Clogged [Part 1]

The faucets were rusted over. All of the water was yellow. Remaining motionless, it was exposed to the awful, natural dyes from the air in the room. The drain seemed to be encrusted by the guts of all the small animals that had come near it. In the middle of the room, a rather clean young boy rises up. He rubs his eyes, takes a look around, and walks toward the lightened outline of a rickety door. After turning the knob and opening the door enough, he takes one last look around the room. His shoulders raise and vibrate to suggest that he is shuddering to himself. Upon exiting the room, we hear him take one last breath of spoiled air.

Outside of the door, is a hallway. The hallway is not too long; it is just right. Its length should have allowed the boy enough time to prepare for what exactly lied outside the front door of this house. Between the two repeatedly scuffed and scratched-at walls of the walkway, he is given time to think. Memories flash despite the fact that he is trying to concentrate on the nearing future. He is also distracted by the flickering yellowish light that glows just above the matted red almost velveteen carpet, making it harder to take advantage of his allotted time. These are the things he can think about. When he arrives at the door, he shakes his head. Maybe he can improvise. If only he was old enough to understand the word.

The second door opens. A despicable crowd of people await him, standing in a worn-out patch of a green field. They are waving their hands, jumping up and down, and looking at the cloudy sky. He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath. This time, the air was a healthier type of fresh. A middle-aged woman with long, light-brown hair runs up to hug him. She is not at all a familiar person. Her left knee is in the dark soil on the ground, ruining her blue jeans. With reluctance, the boy falls limp in her arms. The woman assumes that he is glad to see her. Just then, a man in a charcoal pea coat holding a microphone and notepad in one hand places his other hand on her shoulder. At first he is putting her at ease, but he begins to completely shove her off of the miraculously clean young boy. This man guides the young boy away from the disgusting house, and into a small white car.

No one was in the driver's seat. The car was not going to move. This man knew that the boy needed more time to prepare and recuperate before he had to face the crowd. He opened a small polystyrene cooler and pulled out a small bottle of orange juice to give to the boy. They begin to talk. The man began, "you realize, you're going to have to go out there and tell them a story. You've been gone for long enough-". It seemed that he stifled the rest of what he would have said in order for the boy to respond. "What could I possibly say? This is ridiculous," he said. Immediately reacting to the conviction in his voice, the man added, "and another thing: when you go out there, you are going to have to tone down your choice of words. Dumb it down a little. Remember- you are supposed to be a young boy! Besides, they most likely wouldn't even understand. They don't even remember what they did. They are simply hungry. They need this. We need this". There was a pause. The boy looked down, tightened the lid to his bottle of orange juice, and took yet another deep breath through his nose. It was a mix of new car smell, salt, and grassy mud. Finally, he responded, "They are the ones who did this to me. Why would I do anything for them?". This was true. "You can get past that, though," the man said and continued before the boy could interrupt, "only good things are to come, now. I don't claim to know what unspeakable horrors you just got through facing, but it can only be good from now on!". This was true, but very blind. It provoked the boy:

"Listen! That house may not have been made of pure evil, it may not have been the most disgusting thing I have ever faced, and it may not have been enough to drive a man insane, but the matter is that they thought it was. It doesn't matter if they actually do not remember what they did. I do. I remember being hauled by these deranged people. I remember feeling their fingernails trying to dig into my back to get a good grip. I remember my face hitting the linoleum flooring before I turned around to see that door being sealed completely shut. Now I have to pretend nothing happened? Pretend? Just to be able to live pretty good for a while?"

The man could barely reply. He shook his head and seemed to continue with what the situation entailed, "Ok. They think that I am in here, getting some type of exclusive interview. Of course, I actually brought you here to tell you what to say; just to get this whole thing over with.". Still tense, the boy stared at the man for a moment. His eyes moved past him to look outside of the foggy car window. There was still a crowd of unfortunately familiar faces, swaying side to side. He looked down. Then, his facial expression was relaxed. They continued to talk for a matter of minutes, until the man opened the car door. The man walks around to the other side of the car and opens the door on the boy's side. Holding the man's hand, he actually slides out of the seat before his feet land on the moist ground. Together, they walk toward the disturbing group of people.

In the crowd, there is the same middle-aged woman, with an almost forced look of absolute melancholy looking directly at the boy. To the right of her, is a short man with a thick mustache, wearing a newsboy cap. Behind the woman, is a tall man with matted hair, wearing a windbreaker. On his face is a scar that runs down his forehead, and almost seems to split his nose in two. These were the people that the boy remembers the most. Both the man and the boy approach the crowd. The boy straightens his back, and puts on a smile. "It was a disaster!" he shouted, in a pitch that can only be constructed with a small mouth. The people rejoiced.