Erik

Darkness spreads its arms and wraps the earth in a silent cloak. Night falls, and the room is suffused with the dull, dim light of the television. Erik's eyes are wide open. He sits next to his mother on the couch. A cat jumps onto the backrest, stretches, meows and starts scratching the already damaged fabric of the couch with its claws.
A man with a chainsaw flickers on the screen. Loud screams echo through the room in tandem with the sound of the flickering. Madeleine leans forward, picks up the lighter and lights a cigarette. “Do you want some more ice cream?” she asks without really looking at him. Erik continues to stare at the screen, his eyes wide and empty. He shakes his head absently.
“Open your mouth!” she demands with a slight, annoyed undertone. “You need to talk more, Erik. You have to go to school in two weeks. You used to talk so much in the past!” Her voice softens towards the end, almost sad.

Sometimes she really misses him, little Erik, who used to be so full of life. He was curious, full of questions and not afraid of the world. He was interested in everything around him. And he loved the neighbor he always visited when Madeleine had to work. But the neighbor was too old, and he was just... too much.

Just too much.

Now, he is still too much and too little at the same time. Madeleine doesn't understand what happened. She doesn't understand why he stopped talking. Even though she saw what happened. At first, she thought he was doing it out of anger. A punishment for her. She talked herself into it. But then strange things started to happen.

The keys to the apartment of the man disappeared first. They reappeared at the oddest places - in the washing machine, in the freezer, in the garbage can. At some point, they disappeared completely. The man had to call the locksmith. And then, at some point, the front door was sealed - with glue, almost like the lock had never existed. The man had to call the locksmith again.

Erik, who had walked through these events with quiet but sure steps, had done all of this. Somehow he knew how to move through locked doors, how to make things disappear without anyone knowing where. But they could never prove anything against him. So the man punished Erik anyway. It was always the same, a hard punch producing an unjustified scream.

After that, Erik changed more and more. He spoke less and less, avoided eye contact. He was difficult to calm down - and sometimes no one was able to touch him. Even his eating habits changed. At first, he only ate chicken fricassee, then he suddenly refused to eat even that, almost throwing up every time he smelled it. And yet Erik always found a way to hold on to the music - the music gave him what words could not. He could sing songs after hearing them once. It was as if the music spoke a language that he understood, one that could function without words.

Charles' old record player was still in the living room. It was worn out, the arm squeaked softly when it was pushed into position, but for Madeleine it was like a reminder of better days. When she was able to take a little time for herself, in the hours between conflicts and heavy thoughts, she put on a record. It was usually Patti Smith, whose raw, poetic songs she had listened to in her wild years, or David Bowie, whose music had never really let her go. Sometimes it was Joy Division, the melancholy sounds that filled the room and left a feeling of something lost in the air.
Then, when the first notes broke the silence, Madeleine danced around the living room. Her movements were like a kind of liberation, a brief pause in the eternal stream of days. While she lost herself in the rhythm, Erik sat on the floor, his eyes wide and focused, absorbing every note. He sang along softly, his clear, bright voice blending with the sounds of the music. It was a strange moment of peace between them, like being together in a room where only music and silent closeness existed. Without words, but still connected.

It was one of the few times when Madeleine really felt that she could still reach her son. In those moments, between the melodies, he was a piece of what he used to be - curious, alive, full of little wonders.

He was too much and too little.

“So. What do you say?” Madeleine asks again, her voice lower this time, but still urgent.
Erik doesn't respond. The screen shows a man fleeing from the chainsaw. His eyes are still fixed on the television. “Erik!” she repeats several times, but the boy doesn't seem to hear. Finally, she turns off the sound and the loud screaming suddenly stops.
“ ERIK!” She claps her hands. The cat jumps off the sofa in fright and runs out of the room. The boy flinches and looks wide-eyed at his mother. “Ma...?” he asks, his voice so quiet that it is almost lost.
“ You didn't listen to me...” she states, her voice carrying frustration, but also a quiet desperation. She rubs her eyes tiredly, takes a drag on her cigarette and stares at the silent screen for a few seconds.
“ Do you want some more ice cream?” she asks again, a quiet indulgence in her voice. Erik shakes his head again.
“I want you to say it!”

He gasps for air, “N...n...”, his voice trembles. He can't get the words out properly. It feels like his tongue no longer wants to obey, like it's as heavy as lead.
Madeleine waits.
He takes a deep breath, then again: “N... No... No...” It's a struggle, a fight with his crooked lips.
“ Can you manage it as a sentence? No, thanks, I'm full. ” She says the words quietly, as if she's trying to help him find the right letters.
The boy nods uncertainly, the words are almost a foreign body in his mouth. A hesitation, then a slow, uncertain “A... a... Ne... No...” But he comes to a halt.

Has he already said no? What does he have to say next? He no longer knows. The TV flickers on, and for a moment - just a tiny moment - he looks at the screen where someone is being cut into pieces. His eyes widen. “Ma! Look!” he shouts, pointing his finger at the TV.
Madeleine doesn't look. Her eyes are fixed on her son. Then she shakes her head, stands up and takes the ice cream bowl into the kitchen.
“How can you be so unspeakably stupid?” her voice echoes from the kitchen, full of anger and despair.
Two cats run after her.