Once a dark Sunday afternoon, Little Owen anguishly wanders around the house, when he decides to make an excursion to the kitchen. Carefully, he leans out his head through the stairwell railings to have a peek. Made certain that the coast is clear, he slides off his slippers and walks down the stairs quietly. His right sock gets snagged on a slightly loose nail, in such a way that his foot frees completely of it as Little Owen takes his next step down. "Soldier down", he whispers to himself.
The kitchen doorknob rattles. Little Owen closes his eyes and grimaces in fear. He counts a couple of seconds and scawls as the door squeaks on its hinges. Finally in, he hurries behind the big breakfast table.
His mouth waters at the sight of a glass bowl packed full of perfectly round juicy oranges. He can't resist from reaching his dainty hand to grab the one on the top, turning his wrist with the intention of taking a thoughtless bite then and there. Little Owen stifles a gasp of disgust at the sight of the most dreadfuly moldy orange you could ever imagine. He lets it fall to the ground and approaches the bowl fearfully. An explosion of greenish mold has gotten to them all.
Little Owen turns his avid attention to the non-stainless steel vegetable basket. A couple of red ripe tomatoes catch his eye, so he takes one. Little Owen cringes at the touch of the leprous piece of fruit.
His safe time window is running out and he knows it. Desperate, his eyes travel around the counter, the table and the corner perishables cart, for they constitute all he can reach. He sees it. The plastic basin of dark sweet cherries. Those never fail him. Little Owen quickly finds a cup for his trophy, fills it and escapes the soon-to-be ground zero.
A life-long thirty seconds later, he has materialized himself in front of the upstairs bathroom door. He hurriedly gets in and locks. The book and the walkman he had anticipatedly hidden in the cabinet are welcome into his arms.
As he sits on the toilet -lid down- to enjoy his evasion plan, something comes to mind. A piece of a memory. A flash, really. Recess. Mel, that kid from third row is sulking about his parents' loud arguments. "Lucky", Little Owen lets slip. He regrets it immediately, and all his classmates will look at him funny for a couple of days.
He shakes it off. He can't change that. Not all unpleasant situations can be avoided. And sometimes it's a good thing, too. In his mind, this gives room for the little ones, the truly unnecessary ones, to be, indeed, avoided. He opens his book.
Downstairs, Little Owen's parents might have already start setting up the table for dinner. Little Owen's mother could already be choosing which microwave meal to get out of the freezer for tonight. Perhaps they will have started without Little Owen, repressed undiscussed feelings and ice-cold silence do not always wait. In a while -about five to ten minutes, like a clock-, they will start wondering where in the world is Little Owen if he is not in the chair in the corner, between the high cupboard and the window -no escape-, where he should be.
It is even possible that they will try to go and find him, maybe even guess his secret undisclosed hideout location and pound on the door. Little Owen will not hear, his walkman's on.
Up in his haunt, Little Owen does not think of any of that. He doesn't want to. And he doesn't want any of that. He doesn't know what that word means yet, but his biggest fear in this world is that passive-aggressiveness might be hereditary.
The kitchen doorknob rattles. Little Owen closes his eyes and grimaces in fear. He counts a couple of seconds and scawls as the door squeaks on its hinges. Finally in, he hurries behind the big breakfast table.
His mouth waters at the sight of a glass bowl packed full of perfectly round juicy oranges. He can't resist from reaching his dainty hand to grab the one on the top, turning his wrist with the intention of taking a thoughtless bite then and there. Little Owen stifles a gasp of disgust at the sight of the most dreadfuly moldy orange you could ever imagine. He lets it fall to the ground and approaches the bowl fearfully. An explosion of greenish mold has gotten to them all.
Little Owen turns his avid attention to the non-stainless steel vegetable basket. A couple of red ripe tomatoes catch his eye, so he takes one. Little Owen cringes at the touch of the leprous piece of fruit.
His safe time window is running out and he knows it. Desperate, his eyes travel around the counter, the table and the corner perishables cart, for they constitute all he can reach. He sees it. The plastic basin of dark sweet cherries. Those never fail him. Little Owen quickly finds a cup for his trophy, fills it and escapes the soon-to-be ground zero.
A life-long thirty seconds later, he has materialized himself in front of the upstairs bathroom door. He hurriedly gets in and locks. The book and the walkman he had anticipatedly hidden in the cabinet are welcome into his arms.
As he sits on the toilet -lid down- to enjoy his evasion plan, something comes to mind. A piece of a memory. A flash, really. Recess. Mel, that kid from third row is sulking about his parents' loud arguments. "Lucky", Little Owen lets slip. He regrets it immediately, and all his classmates will look at him funny for a couple of days.
He shakes it off. He can't change that. Not all unpleasant situations can be avoided. And sometimes it's a good thing, too. In his mind, this gives room for the little ones, the truly unnecessary ones, to be, indeed, avoided. He opens his book.
Downstairs, Little Owen's parents might have already start setting up the table for dinner. Little Owen's mother could already be choosing which microwave meal to get out of the freezer for tonight. Perhaps they will have started without Little Owen, repressed undiscussed feelings and ice-cold silence do not always wait. In a while -about five to ten minutes, like a clock-, they will start wondering where in the world is Little Owen if he is not in the chair in the corner, between the high cupboard and the window -no escape-, where he should be.
It is even possible that they will try to go and find him, maybe even guess his secret undisclosed hideout location and pound on the door. Little Owen will not hear, his walkman's on.
Up in his haunt, Little Owen does not think of any of that. He doesn't want to. And he doesn't want any of that. He doesn't know what that word means yet, but his biggest fear in this world is that passive-aggressiveness might be hereditary.
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