Dirty Boy

 I never found out who brought dirty boy into our school and into my bedroom.

He was covered in years of accumulated dust and filth, wedged between the cracks of my bedroom floor. His torso stuck to his legs and his legs were bent in right angles. His teeth were perfectly square and gleamed when he smiled. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for dirty boy.

Sister told me to stop day dreaming about him. He’d give me migraines, she said, and God doesn’t like migraines. She thought of him as godless, foul, unholy, and disgusting. I was encouraging his existence. I was bringing hell upon the earth.

Yet, I couldn’t forget about dirty boy. I brought him outside so the other girls could view him. We sat on the wooden bench near the gazebo, just underneath the termite infested wooden cross. I waved away the mosquitoes while they explored every inch of him; rubbing their fingers over his glossy surface, giggling throughout their intimate conversations with one another, dreaming of a day when they could be with him. They pointed, chortled, and awed at his perfection. They dribbled over his monstrous package. Our interest in Dirty Boy quickly subsided when Sister appeared. She rushed us inside, bolting the doors behind her. She made us kneel in front of the altar. We were forced to repent. Three hail Mary’s and all was forgiven. It was suppose to drive away his wretched influence.

Sister threw dirty boy out that night and I saw him from my bedroom window, his teeth glowing in the dark. He was caught in the rough winds of a thunderstorm. I let him back in and I hid him underneath my pillow.

I prayed for dirty boy like I never prayed for anyone before. I prayed for his safety, for his understanding, for divine intervention. I prayed for Sister to accept him, but she tore my room apart, searching. She said I was a sinner in the eyes of God but she never found dirty boy.

Years passed and still he remained with me. He aged and fell apart. He was no longer glossy but worn, rough at the edges, with his image being the only faded reminder of his good looks. I finally said goodbye to dirty boy. I left him where I found him, between the cracks of my bedroom floor. I prayed that someday he would be remembered, not for the ungodly man that Sister said he was but as the image of a little girl’s obsession.

THE END

 

Enjoy more dark fiction by Isaiyan Morrison at: www.isaiyanmorrison.com

One thought on “Dirty Boy

  1. “His torso stuck to his legs and his legs were bent in right angles. His teeth were perfectly square and gleamed when he smiled. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for dirty boy.”
    What I can not believe!

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