Bobby was an intense young boy of four and a quarter years old, although he was unaware of this facet of information connected to the general expanse of his life thus far. You see Bobby is a deaf mute and was held back from entering school the autumn just past. Consequently Bobby hasn’t had much opportunity for relational activity with the other children of this dusty town, in which he is in situ. Bobby spends many of his days on the decrepit front porch of his mothers beaten down, relatively inexpensive property. Naturally Bobby had no awareness of such trivialities but his mom often threated over the life she could hope to provide for her son. Bobby’s father was absent, absent in fact since before his sons’ birth. Bobby’s mom had no clue where his father could be, perhaps he was resettled with another wife and had multiple satisfactory children who had no deficiencies, which even if they did have them would be entirely beyond their control. Or perhaps he was entombed in poorly nailed coffin, with a mockingly honest tombstone stating, “Here lies a man who walked out on his wife at the imminent arrival of their handicapped son.” For Bobby’s mom’s sake one would hope for the latter, although I reiterate Bobby is only obliquely aware of such things. He is too concerned with the seemingly endless vistas available to view from the porch upon which he playes wordlessly day after day.
Today Bobby’s gaze marvels over the corrugated iron roof of the lean to porch upon which he sits like an old polytheistic idol. His eyes graze over the mismatch overhead lining. In places blue tarp covers over breaks in the old rusty overhead, the kind of tarp which can be found almost anywhere without any definite source or purpose. Yellow edges of chipboard exposed to the elements are also visible as part of this fuselage, the source of this being the half stripped kitchen inside the house, which Bobby’s mom couldn’t afford to fully finish. The kitchen now sits in-between identities, half stripped, and half laid fresh with new white lacquer effect cupboards, these being the kind that many may already consider ‘tacky’ or ‘out-dated’ or even downright ‘unacceptable for use’. As one can imagine these sentiments would be those of a rather more obtuse taste in kitchen design, and so we should not frown or cast a disapproving eye over Bobby’s mom’s efforts. Despite this diversion into home logistics Bobby was evidently more contented by his own slice of solitude, out here on the weather beaten porch with the old cracked beams and discordant overhead.
After averting his gaze and letting it gradually glide back towards the overhead setting a few times Bobby felt his stomach call out in hunger. Bobby had not long since had breakfast but he was no stranger to being a nonconformist on the regularity of mealtimes. You see he was rather a large child and often couldn’t wait between meals so he’d rush inside and clutch at his mothers trouser, or hanging jumper and open and close his mouth until food was presented to him. Bobby’s mom always obliged his mute requests but worried over expenses incessantly. She worked late nights at the local bar earning a poor wage, as a ‘perk’ of the job she was turned over night after night by the coarse ritual flirtation of lonely middle-aged regulars, who smelled of sour milk. Regardless of this Bobby’s mom gave far more to her son than those matching more affluent demographics. They had been held up together since his birth and despite his inability to hear or speak they shared a relationship of quietude between the two of them which most others parents could never form at all, or at least not until well past the adolescence of their children. Part of Bobby’s endless charm radiated from his iridescent smile that he often displayed when in contact with his mom. She took this simple twist of his lips in an upward motion as a vastly meaningful expression of his gratitude and this propelled her on ad infinitum.
Bobby now with concern for his stomach turns to begin to step inside but his eye is caught by an odd sight, a man holding his mom. The scene before him isn’t entirely clear, as the windowpanes are dappled with dirt and speckles of black mould, this further disrupts any light that does make its way under the porch. Bobby had a slight inclination that this man could perhaps be of some form of connection to him. Despite his inability to vocalise his thoughts, and perhaps the fact that even his thoughts were silent or wordless he still perceived the lack of a third party, could this man possibly then be his father. Bobby also stumbles across this possibility, he smiles at the instantaneous picture he sets in his mind of the family they could be. However with a second glance Bobby becomes chilled by the image before him, the man clutching at his mother is wild eyed with tiny pit pupils, his lips move in shudders, sickly he whispers into Bobby’s mom’s ear. Her face is wide and hallowed, her jaw jutted, eyes blinded by fear. The man raises a fist containing a blunt object and brings it down with senseless fury onto her upper right temple. Bobby’s mom crashes to the floor, falling beyond the range of his sight. Bobby is cemented to the spot, frozen in terror. Although Bobby may be a deaf mute he still feels the screams of his dying mother in the marrow of his bones. Out of view another heavy blow ends the despairing riving. The murderer rises, stony faced and blind to the world, he makes a hasty exit through the rear of the house without even considering the possibility of a small boy who looks on transfixed.
Bobby uproots himself from his spot and propels himself forwards off the porch through the rickety door and into the kitchen. The pan on the stove is boiling over the water is mingling with far edges of the streams of his mom’s blood. She lays sprawled tragically before him with her skull shattered. Bobby attempts to call out for help but he cannot coordinate the right movements with his tongue, or his mouth. His eyes sting with the deep bitter swells of his tears. His upper lip is distanced from his lower, his pearly white teeth bared, face irreversibly contorted in a soundless howl. Still his bones ring with the blows dealt to his mom, still volumelessly he appeals to the un-answering world. In one final act of desperation Bobby falls down beside his mother and feels for her hand. He pulls her still warm fingers towards his mousey blonde hair, one last absurd moment of comfort, a final touch from his now deceased world.