waking up had not subsided. His stomach kept growling, a consequence of eating so much watermelon to avoid waste.

At the far end of the beach, he spotted a couple under a tent, away from the crowds. They seemed isolated, a potential customer. With a struggle, he lifted his sack, almost out of energy. His head spun, and he staggered, unaware that he had lost a slipper along the way. His uneven footsteps in the sand led him closer and closer to the water's edge. As he neared the couple, exhaustion overtook him. With a final effort, he stumbled and fell face down into the shallow water, on the verge of losing consciousness.

“That’s not our house, Micky,” he heard a very familiar voice behind him.

He had been longing to hear this voice for so long that he immediately got up. Failing on the first attempt, he succeeded on the second one, turned around, and saw a familiar face. Tears immediately flowed down. He crawled on the sand, grabbed the leg of the man in front of him, and hugged it hard, not wanting to let go.

“ Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me?” Micky cried out multiple times.

The man knelt down and embraced the crying boy.

“Don’t leave me. Please, don’t… stay with me,” he cried.

“Micky, it’s you who needs to decide. Will you stay with me, or will you leave me?” the man said, confusing Micky.

“What do you mean? I don’t want to leave you!”

“Why do you want to get back the house?”

“It’s your house. It’s our house! I need to get it back.”

“But I’m not there anymore.”

Micky realized that but didn’t want to accept the fact, making him cry harder.

“That house is just a place. If you have people who love you around you, that will be your home. I’m sorry for leaving you, but you need to let it go and find your own home. Can you do that for me?” he asked, hoping Micky would agree.

“No! I don’t want to! I’m gonna get it back!” Micky disagreed.

“Will you stay there by yourself?” Micky was stunned by the question.

“I’m not there, your mother’s not there. Will you stay there and wait for us?”

Micky realized that he couldn't answer it because deep down, he knew his parents would never go back to the house and see him grow up in it.

“I don’t want to!” Micky kept crying, hugging his father's leg tightly.

“You have to. Forget me and live your own life, please Micky so I can rest easy. Do it for me, please! Do it for your dad.”

The father and son embraced under the shining sunset. Micky cried his heart out, showing no signs of stopping soon. They hugged each other tightly, fully knowing this would be the last time. Sure enough, the father left him for the last time at that moment. Micky fell to the ground, still sobbing hard. He lifted his head up, looking around for his father, who wasn't there anymore. Soon after, he passed out, exhausted.

….…

Micky returned to the house, driven by a need to see it one last time. As he walked towards the elevator, the security guard, who always greeted him were on patrol, called out. Micky didn't hear him, lost in his thoughts as he entered the lift, heading up to his old home. On the seventh floor, the doors suddenly opened, revealing a drunken woman stumbling in. It was Elaine, his stepmother.

"Be a good boy and press the 17th floor button for me. I pressed the wrong one," Elaine slurred, oblivious to Micky's presence.

Micky silently complied, staring at her with pity, no longer interested in confrontation.

"What are you waiting for? Press it now! Wait... Micky? Is that you?" Elaine suddenly realized who she was talking to, but failed to notice the elevator had already begun its ascent, proving that Micky did what she asked for.

She stood up and pushed Micky against the wall, furious. The doors opened again on the 17th floor, but neither moved, and the doors closed with them still inside.

"Can you just stop coming here? I'm sick of seeing your face," she complained bitterly, while Micky sat on the elevator floor, listening quietly.

"You know what? I'm sorry! I'M SORRY! Is that enough for you?!" She screamed into his face, but Micky remained composed.

"I'm sorry for not taking care of you. I'm sorry for taking your house. I'm sorry for letting your dad die. I'm sorry for being a terrible mother... I'm sorry for… er…. what else…for everything! Do you hear me?!"

"What did you just say?" Micky caught onto the suspicious part of her apology.

"Did you let my dad die? Answer me!" he shouted back, his anger rising.

"Yes, I let him die. I could have pulled him out of the car, but I... I was scared! There was fire, it was dark... I was scared," she sobbed uncontrollably.

Micky felt a surge of anger but also a realization that his father was gone, and nothing could change that, but she could have. He struggled to contain his rage as Elaine's drunken ramblings continued to provoke him.

"I didn't want to die. Why should I die? It's better this way. I wanted to leave both of you anyway. I'm sick of you both, so yeah, I did nothing wrong. I did a good thing," she rambled, her words muddled by the alcohol clouding her thoughts.

Micky lunges at Elaine, shoving her to the floor and punching her repeatedly. But he can't overpower the drunken Elaine. She pushes him off, making his head hit the railing in the elevator for the elderly and disabled. She lunges back at him, hitting him over and over. Micky fights back as best he can.

"WHY DO YOU KEEP BOTHERING ME? YOUR FATHER IS DEAD! HE’S NOT HERE! GO AWAY!" Elaine screams at the top of her lungs while beating the child.

Micky is jolted back to reality. He realizes he has to accept that no matter what he does, his father is gone and won’t come back. What’s the point of arguing now? He starts to give up, no longer fighting back, letting Elaine beat him, maybe to death. The thought of dying crosses his mind—maybe then he could see his parents again. But images of his parents flash before his eyes. His father’s voice echoes in his ears, telling him to forget them and move on with his life.

He decides to listen and move on. Summoning his remaining strength, he pushes Elaine off him, making her fall. She struggles to get up in her drunken state. Micky tends to his wounds, sitting in the corner, wiping away the tears that won’t stop flowing.

The elevator doors suddenly opened, revealing a huge crowd in front of it. The security guard had brought over many of the other residents of the apartment. They held down the drunk Elaine, ignoring her screams to be let go.

"Micky, why didn’t you say anything? You should have told us." A woman in her late fifties who lived on the same floor hugged him, apologizing.

"We’re sorry. We didn’t know. We see you here all the time; we didn’t even know she kicked you out. We’re very sorry," said the security guard, genuinely upset at his own negligence.

"It’s okay now. We reported her already. You’ll be okay," said the woman.

All of the other neighbors tried to comfort him, ashamed of their own mistake. Micky tried not to cry, happy for their comforting words. Through the group of people, he saw a familiar figure walking away at the back, the figure of his father. He immediately pushed through them, trying to reach him. He saw no one, certainly not his father. He went back to Elaine, browsed through her purse, and took the key to the apartment.

With a heavy heart, he opened the door and walked in. The smell was awful, probably from the drugs she and her many boyfriends had been smoking. The living room was still messy, with Elaine’s clothes all over the floor. So was the kitchen; he wasn’t sure how long the dirty plates and bowls had been lying in the sink.

He walked through each room, reminiscing about all the memories he had with his family. Now he realized that each room was just an empty room. His mother wouldn’t show up in his bedroom, cleaning all the mess he made after playing with his toys. His father wouldn’t come through the door of the study room, angry at him for messing with his work documents on the shelf. Each room was just an empty room now. The house was just an empty house now.

After taking his last look at the house, he left, finally ready to let it go.

 

THE END