Abandoned Son

CHAPTER 1

At six in the morning, a lean figure of a teenage boy in a black hoodie could be seen running around the small neighbourhood.

Every morning, never missed even if it's raining cats and dogs.

Sometimes he would stop at the house around the corner, the house with a wine coloured roof. Stopped for a few minutes scratching the cats on their heads, cats owned by the old lady who lived there by herself. More than a few times, saw him drank the tea prepared by her and playing with the dogs before resuming his daily runs.

When the sun shine and gave out their heat, he's already back home. Just a small apartment on the third floor, definitely rented.

He couldn't be seen again, not until noon when he would walked to the nearest coffee shop with a backpack strapped to his back. Had lunch there and took a short nap after a bowl of his favourite dessert, vanilla ice cream. He must be a regular customer, seeing none of the workers made a move to wake him up whenever he fall asleep.

It's always three in the evening. Not a minute late or earlier than three, he would woke up. Waving his hands as he walked out of the door, the workers bit him goodbyes, saying 'come again' and 'save journey'.

It must be work.

An A3 size sketch book.

Charcoals. Not pens. Not pencils either, always charcoal.

The bench at the corner of the park, where you could see the hill in its perfect view.

He would started sketching and by the time he finished his drawing, he would be surrounded by pigeons. He never brought bread or seeds to feed his companions but they keep coming, everyday.

He's gifted.

Got a good, kind heart for the animals. An animal whisperer, you could called him that.

He would play with them. Let them perched on his shoulder and at the tip of his fingers. Laughing by himself as the bird would fall. Always watched them flew away before he stood up and walked himself back home.

When the night came, his apartment would be filled with darkness. Not a single light made out or in.

Dusk till dawn.

He couldn't be seen.

In the darkness, alone.

And when you saw him again. He would be running. Stopped at the same house. Lunch at the same coffee shop. Walked to the park. That same old bench. Charcoals. Pigeons.

Like an endless cycle.

Everyday was the same.

But Bruce wouldn't complained because he's alive.

Damian's alive. Goes for a jog every morning. Ate his lunch. Had a hobby, or maybe it was his job: drawing. He's good with animals.

And he's alive.

So Bruce would never complained, even if the cycle looked like they couldn't be broken. Like a computer. A system. A rule that had been set. Had been created. Had been written to never be betrayed. Never be broken.

At least he's alive. His son. The son that he had abandoned, had pushed away.

When he was ten.

Seven years ago.

He's grateful. Honestly.