The boy wrapped the blanket tighter as he peeped through the window, he imagined he was the man strolling by with the walking stick, he was an old soldier, he had discovered his commander sleeping with the enemy and had been stabbed, a lucky dodge had saved him as the sword missed his arm and pierced his leg, on the spot he had challenged his commander to a duel. After winning the duel he had broken the enemy front by charging in alone with a cannon, he- 

“Boy-” the boy shivered, he didn’t dare hope. “Boy.” the voice was softer now, not the croak of the kitchen door but the scrape of the dining chair.

 “Yes Ma?” He took the cup of water to her room. She was too weak to hold it herself so he held the cup to her lips, heart thumping as it dribbled to her sweaty breasts. He didn’t want to think it, he might jinx himself this time, like the other times. 

“What” she breathed, paused and then continued “What were you doing?” “Nothing Ma” he replied “You should rest, regain your strength.” “I told you to stay away from the window” she closed her eyes and shook as he pulled the blanket up to her chest, he pulled it up more, close to her neck. “I keep telling you, you can never go outside” she grabbed his wrist tight, her fingers were skinny, tight and strong “The sun will burn you, it can see your mind, just like I can. It will see all your evil little thoughts, and then you’ll die.” 

“I’m not going anywhere Ma.” the boy was meek, he had to be, she might take off the necklace and hide it otherwise. She closed her eyes “Don’t leave me.” she whispered, that was his cue to leave, she was drifting off to sleep. He went to the window again, it was darker this time so he went closer, pressing his face to the cold glass, he was the woman this time, she struggled with two jumping kids and a wayward bonnet. He imagined he could feel it, the wind must be very strong, it would drag at his hair like Mother’s comb. Maybe the wind was lonely too, it wanted someone to chase it like those kids that played on the streets. That’s why it was always pulling at everybody.

 The boy pitied the wind. 

The woman bent and whispered something to the wayward children, they quieted and soon their backs dwindled out of sight from the high building. What had she said to the kids? he wondered. Quiet or you’ll get no soup. It’s the stick for you. Be good or I’ll let the sun have you. 

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The boy wanted to know, the woman in the other room coughed, then she coughed again. Maybe the cooking stove was on, she might be coughing because of smoke, he should go and check. The boy sat on the floor, If he waited she might stop coughing, forever. 

Sometimes, when it was very hungry, the sun tried to kill him, it would reach through the window. The window always protected him though, the sun could only scrape at him like a knife when it was done wrestling with the window. It was too weak to try and take him, to choke him. 

If he could break the glass he could kill the sun before it killed him, he would jump and stab it with the old knife. Mother always complained that it was too blunt, but he knew it would work, he had practised. Mother was coughing, she was having one of those, the wet coughs that made her sound like a filled bottle.

 He should go and give her the vomit bowl, he knew he should. The boy kept on sitting until it was dark and the coughing stopped. Then he got up, she wasn’t breathing again, he knew because she made an awful noise when she slept, like her tin of pins in it if you shook it around. The silence felt like music, snakes danced in his stomach, they were trying to escape, he pressed a hand to his mouth. If he laughed she might wake up, no, she couldn’t, he couldn’t. 

He reached between her wet breasts and took the necklace, there it was, the small metal key. He urinated himself, but it didn’t matter, Mother wouldn’t know, she wouldn’t know anything. The snakes finally escaped and the boy laughed, it was a low hissing laugh, like an engine’s exhaust. 

The laughter escaped through the sides of his mouth, not snakes anymore but wind. They were little windlets. 

He grabbed the blunt knife and crept to the door, the keyhole was too high and he had to jump to put it in, that was okay, he had practiced jumping. He was a good jumper. The door opened, and the boy saw the staircase, the neighbour couldn’t hear him escaping, he was banging his head on the wall again, he did that every night. The staircase screamed as he stepped on it, trying to wake his mother, trying to tell on him.

 She can’t hear you, he thought as he bounced gleefully down. When he finally got outside the wind greeted him, it felt like bedsheets as it stroked his face, bed sheets made of fly wings. The boy was free, now all he had to do was find the sun, find it before it came looking for him again, find it and kill it. But he was too late, the sun had found him, it started scraping at him as he ran, it scraped and scraped and scraped.

 There was nowhere to hide, he had hoped the bridge might cover him but the sun was too strong, it was angry, it had found him and he couldn’t jump, he couldn’t reach it. The boy sat down as the sun came for him. It was angry this time, very angry, it knew what he had done, The sun will burn you, it can see your mind, just like I can. It will see all your evil little thoughts, and then you’ll die. Mother was right.