Tales of Hayden - Chapter 3

“In this group of people in front of me, I see strangers, friends, best friends, lovers, and learners,” Hayden stated. “In my lifetime, of only being sixteen, I have seen hardship of fellow people in the busy streets. Trying to feed their families with whatever they were paid with the following night’s paycheck. In turn, they treat each other with fairness. My mother and father would tell me, every night, to be nice to my elders. Character is how you treat those who can do nothing for you. I only hope that when you grow old, or even if you are old, you will treat those as you like to others.” He walked off his stage, his crowd growing bigger by the days. It was a congested lung trying to breath and Hayden was in the middle of it. He was thrown when trying to walk home and when he broke free, more people surrounded him with papers and pens wanting his autograph. Hayden was pleased by these offerings for the first few weeks until the same people came back, wanting him to sign their head and even stomach. Their only desire was to make him famous without Hayden knowing.

Their continuous begging made Hayden’s straw grow thin and come off as angry and unapproachable. He would push through the crowds with a sterner face than the day before, lightly stomping his feet towards the marketplace. The different aroma of spices, sweat, and animals filled the air along with the rich voices of different men, woman, and child selling items behind tall, wooden desks. Dust rose from below and into the sky, causing the sun to shine through like glass.

When he got home, the house silence. The sound of the creaking steps and the wind blowing the faded curtains, welcomed him home, alone and without anything. Hayden walked up the staircase, resting a small hand on the worn bannister. The sound of silence echoed throughout the house, overlapping the sound of the wind. He slumped his head down, arching his shoulders walking towards his bedroom. His father was dead. His mother and sister haven't returned from their daily shopping trip in town, so there was a likely chance they are dead.

The peeling paint was duller than yesterday, the carpet was a horrible shade of red mixed with the tears of Hayden. He mopped the whole time sobbing his whole way to his bedroom, dragging his feet. The stress of talking in front of people came through his brain as anxiety and judged, as Hayden fell onto his bed.

It was wrong to cry as being a man but every once in awhile a man must cry, his father had told him once. It was his grandfather’s funeral. The clouds were dark and crying, as his friends and family held hands, mourning and whispering. His father was effected the most as it was his father that died but didn’t show the sadness. In his eyes, jungle showers were rapidly happening as well as the howling pain of wolves losing their pups for the first time. When Hayden’s family got home, they all walked into their own rooms, each cleaned and fresh but gloomed by the outside. That night the moon was shining as Hayden was reading with a booklight when he heard the soft crying of his father downstairs.

He snuck downstairs via ladder, seeing his father hunched over on the couch with his hands on his face. Hayden didn’t enjoy seeing his father cry as it twisted a knot in his stomach, making him feel like he should do something. So he did.

“Father, what’s wrong?” he asked.

His father looked up from his hands, ahead at the fireplace.

“It’s hard to ask what’s wrong when nothing’s right.” The boy was taken back from this remark, shifting in his seat on the couch. The house was silent afterwards, like now. Still and remorse, with the hint of guilt. Hayden could still hear his father’s voice, as if he was still in the field, picking berries for tonight’s dinner.