CHAPTER 1. David lay in his father’s bed, staring into the night. Next to him, his father snored softly. The rhythmic cadence lulled the boy in and out of a fitful sleep. David turned, propped himself up on a thin elbow, and peered over his father’s side. The clock on the nightstand read 1:30 a.m. A sigh too large for the small boy escaped through his lips. He lay back again on the bed and resumed his blind stare. He could not remember when his father had finally fallen into a spent and exhausted sleep; it may have been an hour ago, or a merely a few minutes ago. All that mattered was that his father’s sobs had subsided into whimpers, and then finally folded into sleep, leaving the house quiet except the ticking of the alarm clock on his father’s nightstand.
Weariness washed over David, as he closed his eyes again. He could not sleep. Another sigh escaped from his lips; not from relief, but from the dull knowledge that tomorrow would bring more of the same. It had been that way since his mother’s death. His father had not recovered from her death, and could not sleep unless David stayed with him. “How long had it been?” the boy wondered. He ran his hand across his forehead, gently kneading it to ease the dull ache of her memory pushing its way to the front of his consciousness – as if the memory could ever fully retreat. Five months had passed since his Mother had taken her life. Did she believe that life somehow failed her, or did she believe that she had failed life? David would never know. All that he knew was that she had gone away, and left him behind. His mother had taken her life, and in doing so, took with her his world. All logic, all reason, all control ceased to exist; down became up, inside was turned out, left was now right. His mother’s death wiped away his young boy’s life of baseball games and Cub Scouts, birthday cakes and Saturday morning omelets. That life no longer belonged to him.
He was 15 years old, and small for his age, barely 5’5” and slight of build. Lithe and childish, he had not developed as the other boys his age. His voice, although on the verge, had not yet changed, so that the sound was strained and had a nasal pitch to it when he spoke. He wore large glasses with thick lenses that appeared too big for his face, which he would nervously push up each time they slid down on his nose. The glasses magnified his eyes, giving him an elfish quality. Because of his appearance, he stood out from the others, and was often ridiculed and teased by his classmates. His mother’s presence had eased some of his pain at being different. Now, not only was he referred to as that little, short, weird kid, he was also known as that kid whose mother killed herself. Although no one in school ever said it to him aloud, he could see it in their eyes as he passed by in the halls. They would look at him for a moment with a mixture of pity and curiosity, and then, they would quickly look away and murmur among themselves.
He couldn’t sleep. Slipping out of his father’s bed, David made his way down the hall to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, the harsh light bombarded his eyes, causing him to blink several startled times before focusing on its contents. He rummaged through the shelves looking for something to quiet the rumblings in his belly. He found some cheese and began to nibble at its edge as he shut the door. The events of his Mother’s death were etched in his mind, and David replayed them again, as he stood in the kitchen, his narrow body bathed in the moonlight intruding through the window. . .
nuance 