Sacrifice to the gods of passion.

What a fickle bitch. One day I want one thing, and the next something totally fucking different. I'm not intentionally making my life painfully stupid, but when that's all you know what the hell else are you going to do? Doesn't age, this one here. Well, not in an emotional or interpersonal way at the very least. He's got a few more lines in his hands, a few less hairs on his head everyday, and the back pain is unrelenting; but really he's no worse for the wear than anybody else. It's the child that hid behind when the lines started forming, as the tattoos scraped on, and as the awkwardness of youth faded a bit. I think he was under that tiny desk, next to all the other tiny desks sitting before the enormous black-board and the teacher with a frantic night life. Small enough that no one would catch on that he is still there; years have gone by. The cramping in his legs, the hunger in his little stomach are both far gone. He can't even feel those short legs and his stomach scarcely exists - shrunk down to the size of a marble. Something else has taken that hunger that no longer exists and the pain long forgotten.

No one came back for him. He was just playing a joke, hiding for fun, not trying to hurt anyone. It was a game, like we use to play with the neighbors: you'd end up hiding behind the dumpster, or around the house next door. But they always, always came to get you. No hiding spot was good enough to fool anyone for too long; aside from up those trees. He could climb up higher than anyone, and once he got there he would all but disappear, as skinny as he was. There would be one final call, after everyone had been caught, and he'd climb down proud that no one could get him. Finally, he'd get to be "it."

This wasn't like those other times, though. No one made a final call, like in the game, like all those times he played that game without telling anyone. Hiding in the grocery store, or hiding in the brush, waiting to be scolded for not being ready to leave, or cleaned up to eat supper. No one made any noise. The group just got up and left. He was playing a joke and no one even knew he was gone. No one noticed, for a long time.

He's still sitting there, but his waiting has changed. The rush from the success of the hide faintly lingered after the initial shock of no one coming to get him, coming to scold him. But even that is gone. What happens to a child you ignore for sixteen years? Who does he become, bitter and alone. Wanting you to love him so much, but pushing away because you didn't come at the right time. Pushing away because you, in your absence, ignored him; and maybe you didn't even know he was gone. Like I said, what a fickle bitch.