balloons.

He does not ask for permission from the sleeping balloon stand man as he silently presses latex necks to the mouth of the helium tank. He does not say thank you as he fumbles with the balloon ends, struggling to tie them and attach them to strings. He does not say anything at all as he limps away with his helium-filled loot without paying. Such thoughts do not occur to the boy's mind as he makes his way down the street, this child with an oversize bouquet of carnival colors.

The need to ask for permission is not felt when one is a runaway left to fend for himself, living temporarily in a rusty, steel-and-concrete nothing of an elevator shaft with only his wits and the meager pittance he snatched from The Mommy two nights ago, which he uses for food from the 7-Eleven. The need to thank the world is deemed obsolete when one twists his right leg from tripping (of all things) over the base of a lamppost two hours after removing oneself from that nightmare called home, inhabited by The Mommy--not that gentle, loving Mommy of the cookies-and-hugs comfort he used to know, but a perpetually drunken Mommy who ruled the household with an alcohol-swayed fist and actions he must not think about...

In the lobby of the abandoned apartment building, he passes the stairwell, an option from which he has closed his mind ever since leaning on his right foot became too painful, deeming stair-climbing impossible. Above him, the balloons jostle and shift like so many marshmallow peeps bouncing around in a plastic bag; he adds them to a considerable quantity of balloons he had stolen yesterday. Yes, they would be sufficient, he thinks. With the entirety of his strung-up helium, he steps into the elevator shaft, a rectangular column of dingy, ashen-gray darkness braced with dust-coated steel bars lined with bolts, and he lets the stale mustiness fill his lungs. This is the last stop to his only hope.  The eleventh story. Words run through his mind as he appraises the light-filled portals that lead to each floor, mantras that make the freight train rounds insistently. Daddy is waiting there. Daddy said so.

A slight push against the floor using his functioning foot and he is rising slowly, balloon strings in fist, in a manner not unlike the way Mary Poppins uses her umbrella to sail skyward on the breeze. Five empty elevator doors pass beneath him--he is on the sixth floor, the seventh floor, the eighth. Somewhere along the way he discovers the ascent is made easier when one pushes himself up using the beams in the metal structure that cover the walls of the elevator shaft. Above him, some of the balloons silently deflate as the air seeps out through the inadequately tied knots; at first he is unaware, but by floor nine his lack of speed surpasses that of a dandelion seed sinking in still air.  The eleventh story, he thinks fervently as he uses his good leg to launch himself from the door to the ninth floor to the tenth floor. The eleventh story. Daddy is waiting there, Daddy said so.

Fingers trembling, he helps himself to his feet on the frame of the tenth floor, and at that moment, he glances up and sees the rotting fruit of his fatal mistake, already drooping earthbound. Despite the tight, dizzying storm of panic provoked in his chest, he cannot let this stop him.  Daddy is waiting--Daddy is waiting--have to get there--the eleventh story--he said so...

With pure strength focused to the future and unfettered by the past, he miraculously leaps to the eleventh story, and his fingers curl around the edge. Instinctively, his legs flail, scrambling for a foothold so he can climb to safety, and his right foot finds a supporting brace.  Daddy is waiting. One shift of his weight and he is secure--just as his wounded leg crumbles underneath the pressure and pain. The balloons, no longer brimming with helium, cannot support him now. Daddy is waiting--the eleventh story--Daddy is waiting...

His fingers grasp air, and he plummets, a bird shot from the sky.  Daddy said so...

No one sees the dead balloons, slowly descending like the last snowflakes of winter.

No one mourns for the boy's still form, sprawled brutally against the bottom of the elevator shaft with face bloody, legs askew, and ribs broken beyond mending.

No one sees the single white balloon that creeps toward the top of the dim tower of emptiness, nosing its way through the doors to the eleventh story.


--Christie