A Child of Concentration

An enraged little mother stood on her doorstep, screaming blindly at her young son to get out of her sight. She held a dusty broom, her hands and apron were dirty, and her face was of a rare shade of red. There was no sense in the words she vociferated, but the little boy knew well that she only wanted him gone.
The little boy, too, was ragged and dirty, and as he tripped down his mother’s stairs, hardened tears rolled down his cheeks. His mother, too, as she yelled, shed tears.

Finally, the boy had fallen face down on the pavement and was making efforts to bring himself away. At the sight, the mother blindly slammed the door shut. She screamed at no one in particular. Cried only because she didn’t know why. And swept very ferociously at an already clean floor.

As the boy picked himself up and tripped a few steps more, his sobs grew more pronounced and an anger seemed to bloom on his cheeks. He stormed down the street, and kicked an empty mailbox as he passed it. There was a certain age about him, a certain hardened look that told that this was not this first misadventure. And though this wise man inhabited a body of one no more than seven or eight, his eyes seemed to tell a tale of someone simply too… seeing… for such a body.

As he walked, the boy recalled all the images and the people that had wreaked havoc on his life just now, and concentrated on them. A certain calm seemed to overcome his features just then, as if a storm was just abating.
He inhaled deeply, as if his trouble might have just passed.

Then, he stopped abruptly on the road and looked up to the sky, with a strikingly childish look, and deplored of nobody in particular,
“Don’t leave me.”