The Boy In My Backyard

The bright spring morning light peered through my uncovered windows, showering me and my book in a calm honey glow. The pages flew by, opening a new door to another place. A place of fiction or nonfiction. I could hear the voices of family members doing their business about the house, but they soon dissipated as this new book swallowed me whole. The Lancaster's have mostly forgotten my presence over the years, but I want it that way. As far back as I can remember, I just never felt connected to them beyond blood. They kept me away from the rest of the world, cocooning me in my sanctuary and constricting my freedoms.

But, I still don't mind. I read books my father brings me once a week, and the world outside seems unappealing. The pale blue walls that surround me covered in shelves of books upon books is all that I want. If I want to leave, I just have to grab one of the books off the shelf and I have my wish.

My parents have given me many diagnosis's over time, though my father has he full right to seeing as he is a doctor.

"You have something called autism."

"Honey, you are suffering from dementia."

"You're just in depression, Avery."

"She probably has a tumor on her brain."

For all the diseases they claim I am suffering from, nothing has been done to change me. I don't want them to; I see nothing wrong with who I am. Every person I've ever read about has flaws, most created by human interaction or technology. Is it not better that I lack both of those causes?

I silently closed Sanctuary by William Faulkner, and looked over to the window and into the overgrowth. My parents never took care of their garden, for as long as I can recall. Years of neglect has led it to become a home for many animals and mysterious things. I could see a few birds sitting atop long grass and a few squirrels popping in and out of the growth. How they could stand to be in such a messy place was beyond me. Everything about me is to be organized.

Getting out of my chair by my desk, I walked over to the window again and watched the animals meander. I'm not sure why, but my window doesn't open anymore. I remember it did in the past, but it's forever jammed shut. It's a good thing; I don't want animals or insects to take over my room like they did my backyard. This was my home; they aren't allowed to have it.

I stepped away and picked up Sanctuary and placed it back on its shelf amongst other William Faulkner novels. That particular novel was a good example of the negatives of the outside world. A woman got raped and had to work for a pack of disgusting men. I can always avoid that life in here, my blue room with the honey glow.

"Shit!"

My heart stopped. Father and brothers never used foul language around me before, and work to keep me away from such things. I crept to my door and placed my ear against it, waiting to hear why the word was uttered. But all I heard on the other side was silence. It was when I heard a shuffle in the backyard did I realize the other possibility. Could someone other than blood be here?

Ducking down, I slowly peeked into the window. In the garden attached to my sanctuary was a boy of chocolate hair and diamond eyes. His hard hands were tearing into the brush and grass and ripping them from their mother Earth. They were pushed forcefully into a thick cotton bag he dragged behind him and I could not help but feel bad to the plants. It someone ripped me from my room, I would shrivel and die like them. The boy's gray shirt had random spots of green grass stains on it, and he jeans were torn. I assume by thorns, for why would someone dress in ripped clothing?

Reaching for my sketch book, I began to draw this new creature in my yard. Perhaps he will be my model for the males described in books other than my brothers and father. I stood before the window and drew him, not very detailed for my art is mediocre. But I can understand it, and no one else needs to. I began to draw his eyes, finding them the most troublesome.

Erase. Draw. Erase. Draw. Erase. Erase more. Draw.

When I peered back away from my sketchbook, I received the best view I could. He stood on the other side of the window, the thin glass barely separating us. He looked at my sketch, than back at me. Was his mouth moving? My eyesight got fuzzy and before I understood what was happening, the curtains were shut and I began to cry and scream beside my bed.

I think my parents came into my sanctuary. I don't know. I can't remember anything but the black silence.