The Boy by Ainsley MacLeod

No longer human

Every time I saw him, he was standing still and staring at me. I felt chills in my

back, within the next few times, in my heart I felt sorrow. He was young, some might say little,

about 8 years old, with shaggy, unkempt hair like most kids that age. Writing this now, I feel I am calling him back to me, but I hope he has moved on.

One of the times, I was watching TV in my basement. I heard the door creak. Because I

had already seen him twice before, I knew it was the boy. I did not want to look, I wanted to sit

there and pretend it was not happening, that I was not being watched. But I wanted clarity. I

wanted proof that I didn’t need to be scared at all.

I peer my eyes toward the staircase, to the top, trying not to move my head at all. I didn’t find him at first, but then I saw the eyes, always creeping through his tangles. I never knew him. I never knew what he needed. Was he watching me in loathsome?

And now, after 15 years, I see him with the corner of my eye, though I pretend I don’t.

Why return? And why here, in the new house with my new wife? I don’t want him to think I know he’s here. I can’t help him. He can’t help me.

My heart begins hammering into my throat. Those eyes of his are black.

He is closer, and reaches out. His cold fingers pressing over my mouth, silencing me. I panic, I am frozen. What the fuck. Maybe in the days between he lost something other than his young life, because never have the boy and I interacted in this way, he would always just stare. 

He reaches his other hand into my chest, and everything is tight. The lights go dim. I try and try to take more breaths, the attempts are redundant, wringing the walls of my lungs together. His arm outstretched, I float off the ground. Pulling my ribs, crushing my heart, squeezing my lungs, my eyes feel as though they are inflating out of their sockets. No longer human. I try to scream and am saved by a groan. I thud to the floor. I am free as soon as my wife runs down the stairs to ask if I tripped or stubbed my toe. It transforms back to the boy. Back in the doorway. Air floods my lungs, but the weight lingers. I can breathe, but I am not free.

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Ainsley MacLeod is a graduate from McMaster University where she obtained an honours BA in English and Cultural Studies while also playing for the women’s lacrosse team. As she is currently an educator for The Sunflower School, Ainsley hopes to use her love for working with young kids to become a teacher or work to help children with exceptionalities more closely. Ainsley’s love for creative writing and advocacy for normalizing mental health and illness have combined to inspire this piece, to which she will create more and continue to reach her childhood dream of publishing her work. 

@Ainsmacleod