Selling A Childhood Home [FICTOID]

“I used to live here,” the old man said.  “It was a good home, a happy home, a safe home.”

The little girl he was selling the home to looked up at him with a haunted expression.  He smiled kindly at her.  “You’ll like it, I promise,” he said.  “Good fluffy cumulous cloud foundation, plenty of unicorn parking, lollipop trees, and nice big second story windows you can jump out of and go bouncing along the dreamscape.  In real tip-top condition.  You should get a lot of good usage out of it.”

“Can’t pay,” the little girl said.

The old man laughed.  “Child, you don’t pay me, you pay it forward to the next kid.  See to it that some other sad little child gets it when you’re done with it.”

“How long will I live here?”

“As long as you like.  I wasn’t the first, no, I’m no pioneer, I wasn’t here for the genesis of this place, but the person who built it passed it on in the hopes it could save other children, give them a place of hope and refuge when life threatened to mash them down.”

“My parents,” the little girl began, but the old man put his finger to her lips.

“Hush, I know all about them,” he said.  “Just forget about them.  This is what this home is, a place you can wish yourself away to when real life gets too really.”

“Will I ever feel better?”

“We can’t erase the past,” the old man said, “but we don’t have to constantly relive every damn moment of it.  You come here every time they hurt you, every time you feel sad.  Out live ‘em the way I outlived the bastards that bore me.”

“I can’t pay for this,” said the girl.  “I have no money.”

“Your smiles will be gold enough,” said the old man.

© Buzz Dixon