The Moth and the Candle

Water ran through the bars of the drain, piling twigs and bunches of leaves at its edge. The water was a brackish muddy brown, its sediment load added to by the cloacae of the cityscape. The boy carefully shaped a tiny paper boat as he sat on the edge of the gutter. His stubby, cracked fingers painstakingly felt the bright white paper. Scrutinising the flow of the water he placed the boat down on it. The speed with which it was whisked away took the boy by surprise. Scrambling to his feet he clumsily ran after it, never taking his eyes off the little white boat.
The boat’s progress was majestic in miniature. It bobbed and weaved through the current. Its crude mast ducked from left to right, nodding in time with the beat of the water. The boy raced after it, occasionally overtaking but always keeping his eyes firmly on its progress. With a sudden jerk the boat fell into the gully of the drain. The boy stopped and stood over the drain cover, peering into the depths of the man-made hole. His boat had disappeared. The grating on the drain was old and heavy, built to last decades, its iron thick with rust and strength. As he reached down to pull it up the boy breathed as deeply as he could, as he had seen athletes do on the telly. Taking one final breath he braced his back and curled his fingers around the bars of the grating, feeling their damp cold hardness.
When his mother saw the state of is clothes, she was furious. His hands were another matter entirely. Her shrieking didn’t seem to stop as it became apparent that one of his hands was broken and that he had fractured several bones in his forearms. The doctors clucked over his injuries, initially suspecting some malevolent domestic turbulence. But their questioning left them in little doubt that this was a self-imposed mischief. What could not be found out was why. They begged and pleaded and shouted and persisted and merely asked but he said nothing. His parents were enraged, more out of fear and incomprehension than anything else. They roared at him, issuing as many threats and ultimatums as they could think of and hinted at dark punishments which they would never carry out although the boy did not know that. He said nothing though and just shook his head.
So the doctors treated him, putting casts on arms and splints on his fingers as he sat there, an immature Stoic. The pain meant little to him. His parents drove him home from the hospital in hot, angry silence. They did not understand and it hurt them. So they took it out on him.
And in his coat pocket, crumpled and stained, the boy could feel the victorious warmth emanating from the paper boat.