Monsters on the Sidewalk

It’s raining outside, giant beasts of clouds crowding across the sky like angry drivers stopped at the traffic light. The child stares out their window until their vision starts to warp. They look back inside — warm gold lights, bright party dresses, teeth of white and wine. They blink. Still red light, an angry smear of crimson dotted with fat water droplets. Their heart pulses against their hand.

Talk, will you, monster of a child — never socializes, never speaks -

There are too many people. They get up silently and slip up to their room. A ghost scuttles across drenched pavement with hunched shoulders. They hit the crossing button and dance through shivers as they wait for the light. Away from the crowd, the child breathes better, guiltily, now that all they can taste is the broken bitterness of their own incompetence. Yellow light now. Shifting feet, muttered dialogue.

If I talked more, if I was normal -

Everyone slows at yellow. Amiably, quietly. Sometimes angrily, but, well. The child cups their scabbed knees in their arms and rocks themselves into their own world where they don’t need to talk, where they aren’t ignored but simply are left to be, a white butterfly, a silent gasp of rain.

It’s always green light, in this world. They tighten their grip on the steering wheel. They go and break open. They find themselves.