Part of growing up is to expand your borders. So for me to pass from a suffocating apartment to the openness of the slum streets was like taking a free ride in the outer space of the galactic district.

Back then, Magdad City seemed to me like a treasure land, filled with unveiled possibilities. It stunk, it was noisy and crowded, but it was alive and it was excitingly new. Truly ironic, considering how this place ended up entrapping me.

The first time, I actually went out on my own, I ran around in circles, revisiting all the places I usually went with my grandmother, mapping in my head where everything was. I was trying to escape and yet, I wanted to make sure I could come back. Probably in case outside would turn out to be worse than what I knew. We quest for freedom to find comfort in our own prison. I guess this is why my grandmother never left hers.

But I was too proud to admit I was like her, so, one day, I just took a turn I never had before then another one and some new area unlocked for me. To each turn I made, the possibilities multiplied and became infinite. I felt in power and ecstatic in my own boldness, as if I could go anywhere my eyes could see. So I went… And this is how I ended up spending my first night out.

Lost, I fell asleep next to a dumpster, in front of a heat evacuation, when it was too dark for me to see and my legs were too tired to carry me. There were noises I didn’t know and people that I was afraid to approach. So like a dog, I crawled to the nearest source of warmth and waited for the morning to come. Huddling on the floor, my head resting on a crate, I looked up in an attempt to catch the stars but all I could see was the warnings of the patrolling engines, flying in the sky.

No stars shine in Magdad land. No miracle allowed for the leftovers of Terra’s society. The planet keeps us in this dump to make sure we don’t disturb their shinny world and ours was so filthy that even the night wouldn’t bother rising for us. There were just police aircraft doing their routine patrol, sweeping silently the streets with their red lights, like a glowing fish in the deep sea.

I closed my eyes, picturing them as little floating moons, playing with the blue afterimage in my head, waiting for it to disappear. When I opened them back, I was standing on the shelves of my living room, surrounded by smiling dogs and stinking dry flowers jars.

I was decked out in a tutu made of butterflies, my feet nailed to a wooden pedestal, bleeding on my fluffy ballet shoes. In front of me, my grandmother was absorbed by the TV, unaware of my presence, as usual, her eyes entirely white, as empty as the snowy screen. I do not know why I thought she would help, but I called her, out of pain, in a moment of pure instinct... no sound came off my throat. I was mute like the TV. I wanted to yell, but I had no voice. Slowly, the dolls around me started giggling, all looking at me, with a satisfied glance, then I felt a growing corrosive pain. The butterflies were eating my hips. Horrified, I tried to escape but the more I pulled on my legs, the more I hurt. With the greatest struggle, I managed to remove one foot of its nail, when a stupid dog in fireman costume, bite my legs to hold me back. I screamed, scarring off the butterflies and in a cloud of colorful wings, I grappled and hit the dog, with all my strength, breaking his porcelain head in half. Alerted, my grandmother shut down the TV, plunging the room in total darkness and approached the shelves muttering “What an annoying boy…”

She grabbed me and tossed me through the window while I begged her to not to. I awoke the moment I touched the ground, feeling the most horrible pain in my leg.

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a rat munching on my calf, probably to see if I was still alive. I kicked it away and stood up, enraged, throwing the crate at the rodent to scare it off. Then, alone, I started collecting my though, trying to remember how I got there and hopping to forget how stupid my dream was.

I looked around, finally being able to see where I landed in my nocturne wandering. I was in a dead-end alley, surrounded by several social buildings. At the end of the alley, a concrete wall was blocking the way. Behind it, more buildings were standing tall, higher than the ones I was used to. I climbed on it, using the gutter, to see what was behind and almost fell off, from the spectacle.

A sea of buildings, as far as eyes could see. Coming in all shapes and heights. Ghostly figure hidden in a mist, bathing in the blood of the morning sun. In the horizon, the burning ball was rising up and the town was slowly waking up, under the careful watch of the floating police station. All around, deserted dark mountains were closing the landscape, like the bars of a prison.

Magdad the Sorrowful. My world. My hometown. And strangely, the most beautiful place I had ever seen.

Took me two days to find my way back. Yet, the moment I stepped inside, all I could think of was returning there. Outside. Where no bibelot would end up. Where the real hell was. Summer, winter, all year long, I couldn’t stop from trying to escape even further, in this shithole. Searching for stars, and burning under the sun. Throwing stones, trying to reach the patrol drones. Rain was bad. Snow was worse. But even with hell freezing over, I would go, grabbing that piece of delusional freedom I thought I found. Yet, I never really understood what I was seizing here. I took it as a game, but I didn’t know the rules yet. I thought I was smart enough to get by without trouble, as long as I had somewhere to go back.

I quickly learned where to go and ask for food. From time to time, I came back to my grandmother’s to change clothes and wash. I consciously avoided the time when I could meet her. I think she did the same. I was fine with everything else, not naive, just resolved and convinced that my situation could be worse. For example, my grandmother could have changed the door lock. That was my biggest fear and somehow my inner wish. Like an official way to say “I don’t want you”. But each time, my keys were still good. As silly as it could be, that made me feel she cared, somewhere, a little about me. And because of that, I never was able to break the bond. It was pathetic.

And every day was a little reminder of that blur line I was walking on but never crossing. Not desired but not rejected either… yet. I was mostly on my own, like a stray cat, strolling in a city too big for him. Sometimes I would meet some other kids, as wild and violent as any children left unsupervised could be. Mainly, they just ignored me. When not, I happened to run faster. I even found myself a little secret base, near the bay, I rapidly abandoned when my interest for it ran down. I felt freer when I would go to places I had never explored, wondering if one day I would be unable to find my way back. Alas I have a good memory… And eventually I’d always return to that forsaken prison where useless objects were piling up around my unwilling guardian. Sometimes, I had to walk until my feet bled, to push myself to such extreme the pain became the only logical and stable guide I could rely on. If I suffered it meant I had put enough distance between me and what I was running away from, translating it as a form of reward, though it was the complete opposite. Without knowing I probably drew here the pattern where I associated pain to my only way of escape and salvation, that would later do me so much harm. But what could I say? I was just a kid and I didn’t know any better.

The day I realized this game of escape was merely a deception of mine, I had traveled so far I reached the wall encircling Magdad. It is a monstrous and insulting concrete titan that looks down upon us like a dismissive sentinel. That wall on which my parents crashed the day they tried to escape the city, leaving me behind. Nobody could pass it. As tall as the Central Point Tower - this out of proportion lighthouse constructed at the center of Magdad Downtown, centuries ago. that wall was our guardian, our jailer, our reminder that we, Magdalians, were unfit for the rest of the world. I could run and flee as much as I wanted, I would still remain as grounded as anybody else. What a letdown. Though it never stopped me from trying and experimenting all my possibilities. And I will tell you, there are many manners to get away. I guess it is the only thing I never quit doing, my entire life. Running away was after all my family legacy. Since it is the only thing I learned from them. From my parents to my grandmother, they all had their way to not deal with reality. And I was their legitimate heir.

That day, I remembered passing in front of a “sale and buy” store, a place where people find solace in your unwanted garbage. My feet were killing me, so I sat next to the shop window to mass my injured toes. I needed shoes. At home, I had one pair left from my father’s kid clothes I hadn’t outgrown, and they were sadly too large for me. So back then I was mainly barefoot. A real looker!

In the shop, among a collection of disharmonious furniture that would have made my grandmother jealous, I guessed a serious amount of other junk that was right up her alley. The owner was an old shivering lady, with dreads and tattoos. She was polishing all her items faithfully, as if they were her life. I remembered seeing an ugly tureen, in the shape of a pheasant with various soup vegetables at its feet and a leek as a ladle. It was... monstrous. But the lady treated it like a fragile child. With the same reverence that my own tutor was showing to her “collection”, an interest I would never dream receiving from her… or anyone. I was probably tired. Or maybe it was the pain. But as I observed the scene, tears started running down my cheek, denying that maybe I was craving for a bit of attention.

Kids always wished for stupid things. “I want to be a space rider”; “I wanna be a billionaire” or “I’m gonna eat ice-cream all my life.” For me, it was: “Don’t reject me more.” I knew it was just all peaches and cream but deep inside, I couldn’t help but fear the day when I would be finally cast aside; ousted from a house that I couldn’t even call “home.”

So, around the age of seven, I learned to break doors from some older guys I met while frisking. They weren’t very nice and a bit odd, but they didn’t mind having me around. I guess when you are a skinny half-homeless underage boy, you don’t really pose a threat to anyone.

They were from all kinds of backgrounds. Not really friends, not really family. But something more that I couldn’t describe then. Sometimes they were encountering other groups and greeted them like if they were long lost allies. However, once, they walked past a band I never saw before and the atmosphere suddenly changed. The group with blue makeup saw me and started asking questions, curious to see if I wanted to come with them instead, when a bearded guy pushed me aside, looking at them threateningly. Amused, the strangers backed off and walked away, laughing and bursting awful seagull screams.

The next day, I went back to the usual lair, and the bearded man came to me and told me, no matter what happened in the future, to never trust a person wearing a blue insignia. I asked them if they were bad and he replied: “Yeah, especially for kids like you.”

He patted my head and left to take care of something. The last thing I remember of him, was how the dark ink of his seagull tattoo was glowing on his back under the sunlight. I never saw this guy after that. Faces were changing pretty often in the group, so I learned to not question it.

They showed me their tricks; in exchange I made some deliveries for them. Mostly small packages. They said kids get them faster than adults. Never asked what they were and didn’t really care.

This game ended one morning in my eighth year. I went back to take a shower after spending the whole week out. I was reeking and couldn’t stand it any longer.

The house was empty and the shutters down. Yet, the morning summer light was filtering in gracefully, in a golden glow. While I was drying my hair, I observed the dust dancing in the light rays cutting the living room darkness. At this very moment, I felt strangely calm and happy, for no particular reason. Just happy to be born. Like if everything was in order in the universe.

Then my stomach started rumbling, reminding me that nothing is perfect until your belly is full. So I went to the kitchen and pushed the biggest scream ever. My grandmother, sitting on the floor in her night robe, unconscious. There was vomit on her dress and a sour liquor-like smell was covering her usual rancid perfume.

I suppose our genes are stronger than our memory because seeing her like that gave me a panic attack. I ran to her side, almost sliding on an empty bottle and shook her body rapidly, which proves adrenaline does miracles because she was still four times my shape.

I yelled her name and eventually, with a jolt, she snorted. I think I was as white as a sheet, drained from all my blood which, I suspected, fell down in my stomach, on the evidence of the twist it gave me. Then my heart skipped a beat and a weird fire burned my cheeks when she finally opened her eyes. She glanced at me, dizzy, then looked around her, more and more confused, and at last came back to me. In one stare, she made all my memories come back. A deceived and disappointed gaze screaming out loud: “So you’re still alive?”

Two days after that incident, she gave a call to a private social care center and sent me there.

Just like I said… A bibelot!