Michael Soll - Scorched

But the problem with thick skin is that it leaves you impervious to the sharpest of pins. Everything becomes dull. I’m no longer feeling, I’m thinking about what I should feel. It seems like a good problem to have, to not feel that sharp pin, to not feel that prick, but without that sense of pain, there cannot be that sense of relief. Ultimately, the thickened skin leaves you numb, incapable of feeling the highs and lows of life. It leaves you rough like a rock and just as inanimate.

My father is a great man, by all standards, but I don’t know if I’d consider him a great human. I could stand in front of him and say the cruelest words, the most vicious things I could think of, but he’d stand there unaffected. If he appeared hurt, he’d just be acting that way because that’s how humans are supposed to act in such a situation, but deep down, beneath the flesh and organs, there was a lifeless rock.

I guess that’s the problem with being polite. When you’re constantly thinking of others and what they must be thinking or feeling or expecting, you wind up in this perpetual state of trying to please them. You see yourself through their eyes and you lose sight of who you are.

What’s taking them so long?

I walked back in and we talked about some superficial things until Cotta and the Wilkins left.

Spec and I got ready to sleep and we lay in our separate beds. I turned to him and asked, “Do you want to share the bed like we did when I first got you?”

“Is that what you want?”

“If you want to.”

He looked over and considered his options. “Sure, that’s fine I guess.” He got out of bed and lay next to me.

“If you want to sleep in your own bed that’s fine.”

“This is okay.”

He got on his side and I cuddled up next to him. I put my hand on his and kissed the back of his head. “Goodnight.”

I closed my eyes, and I could feel his warmth and my heart beating faster than it’s ever beat. I moved my hand up his arm and laid it on his chest. His heart was beating slow, nowhere near as quickly as mine.

And then, I fell asleep.

The annual ball was a few days away and Kat needed a new dress, so she, my father, Spec and I went shopping.

Kat put on a vintage red gown, but she wasn’t pleased. She grabbed a pair of slippers and slammed them against the ground. “I hate red! You know I hate red, Daddy!”

Mr. Hamilton, the portly, middle-aged storeowner, laughed at her antics. “Well, we have something similar in blue. Would you like that?”

“NO! I hate blue too. Red and blue are ugly! I want green!”

My father shrugged and patted her on the head. “The girl knows what she wants.”

Mr. Hamilton scurried to the back of his store while Kat continued to pout. I noticed Spec’s disinterest so I asked my father if we could take a look around on our own for some clothes. My father consented and we went through the fashion district by ourselves.

One of the jewelry stores caught Spec’s eye, so I took him in to take a look. He stared longingly at a diamond ring. He moved the precious rock, examining it from different angles.

“I’ve seen this before. What is it?” he asked.

“Diamond.”He glanced down at the price. “What does it do?”

“It doesn’t do anything. It’s pretty.”

“Why’s it so expensive?”

“It’s rare.”

“What is rare?”

“It means there’s not a lot of it in existence.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because not everybody can have it. It’s unique and special. And I guess, if you own it, it makes you special by association.”

“Am I rare?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Me, Cotta and Kaolin. We’re different, so we’re rare.”

“Yeah, you are, I suppose. That’s why people were willing to pay so much for you, right?”

“But back home, there are lots of people like me, so I wouldn’t be rare there.”

“You’re home now. That’s just where you were born.”

He nodded. “Right.”

We left the jewelry store and went searching for some formal attire. I found a couple of nice suits and we were set for the ball. We walked passed Hamilton’s shop, and I could see my sister wearing a green, frilly dress, slamming her shoes on the ground and screaming, so we decided to walk around the rest of the city.

We came across one of the animal pens and Spec asked if we could take a look inside, so we did. We went passed the pigsties and into the chicken coop where the hens were locked up.

Spec placed his hands against the cages. “They’re trapped.”

“They’re being protected.”

His eyes furled. I seemed to have hit a nerve with him. It didn’t happen often — it was difficult for him to hide his emotions which is one of the reasons why I loved him.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“They’re not being protected.”

“Sure they are. If they got loose, they could run away. They wouldn’t have any food. They’d die.”

“Or they could escape.”

“Why would they want to escape? They have food and safety here.”

He rubbed the cage’s lock. “Sometimes that’s not enough.”

“Do you feel that way with me?”

“Who gets to decide who should have a cage and who shouldn’t?”

“Whoever has the key.” It was a cold response. I didn’t mean for it to be, it was just the first thing that jumped into my mind. “You know, if you ever wanted to leave, you could. Nobody’s stopping you. But you have everything you need to survive here. And you have me.”

He nodded and looked around the room. “Everything in this city is so bright.”

“Well, the brightness let’s us see everything better.”

“Right. It helps you see things more clearly.”

I didn’t want to discuss the subject any further. “We should head back.”

Spec walked out in front of me. I lingered for a moment and stared down at the many cages filled with hens. They couldn’t move. But, they didn’t need to, did they? All they needed to do was lay their eggs.

It was the night of the dance and my family and I walked to the City Center where the ball was being held. Spec walked beside me, adorned in a shiny black suit and looking as handsome as anyone in all of Newbury.

My father was perhaps the most excited of all of us. He always looked forward to the times when he got to speak in front of the whole town and the annual ball was such an occasion.

He greeted every individual we came across with a large smile. He knew every person’s name, every person’s story. He would ask about their family and their jobs. They loved him; they all loved him. And if they didn’t, they acted as such, since that is what he expected from them. He treated them as if they loved him and so, whether they did or they didn’t, they appeared to and thus, everyone assumed he was loved by all, especially him.

The city lights had dimmed to simulate the night, but extra bulbs had been strung up in the City Center for the ball. Everybody looked spiffy. Spec and I went our separate ways, and we soon found Cotta who was walking to a table, carrying several drinks back to his family.

“Have you seen Kaolin?” asked Spec.

Cotta placed the drinks on the table. “No, but I heard she would be here soon.”

I saw the eagerness in Spec’s eyes. “You two don’t know how to dance do you?” They shook their heads. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

The two of them followed me to the dance floor, which was essentially just the center of the venue, tables circling around.

“It’s pretty easy, really. You put your hands on the girl’s waist and you take a step forward while she steps back. After that, step to the left. Then step back. Then to the right and repeat. That’s how you dance.”