'A Special Friend'
By
Isidor Smith
Michael Blake swung his legs over the side of the bed and fixed his thin, fragile feet firmly to the wooden floor. The boards which lined the floor of his poky bedroom were rough and he had lost count of how many times he had picked splinters from the balls of his feet. The sheets lay grey and unwashed at the foot of his bed.
Michael sat hunched forward, and warmed his bare shoulders by rubbing them vigorously with his hands. He raised his pale and gaunt face and peered about the dimly-lit room. His grey eyes were ringed with dark, sleepless shadows. Michael stood up on two bony legs and gave a long tired yawn. He arched his back and stretched out his arms, hoping the tiredness would leave him. As he did this, his skimpy vest rose upwards, showing off a set of ribs, which stuck through his skin like rungs on a ladder. He was way too thin for fourteen. Michael let his body relax and the vest dropped back into place, covering his emaciated body once again. He preferred it like that. He crossed the room and pulled back the curtains and looked out at the new day.
It was still dark outside and lights glimmered in the bedroom and kitchen windows from the house across the street. A milk float could be heard as it turned into the street. It rattled, jangled, and hummed as it came. The milk float stopped. Michael watched the driver get out, collect a crate of milk, and deliver bottles to the house across the street. Michael knew that he wouldn't be getting any milk today as his father hadn't been able to pay the bill. Michael let go of the curtain and it swung back into place. He turned and dressed for school.
Michael switched on the light and the bare bulb was hardly powerful enough to light the room. His bedroom was bare. The only furniture he had was his bed and a chair on which he hung his clothes. Beside his bed sat a small table and on this was an old fashioned looking alarm clock. He screwed up his eyes and peered at the hands on it. They read half past seven. The alarm clock might have been old, but it was never wrong. The walls inside his room were also bare, apart from his friend, that is.
Michael's friend was Marilyn Monroe. The poster of her hung alone on his wall. She wasn't like an everyday friend. Marilyn had been dead fifty years and had died thirty-six years before he had been born. But the picture of her was special to him. It was company for Michael and he needed that badly. He had no mother and a father who was interested in climbing into a bottle of Jack Daniels instead of spending time with him. Michael didn't have any friends, either. He was the school scapegoat. Every school had one. So Michael took comfort by believing that Marilyn was his friend. Just his. But of course she wasn't. Marilyn was dead. Michael didn't trouble himself with such thoughts because he knew that they were special friends. He knew he wasn't mad, he knew he didn't imagine the conversations he had with her. At first Michael thought he was losing the plot, but after she had changed position in the poster on the wall and had joked, "It's so tiring standing in the same pose," he was sure it was for real. But if Michael were to be honest with himself, he did have doubts. But he had no one to confide in and even if he had, would they have believed him? Would you?
Michael tightened his school tie about his neck, put on his trousers, socks, and navy-blue sweater. He bent over the pile of school books on his bedroom floor and sorted through them. The school timetable buzzed around inside his head as he tried hard to remember the lessons he had for that day. But being so tired and weak feeling, it was hard for him to remember. Once he was sure he had collected the books he needed, he stuffed them under his arm. He straightened his messy black hair with his fingers. He looked up at the glossy poster of Marilyn, her head tilted to one side, thick red lips smiling down at him. She was wearing a one-piece swimsuit. One of her legs was slightly bent at the knee, both hands rested against her thighs. He thought she looked beautiful in that particular pose.
Michael took a step closer to the poster, and with a smile, he whispered, "See you later, Marilyn."
He turned for the door, and as he did, he was sure that he heard...heard what? Maybe it was just the wind blowing outside. Michael jerked his head back towards the poster. Marilyn stood just as she had only moments before. Had she spoken to him? He couldn't be sure.
Am I really going mad? He wondered to himself.
Am I really that lonely - that desperate for a friend of my own that I'm imagining that I am hearing the voice of a movie star long dead?
Confused, Michael shook his head and set off for school.
Michael hurried down the street, his coat fastened up to his neck, stooped forward to protect himself against the bitter wind. Tree branches moved gracefully back and forth in the early autumn storm like the arms of ballerinas. Leaves whisked along the gutter, getting caught in the storm drains. Silver drops of rain started to fall and they almost seemed to dance in the glare of the streetlights. Cars drove slowly past, the tyres hissing against the wet road, the windscreen wipers squeaking.
Michael hurried on, clutching school books to his chest, protecting them from the rain. He tugged on his hood, which swung behind him. The school building loomed ahead and I hated the sight of it. Other children hurried past towards the school, eager to get there. Michael dashed across the puddled schoolyard and towards the bike sheds. Other boys took shelter in there. Some were talking, sharing jokes, and laughing. Others hid in the corners and secretly smoked. Michael found himself a quiet corner. Some of the other kids turned their heads and stared at him. Others made remarks loud enough for him to overhear.
"Hey, Ribs!" one of them shouted and the others laughed.
Ribs had been his nickname for as long as he could remember.
A tall boy who looked more like a man than a school kid shouted, "It's time you beefed yourself up, Blake."
Another hollered, "Be careful of the wind, Blake, you might just blow away!"
The crowd in the bike shed laughed and cheered the others on. There was a sense of cruel excitement building. The boy who looked almost a man, his name was Steve Edwards, came forward. He leaned into Michael's face and said, "Why are you so fucking weird?"
More laughter from the crowd.
Michael stood silently and made no reply. He held onto his books like a drowning man might cling to an inflatable. Edwards loomed over Michael and the crowd fell silent. Then, taking his huge club-like hands from his pockets, he shoved Michael hard in the chest, sending his books spilling from his arms. Again, Michael refused to look up at his tormentor. Instead he crouched down and started to gather them up. Seeing this, Edwards kicked them away, out of reach.
"Why are you so fucking weird?" Edwards said. "No one gives a shit about school books."
"Because you probably can't read them," Michael said under his breath. But he didn't say it quietly enough.
"Say what?" Edwards said, looking back over his shoulder at his friends and winking slyly at them.
"Nothing," Michael whispered.
"What did you say?" Edwards pushed him in the chest again, sending Michael staggering backwards.
Michael stayed silent - hoping Edwards would soon get bored and go away. He had bullied Michael ever since the first grade.
"How is that pissed-up old man of yours?" Edwards teased and the crowd sniggered. "I heard he lost his job."
Michael said nothing.
"You're so much like him," Edwards came again. "Nothing but a freaking loser. No wonder your mother fucked off with that other guy."
"My mother died of cancer," Michael said.
"Whatever," Edwards spat. "We all know that's the bullshit excuse your father put around town because he was too embarrassed to admit that his wife was being slipped a length by some other guy."
Michael clenched his fists by his sides and stayed looking at the ground.
"So if your mum really is dead, why hasn't your dad got himself another bit of skirt?" Edwards sneered. "Maybe it's because he's like you and couldn't get laid in a whorehouse?"
This time, Michael did raise his head and looked at Edwards with his sunken eyes.
"God, you're so freaking creepy," Edwards said. "No wonder you don't have any friends, standing there like some freaking skeleton."
"I do have a friend," Michael said, staring hard into Edwards's eyes.
"Do you?" Edwards mocked, looking all around him. "I don't see him."
"My friend's not a he - they're a she," Michael said, brushing past Edwards in an attempt to get away. He knew that he had said enough already.
Edwards stuck his hand into Michael's chest and pinned him back into the corner of the shed. The crowd fell silent. "Are you taking the piss?" he asked, leaning into Michael. "Is she by any chance imaginary?"
"No!" Michael snapped.
Why shouldn't I tell him? Why shouldn't I tell all of them about my friend? He thought to himself. But he knew why.
"What's her name?" Edwards sneered, but there was something in his voice that suggested that he wasn't sure if Michael was telling the truth or not.
"Marilyn Mon..." The words had slipped from Michael's mouth before he had even realised what he had said. Then he was gone, shoving his way past Edwards and racing away across the schoolyard. As he fled, he heard someone shout from the crowd "Roe!" and they all fell about laughing.
But Edwards stared after Michael and he thought he had seen something in those eyes - it was like he had been telling the truth somehow. Pushing those thoughts from his head, Edwards sneered to himself and said "Marilyn Monroe, what a load of old bollocks!"
Michael ran through the pouring rain and didn't stop until he got home. He would skip school today. It wasn't as if his father would even notice. As he ran, rain washed away the tears that streaked down his cheeks. He pushed against the front door and slipped inside. At the foot of the stairs, he glanced into the living room to see his father lying unconscious on the sofa, congealed vomit down the front of his vest. Michael headed up the stairs. Entering his room, he closed the door behind him. He was never seen again.
There was a police investigation into Michael's disappearance, but he was never found. It was eventually believed he had run away to London, lost amongst the other thousands of homeless people there. Michael's room was searched, but all they found was his filthy clothes, tattered school books, and a torn up poster of Marilyn Monroe.
Nobody had seen or heard from Michael since his disappearance - until today.
Steve Edwards picked up the postcard off the doormat and carried it up to his bedroom. Sitting on the edge of his blue quilted bed, he looked at it. There wasn't a message written on the back, just his name and address, which looked slightly smudged. When he turned the postcard over in his hands, he knew who had sent it and his blood froze.
It was a postcard of Marilyn Monroe standing over a subway grating from the movie 'The Seven Year Itch' which had been made in 1955. Her white flowing dress was flowing up around her thighs as she stood in front of several hundred screaming fans.
Steve looked at the postcard and felt ill. Standing amongst the adoring fans, contented and happy-looking at last, was Michael.
