The Broken Man (a fiction-trail challenge # 2 entry)

At four years old, I already knew the cobbled streets of the city like the back of my hand. By my fifth birthday, I had rediscovered all the forgotten places. And before I was seven, I knew secrets that even the City elders didn’t know.

My favourite time of day was siesta time, when the rest of the household and the rest of the city slept. I was never like other children; I didn’t mind the heat and I didn’t seem to need as much rest.

As soon as my nurse was asleep, and the rest of the house grew quiet, I crept from my bed and quietly slipped out of the house. I had the knack of timing it to be back in bed, pretending to be asleep, before she stretched and yawned and came to wake me.

I was fascinated by the houses and buildings of the city. Not because architecture was of any interest, but because I could feel their stories. I could look at a house and know that someone within its walls was in love, or in pain, or was deceiving their husband. I knew when someone had died there recently, or 100 years ago.

I’m not telling this clearly. It wasn’t the emotions of the occupants that I felt. It was the feelings of the building. Sometimes I felt empathy, sometimes condemnation or exasperation, sometimes grief. I seemed to be the only person who understood that our homes love us. They want us to be happy and do their best to protect us.

But that’s not the story I came here to tell you today. I need to tell somebody the story of the Broken Man, because I don’t know how to help him, and maybe you do.

One thing I found as I roamed the city is that whenever I was thirsty, there would always be a drinking fountain nearby. And they were always the same. They had a face, with clean, clear, sweet water pouring from the mouth.

I began to notice that the fountains weren’t always in the same place. That’s how I discovered the greatest secret of them all. There was only one tap with a face, and it moved. It moved to wherever I needed it to be.

From then, it was no time at all before I realised he wasn’t following me just to be of service, but because he needed my help. For there was no doubt in my mind, the tap was a he.

It took me many months to put together his story, as he could only communicate emotions to me. I had to interpret, suggest scenarios to him, and feel for his approval or disappointment.

The first astonishment was that, unlike houses who know no other life, he hadn’t always been a drinking fountain. I’m still not clear on exactly what he had been, but the closest I’ve been able to get is that he’s now like a genie in a bottle.

When he first became aware of his new way of life, he was in the courtyard of a wealthy man. His water was always collected in silver goblets, and he refreshed the richest and most cultured people of the city. He knew my parents! He was proud to be of service to such fine owners and their guests.

But he began to hear things. The way they spoke of the poor disturbed, then disgusted him. He heard the ways they treated trades people. Despite his inbuilt need to love and serve, he became profoundly unhappy. Then he learnt something that was planned. Something that would devastate parts of the city, and leave many homeless.

So he left, in search of somebody who could prevent this terrible deed. But nobody would listen to him. Nobody could even hear him. He was a broken man, in the depths of despair and admitting defeat, when he first saw me. He finally found someone who noticed him.

But I am eight years old. What can I do to stop this? Who can I tell? That’s why I came to you. There’s nobody else who I trust that may know what to do.

You can help? You know what to do? All I need to do is go home, and sleep, and tell nobody, and we’ll talk again tomorrow?

I don’t know how much time has passed or how old I am now, but there is no longer any joy in exploring the cobbled streets of the city. I can be anywhere I want, at any time. I feel the houses and buildings commiserate, and grieve for me. Once I saw my parents walking by, wearing black armbands, but they didn’t see me.

Sometimes a person will stop to drink from me. But mostly I look endlessly for someone who can hear me. Now I am the Broken Man.

Thanks for reading

Pictures from Pixabay.

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