This post was on the old Misintelligence Quotient blog on Quora. I’m posting it again here to unify the location of my short stories.

He is quiet. Abram is usually a talkative little boy. But he is quiet now.

Just  two days prior, Abram was playing in the field with his friends. He had  kicked the ball into the goal so hard the goal fell over, and everyone  laughed. While they laughed, they picked the goal up so that they could  continue playing soccer. When Abram got home that day, he ran to the  office where his parents were consistently every time he got home from  school. They weren’t there. He was immediately worried. He scanned the  house, and nobody was there. Are they playing a prank on me? Abram wondered. He scanned again, calling for his beloved parents. Nobody was home.

Abram  remained quiet, alone in the house. He was independent now. He has to  be. He didn’t make a mess, for he didn’t feel like playing anymore. He  didn’t go to school because he couldn’t bring himself to do anything. He  didn’t even consider turning on the TV or playing video games. He  ignored the deck of playing cards on the end table in the living room.  It was pulled out in front of the armchairs where his parents sat. He  was quiet. He missed his parents. He wanted his parents back. He was too  tired to wonder where they had went.

Days  went by. Abram was tired, yet he didn’t sleep. He was hungry, yet  didn’t eat. He was thirsty, yet didn’t drink. He couldn’t do anything.

Knock, knock, knock. Abram shot up and went to the door with whatever energy he had left.  His friends were worried about him, so they persuaded the teacher to  give them his address to check on him. “We miss you, Abram,” they told  him. “Are you okay? Are your parents home?”

Abram’s  response: “No.” He shut the door almost hard enough to be a slam. He  promptly waddled back to the couch where he had laid. Knock, knock, knock. This was almost thirty seconds after he had closed the door. His  friends were still there. Abram didn’t open the door. “We’re calling the  police,” he heard through the door. It was too late. He had to face  socialization now.

When  the sky was orange, purple, and pink, and the sun was fading off the  horizon, the door was pounded furiously. “CPS, open up.” After a short  time, the door was pounded again. “CPS, open up.” He eventually could no  longer bear the pounding and opened the door. “What?”

“Are your parents home, son?”


“Do you know where they are?”

“No.” Abram was getting angry now. His lack of sleep made him easily irritable.

“Can you tell me their cell num—”

“STOP TALKING TO ME!” Abram was too tired to realize the mistake he had made.

The two officers began to chat. “Hit-and-run? He’s not doing so well.”

The other officer glanced at Abram. “No, he’s not been hit. Maybe they ran away?”

The first officer turned his attention now to Abram directly. “Son—”

“Stop calling me ‘son.’ You’re not my dad.” Abram was upset, mad, and tired. He was as good as on drugs.

“Uh,  Abram. We’re going to take you with us. We’ll try to figure out what  happened to your parents.” Abram obviously resisted. They easily dragged  him out of the doorway and shut it behind him.

“Let me go!” cried Abram.

The  next thing he remembers would be the orphanage he was moved to. The  police never told him why his parents had suddenly disappeared, or what  had happened to them. They had vanished without a trace. Since then,  Abram skipped school daily and had, not on purpose, behaved poorly at  the orphanage. He was no longer a boy. He had lost his parents and became an adult.