July 25th, 2012

Where’s Waldo? (Prologue)

The boy was taken hostage, once again, by his brothers. He hated this, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. It he tried to say something to his parents, they just brushed it off. If he tried to say something to his siblings, they just laughed in his face. So, had to just accept what was coming – without question, and without aid. He used to fight and scream and kick, but now he just let himself fall in the closet; the closet under the staircase. There was not light, no chair, not even a pillow. All he could see for the brief moment while he was being pushed in was a pipe which sat against the right side, and numerous spiders and insects crawling everywhere else. He was once afraid of spiders, but now he found solace in knowing they had to endure the same thing he did.

Walter went head first onto the floor like usual. He heard the small door slam behind him and the lock clasp. He lay on the floor, unable to move, feeling numb all over. He knew it only be a matter of time before –

There it was. His brothers began beating on the door, making as much racket as possible. They would say things like, ‘where’s waldo?’ or ‘come on out, waldo!’ or, and this was his favorite, ‘what are you doing in there?’ Waldo pulled himself into the fetal position and started balling. This was the routine. This was his Friday night. Well, and his Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights. He sat their crying long after the taunts had stopped. Long after the threats stop coming from the other side of the door. He only rocked back and forth, talking to the spiders – his only friends.

“Wh—why do they do this?” Walter would say between sobs. He wasn’t able to ask other questions – they never came to mind; just the one, “Why?” Walter would stay in this position until his mom was nice enough to walk by and unlatch the lock on the door. He stopped trying to rush out. He figured the longer he stayed balled up in a cocoon, the less he would be tormented. So, that’s what he did. He often skipped dinner and just sat and cried in the closet. He would wait until everyone was asleep and creep up to his room, silently to not wake the monsters that were sleeping around him.

Then, silently, he would drift into a light sleep, waking up at the slightest rustle of leaves from the tree outside. And this was how his childhood was spent. In complete, paralyzing fear for the place he live in, the place he was supposed to feel welcome and loved. Night after night, crying in the closet, and getting little sleep.