Bremervoerde (2002)
Bremervoerde is a small town surrounded by deciduous forest. It is a small town with streams, a river, and one lake. It is small, in that you can get anywhere on foot, or by bike. The main roads can be avoided by taking the wooded paths that go around town, and along the river right to the lake. The parks and forests are usually friendlier, providing solace. The forest paths are not taken by the skinheads so much. They and the Neo-Nazi groups favor the inner portions of town and can normally be circumvented without much difficulty. They rarely go by bike, and thus, biking offers a great advantage when in need of escape. The only situation in which retreat may be difficult is in narrow alleys, away from public attention. But otherwise, the promenade of town center and the trails of the lake and forests are an enjoyable pastime in the small, but not too small, town of Bremervoerde.
Towards the outskirts of town, not far from one of the main roads that leave, there are a number of small houses and condos, surrounded by several apartment buildings. Amidst all those, a small house with a dark brown wooden door stands as any other. To the left of the door, is a window, and behind this window is the room of a boy twelve years old.
White walls with only one large picture of some cityscape on them. A beige desk stands next to the window. There is also a bed, beige, and two dressers beige in color, too. One green plant stands on the windowsill.
The door opens, and the twelve-year-old boy enters. A light complexion, light blonde hair, and two hazel eyes adorn his face. Most do not know of the small cross-shaped scar on the bottom of his chin. Even fewer know of other scars. It just happens to be that the boy’s smile does not betray his thoughts, though his eyes need closer supervision there. He sits at his desk and opens the drawer, taking out a Game Boy. He turns it on and plays a game. It’s fun.
When the rain begins its routine tap dance outside, the door to the boy’s room opens. A middle-aged woman comes through, also with blonde hair. This must be his mother, with her hair dried and bleached. She wears jeans and a sweatshirt, and make-up-covered wrinkles. The rain dances outside on the sidewalk in its own musical, and the boy puts down his Game Boy. She asks him to take a package to the post-office and he goes to get his shoes and coat. The boy wraps the package in a bag and goes for his old blue bike that waits patiently in the shed. He fastens the prized package to the rack, and the three of them ride off to join the dancing rain. The boy, his bike, and the package are also in the musical of water droplets on the pavement.
They ride past the condos and the apartment buildings. A mist of cool water greets the boy’s face. They ride past the houses of all the happy people that sit inside, dry and safe. The boy turns the street corner, and the post-office is just ahead. A blue telephone booth stands in front of the yellow roofed building. The boy leaves his bike outside, and takes the package. He opens the yellow door and ventures in, while the rain begins to lighten its descent.
A line of three people waits in front of the counter and the clerk is busy being busy. The boy takes his place at the end of the line with package in hand. Time passes. Two people leave, and more time passes. Finally the boy goes forwards and puts the package that has grown heavy with waiting on the counter. The clerk does his job and the blond boy is free to leave.
As he comes back out through the same yellow doors, a young man wearing jeans and a jean jacket is mounting the boy’s blue bike. He runs toward his bike shouting at the young jean man. The jean man looks up startled, and speeds away. The boy tries to run after him, but it’s no use. The jean-wearing man is nowhere to be seen among the happy people’s houses. The last drop of rain falls on the boy’s shoulder. His bike has been taken, and the package has left. The hazel-eyed boy stands now alone, next to the blue telephone booth in front of the yellow-roofed post office building.
He walks back, solemnly, in mourning for the loss of his last remaining friend. This, the return home, does not point out the passing buildings and people. The mourning boy, his gaze on the ground before his moving feet, walks in silence. The brown door opens and he steps in.
“Did you send my package?” asks his mother from the kitchen, “or did you throw it away?” He removes his shoes and goes to her. She looks at him, and an outstretched hand with a receipt.
“I sent it,” says the boy.
She takes the receipt, and he goes to his room. The Game boy is still on his desk. He picks it up, and sitting in his chair, turns it on and begins to play. It’s fun.
