FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #5

A boy with a parrot on his shoulder was walking along the railway tracks.  A man stared at the photograph, contemplating his previous life.  A boy with a beaming, youthful smile and a parrot resting on his shoulder was a mere reflection of the man’s past.  The man that was solemnly standing in front of the fire place mantle, gazing at his happy past, possessed nothing that the young boy he used to be had.  The parrot, Doobie, had long been gone.  A radiant scarlet macaw, Doobie was the boy’s best friend; best friends that were forced to part when his family moved away.  The only remnant of his youth that remained was his childlike name; Andy.  Although he had been raised in many different countries, Andy was a happy young boy.  Having a father in the Army was difficult, continuously being transferred from base to base around the world.  This old photograph had been taken in Guatemala; the last place that Andy could remember where he was truly happy. 

My name is Andy.  Don’t judge me by name; I am not a helpless child.  I am a hardened man, one that no longer has any concern for anyone else but me.  What could have possibly happened to create such man?  One simple word is the answer to all.  France.  The country that holds the “City of Lights”.  The country that puts on a delightful façade.  What was behind it?

My Hell.

To many, France seems like a beautiful and peaceful country.  Peaceful because they run away at the slightest hint of failure in war; disgraceful.  But that’s beside the point.  The French were my enemy, from the moment of my arrival.  Anti-American feelings were still heavily apparent.  Americans were seen as the cheap, no-class invaders; the tension in the air could have been sliced with a knife.  I was only ten when I moved to France.  I had been forced to leave Guatemala, the place of my happiness.  My family and I lived on the old city, located on the island of Flores, Guatemala.  A place of pure beauty and simplicity, nothing could have been better than this safe haven of mine.  Each and every day was one filled with bliss.  The only thing that wasn’t pleasant was the humidity.  The humidity seemed to be nothing but a nuisance, but as soon as I left Guatemala I realized that the humidity was just a blanket of comfort for me.  A few weeks after arriving in Flores, my parents were so pleased with how well I had adjusted they decided to reward me; the best gift I had ever received.  Honestly, it is still the best I have ever received. 

Doobie, the beautiful scarlet macaw, the best of friends a boy could have ever had.  I thought he would be my traveling companion for the rest of my years; he would have made my life moving from place to place more bearable.  He went everywhere with me, always perched up on my shoulder, reciting friendly phrases that he had learned around the house; with the occasional “Shit!” thrown in once in a while.  Walking through the market streets was when I was the happiest.  Everyone adored Doobie as much as I did.  Looking back it makes me smile, a rare event, picturing in my head how he would flaunt his well-groomed feathers, always receiving a bit of banana or apple as a treat from the local fruit stand.  Flores had everything that I could ever desire for my life, I was perfectly content.  I had friends, a wonderful pet, and my family was happy.  Things could not possibly go wrong.  And for four years, nothing did.  From age six to age ten, life was damn near perfect.  Then, it all changed.

One phone call, some paperwork, and we were being sent to France.

My life changed forever.  

Once in France, we moved to Montmartre.  A nice city in itself, but little did I know the charming appearances hid.  We lived in a cramped flat off of Rue Foyatier.  I called it cramped while my parents called it “cute and cozy”.  That opinion of theirs didn’t last long though.  None of us were used to living in such close quarters together; the tension from outside our home seemed to creep underneath our doors and through the windows.  The tension first began building between my parents.  Occasional bickering turned to little spats, which turned into heated arguments, which then turned into full out war in our tiny house.  Although I despised my new home in France, I realized that my only safe haven was now outside of the cramped flat.  Across the street a small, worn down playground set became my place of escape.  The dull movements of the slightly rusted chain swings were a sound of comfort and safety.  Chipped red paint of the poles holding up my safe haven was the happiest sight in Montmartre for me. 

Then, more change.

One afternoon, like every other afternoon that I had spent there, I walked across the street alone to my playground.  My mother never worried about me because from the kitchen window she could see the playground.  My playground was perfect, no other kids ever came there, and I preferred that.  Quietly swinging, I was content again.  Closing my eyes, I’d remember being in Guatemala.  Walking down the busy market streets with faithful Doobie perched on my shoulder.  Finally smiling, until I felt a tap on my shoulder.  With my eyes closed, I thought maybe France had all been a dream, that maybe I had never left Flores at all and Doobie was tapping my shoulder with his feet…until the tap became a punch in the back.  Startled, my eyes flew open.  I turned around to see three older teenagers.  I was immediately stricken with fear, questions rushing through my head.  “What did Dad say I needed to do to defend myself?”  “Should I run?” “Should I scream?”  I was completely unaware of what I should do.  They yelled and cursed at me in French, I knew I was in trouble.  I will never forget one thing that they said, “L'américain crasseux va à votre propre pays fichu.”  What does that mean in English you may ask?  It means, “Filthy American go to your own damn country.”  Each one of them hit me; face, stomach, anywhere really.  Bleeding and crying they ridiculed me, calling me weak, “Tu est faible!”  In the end, I couldn’t even hold my arms to try and protect my face or body.  All the questions that were running through my head had halted, I thought I would die.  I thought it was the end.  I lay on the ground and actually began to hope that I would die.  They laughed as I lay on the ground, spat on me, and ran away.  The French, they are good at that; running away.  I lay on the ground until I felt that I was safe, was I ever safe there?  Walking back home, I vowed to never let anyone ever hurt me like this again; the French, Americans, anyone.  As I walked away, I turned my back on the pitiful boy that I was.  I was no longer going to be the boy that had lain on the ground and took a beating without even trying to put up a fight.  I changed that day, and only two things remind; my name and the old photograph of the boy with a parrot on his shoulder that was walking along the railway tracks. 

back to Contest #5