The boy they found in the attic was skinny, with limbs as thin and limp as spaghetti.
His eyes were big and round in the darkness and it was clear that any attempt to approach him would frighten him further. Instead they scrutinised him from the trapdoor, scanning his face and form for clues.
He didn’t speak or run rampant around the house like most children his age, he just sat listening to the clanging of the hot water pipes and tracing circles in the dust with his fingers. How he’d survived was anyone’s guess. Such a sweet nature, it was hard to contemplate a person who could condemn him to living like that, all alone and neglected.
As he grew he became a little chubby, which with his towering height as a teenager and his lack of speech led him to be feared as he was fearful. His approach to maturity was painful and isolated.
It was only when he reached the age of thirty two that he found solace in a little attic apartment with clanging pipes. They realised then that perhaps he never was afraid of the dark and loneliness. Perhaps he was afraid of being seen.
Spitfire Words 