Ned

After his family left one by one for their daily goings on and the tea had been sipped up and the toast had been nibbled at by the fire, Ned crept up to the attic. The attic, with its high ceiling and dusty forgotten treasures always had the lingering scent of pine. The attic was older than the rest of the house in that it had accumulated needless excess through the years that it never seemed to sort through with any degree of thoroughness. All about where rusty tins, precariously hung ladders, and letters, saved and forgotten for sentiments sake. It was here, away from the clatter of the old pipes and the playful distractions of Teddy the cat that Ned could find true solace.

Ned was pensive and thought himself quite above his company more often than not. He only truly respected a new acquaintance if they managed to mention a book or word that Ned did not fully comprehend. His was a life of comparison, which are famously the most isolating. His five older brothers were quite accomplished and content, a frequent cause of anxiety for Ned.

Ned was a clumsy sort of person, and always had been. His siblings seemed to move with a certain grace that was an impossibility for Ned. He was often bumping into things and hurting himself. If he had possessed humility with this embarrassing trate he might have laughed it off as an add odd idiosyncrasy, or learned to see it as endearing. But in his pride he would often burn with a hot blush at even the smallest instance of clumsiness. In moments like this he wished to use words to express his flood of emotions but found he could never quite find a word to properly express the grievous nature of his plight.

His parents, Janey and Bobby, were never much “For books”. They were happy and simple and not terribly clever, but it gave them great joy to see that five of their six appeared to be getting on quite nicely. Bobby was always a little miffed that none of his six boys had any real inclination towards sports, his one true passion, but this was a cross with which he was now familiar.

Ned wasn’t like the others. He often speculated in the silence of the attic, as the sun shone softly, illuminating the specs of dust in the air, that perhaps Bobby and Janey had run out of true genius by the time he was born. Or that perhaps between the six boys there was intended to be a moderate degree of excellence bestowed on each, but that Janey and  Bobby hadn’t paced themselves properly and used it all up.

Regardless of the  cause or explanation for his current circumstance, the conclusion was self evident. It simply wasn’t fair! He was supposed to be like the others. It was only just.

Ned saw clearly that neither Janey nor Bobby had any true substance or quality, and that luck was really the only explanation for the other boys having such undeniable worth. He was the only one who seemed to be the logical offspring of such ninnys, but the acceptance of this logic made him rage with embarrassment.

At that moment, while Ned was savoring the marrow of this his most recent indulgent thought, he heart the crisp-kind voice of his mother.

“Oh Ned do come down! You have been up there for far too long! I hate how you get when you have too much time to yourself! I’ve just been to the market and thought it could be such good fun to make an apple pie! From scratch!”

“She knows nothing of my sufferings.” Ned thought to the stale air.

“Nothing.”

As he ventured down the dusty hardwood stairs one of the feet of his footy-pajamas slipped out from under him and Ned bumped his bottom on the last three steps on his way down. Bump! Bump! Bump! His pacifier fell into a forgotten shadow and his eyes welled up with tears.  Janey ran to him, picked him easily up into the air and held him in a perfect grasp as he wept. At that moment, lost in the pain of his backside and the undeniable love of his mother, Ned was content.