Utopia

As the sun sets on the small town, you think about how perfect this quiet little place seems, and decide that it falls just short of being a utopia. You see people closing up their shops and businesses for the day, ready to settle in for the night. The streets are almost deserted except for a few friendless loners, wandering around like those type do, in search of something that they’ll never find.

You think you’re almost ready to leave this small little corner of the world behind and go on with your life in the rest of the imperfect world, but then you see a boy. He is walking down the street opposite you, completely alone. He can’t be more than eight years old, possibly nine or ten, but with the way his brilliant green eyes dart back and forth from under his slightly shaggy mop of curly brown hair, he seems older. He’s too alert, too tough-looking, and too mature for a boy of his age. His face would seem carved by angels if not for the smudges of brown dirt, the deep lines of someone years older than him, and the black and blue bruises and deep scars peeking out from under hair and shirt hems, almost unnoticeable. This sweet-faced boy’s clothes are slightly torn and dirty, his shoes worn and ragged. You see a book poking out of his back pocket, and spot the words Of Mice and Men. The book is old and tattered, obviously well-loved, and you absentmindedly think that he has good taste.

The boy continues his journey towards you, down the street. As he walks you note the defensive air about him, the way he slumps his shoulders, reflexes set and ready to react. You think that it’s a shame for such a sweet young boy to have, evidently, grown up so fast, forced to take on responsibilities and worries at such a young age.

He continues walking and enters the single not-so-perfect, one block area of the town. He approaches a shabby apartment building and enters it. You think this is the last time you will see the little boy and prepare to leave and go on with your life, forgetting him. But, because it’s a warm, stifling summer day, the windows in the building are open, and you hear small, light footsteps on wooden stairs, then a door is opened and slammed closed. You hear more footsteps, and spot the boy through an open window on the third floor of the building.

You are, again, ready to leave the boy to his life, when you hear more footsteps, these ones big, loud, and stumbling, and a large man enters your vision. He is presumably the boy’s father. The man is yelling at the boy, though you cannot hear what he is saying. He is obviously drunk, his stance shaky and wobbly, his words slurred, and his eyes rolling in his head. The boy yells back, angry and horrible, and suddenly you hear a sickening, heart-wrenching snap. The man has slapped the boy across the face. The boy stands defiantly and is not crying or sobbing, and so many people would think that he was just tough and emotionless, but you can see the pain. You can see the strain and hopelessness in the eyes that are desperately refusing to cry. The boy says something clearly rebellious and receives a throw against a wall and to the ground. Your heart is breaking for this poor boy, and you wonder what you can do. As that thought fills your mind, the man holds the fighting boy to the ground and kicks him once, twice, three times, four times. You fear that the boy is seriously hurt or even dead, for when the large, wicked man stands back you don’t see the boy get up.

Shortly, you let out a breath that you don’t realize you’ve been holding when soft, scared footsteps are heard through open windows, and a minute later the boy exits the apartment building called his home, nose bleeding, lip bleeding, and bruises forming. He walks away, slowly at first, and then quicker and quicker, as thought he wishes to just keep going and leave this block, this town, this world. And then the sweet, poor, innocent boy vanishes around a corner at almost a dead sprint, and you know you’ll never see him again.

It is then that you realize the flaw in your previous, recent thoughts: There is no such thing as a utopia. No matter how hard one searches for the perfect world free of problems and horrible, cruel people, it doesn’t exist and never will. There will always be people there to steal and take, and to injure and murder. There will always be people there to scare, hit, and permanently scar the precious children of the world.

After the boy leaves, you keep thinking about him. You think that he is unlucky and deserves better, that he is scared and should be comforted, and that someone has robbed him of his share of the innocence of adolescence. He has been forced to shoulder too much burden, take too much responsibility and pain that no adult should even have to take. And the thing that you realize about the boy with the most ease is also the thing that is most important, and is the thing that breaks your heart more than all, which is that this sweet-faced, poor little boy is unloved, like so many other sweet-faced, poor children in our world.