Alfie Larson {D12/FIN}

”So, is your name actually Alfie, or is it like, just a nickname?” His words were sharp needles against my exposed skin, but I didn’t think he meant for them to be as harsh as they had turned out to be. My light blue eyes met his gaze for only a moment before turning towards the floor, watching as my feet kicked rusty dirt from side to side.

“It’s just Alfie.” It’s just my messy, brown hair and my trembling hands and my lanky limbs and it’s just Alfie. I never even looked up to see his reaction, as I knew it would be just like everyone else I attempted to explain it to. Alfie wasn’t just a nickname that I had kept to hide myself from the maturity that hid behind a longer name, no, it was the simplicity of my mother’s thoughts that it suited me, and that it would continue to suit me until I died. It wouldn’t have been that bad if it was just a nickname, something that I could have used to temporarily hide my insecurities from the awkwardness that adolescence sprung upon me. However, those times had come and gone like seeds in the wind, and I was still left behind with my name.

Eventually our conversation had shifted to other topics, such things as the weather and the current happenings of the families that lived around us. I had lived beside him for quite a while, but we had never exchanged names, content to be acquaintances rather than friends. Like most things, it was probable to assume that the blame would fall to my shoulders for not being outgoing enough, but the words spoken in my mother’s tone would go in one ear of mine and out the other. She would roll her eyes as I plodded to the small hole in the wall that I called a room. But what mattered wasn’t the dimensions or the condition of the walls, no, what mattered was the way my eyes lit up as I slunk into the solitude that it provided. It was large enough for me to stretch my lanky limbs and put my skinny arms behind my head and let my dark hair in front of my eyes and just indulge myself in the silence that engulfed me.

In fact, my own breathing and the occasional squabble from my parents were really the only things to be heard. However, I had gotten extremely good at tuning them out, and now, their voices were so faded that I could ignore them altogether. I could forget about the sharpness that struck my mom’s tone with every syllable, or the desperation that fell across my father’s words. They were as sick of each other as I was of them, all of us stuck in a deadlock that no one was willing to untangle.

My mother would always stand at my door and complain about how I was too quiet, but after receiving no reply from my end she would roll her eyes while letting out a deep sigh and walk off. Not to say she didn’t try to get me out and about more, in fact, she was often shoving me out the door, telling me that the only way to come out of my shell was just to “get out there.” However, I would always just walk around the corner and sit for a while, occasionally catching awkward conversation with the strangers who passed by. After I assumed my mother would be content, I would walk home and sheepishly knock on the door, and after a moment’s hesitation she would let me in. We never said much from there, only making space for each other to pass as we walked in opposite directions, me towards my room, and her towards wherever my father was.

I presume that my parents never realized how thin the walls of our house were, for I could always overhear their conversations if I put my ear to the wall. The first time, it was an accident, for I had only meant to lay back against the wall and rest, not overhear the brunt of my parents’ conversation. However, the next day, I listened again, and every day after that I continued to put my ear to the wall. I became inherently nosy, turning my head towards conversation that belonged to anyone’s ears but mine. Most people didn’t notice, but a few would turn their heads the other way, scoffing at my behavior and writing it off as childish. Some would even go as far as to ask me what I thought I was doing, in which case my cheeks would flush red and words would come falling out of my mouth, stumbling over each other in the same way that my feet did as I tried to walk off. Was it wise of me to become infatuated in the affairs of others? No, to simply put it, it was beyond stupid. However, the voice of reason cannot be heard above the shouts of curiosity, especially when one is covering their ears in hopes of not hearing anything.

I reread the few books my parents had given me over the years multiple times simply due to the fact that I could get my hands on nothing else. Each one was worn, with a dismembered spine and yellow pages, but the story remained the same. The hero would rise and fall in such a pattern that it was a lifeline connected to my own heart, keeping me alive and throwing me to the brink of death only to yank me back with a jolting shock. It was a pace that kept me more than motivated to read on, and then set the book down only for a moment to pick it back up and start again.

The words never changed, but the seasons outside my window did. Winter snows turned into spring blooms, and those changed into the heat that settled itself uncomfortably around us. The ground was dry, gasping out for water with its last draws of breath. The few ragtag officials of the area had tried to quench the thirst with words that dripped with false hope, but many saw through the mirages that they had placed out in the oasis. My parents, however, were one of the ones that believed whatever they heard, and despite my desperate cries of realistic thinking, they placed their trust deep within those who never even seen the cracks in the ground. It was for this reason that my parents were shocked as our supply of food slowly dwindled, leaving us only with the dust that coated the floor. I could only roll my eyes as their voices took on a tone of disbelief, not understanding how anyone could let this happen.

As the sun’s time in the sky thinned, so did the meat on our bones. We became accustomed to filling our stomachs on as little as possible, and we hardly ever complained. My father always gave us a bit of his food, insisting that if anyone was to stay healthy, it was my mother and I. However, the winter chill passed, and spring showers took its place. Sparse plates gave way to meals of a little more variety, however, our stomachs were never completely filled. We still had meals that were plain, but in a way they suited us and the lifestyle we were forced to be content with. It was in the same way that I have been content with the same six books for the last eight years that we were content with what we had. Because sometimes, it’s not the multitude of what you have, it’s the way that you make use of it.

{o t h e r}
Alfie Larson
Age: 18
District 12
Gender: Male
Face Claim: Liam Nikos
Codeword: oDair
Words: 1,295