When We’re Both Thirty —By Kevin M. Casin

I love the sound of Her voice when She sings. I don’t know Her, but I think She must be the most beautiful thing. She sings to me all the time. It makes the noise in my chest louder, and my face changes without telling it to, but I don’t mind it. She calls it “music.” She tells me how much She wants me to learn it and grow up just like Her. A life full of it.

It makes me want to shake. But when I do, the bubble squeezes, and she makes an unpleasant, sharp sound. It’s not music. I don’t like it. She says I’m dancing and makes another sound—it’s not music, but it sounds like it, and I like it. She starts the music all over again, and I shake. I can’t help it.

Today, the music is different. She sings alone a lot, but now there’s more singing. It hurt my ears. I have to listen. I don’t have a choice. I focus on Her singing. It’s my favorite. It makes me want to go to sleep…I think I might…

Ah! What is that noise? Pop! Pop!

“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Pila-ar. Happy birthday to you.”

P-P-Pop! P-P-P-P-P-Pop!

Good thing it doesn’t last very long. Hopefully, she sings again. I need a nap.

“Thanks for coming to my birthday,” She mumbles. I know She’s talking to me. She does it all the time.

“It’s just you and me now. No papa, but you’ll always have me. When you’re thirty, I’ll be there to celebrate yours too. We’ll turn thirty together…twice!”

I don’t know what that means, but Her voice is nice and soft. “Love” is what She told me it’s called.

I set my hand on the bubble wall. It beats like the music. Sometimes I use it and dream about the music, and it helps me go to sleep.

I sing to myself as She always does. We sing about something called “Home.”

#

I can make Her do anything I want. All I have to do is wave my hands, and sometimes I sing. I know she did it because I heard Her. When I’m hungry, She gives me what I want. When I feel bad, She makes me feel better. When I want music, I sing, and She sings.

I wiggle my fingers, tickling the bubble, and not long after, I get some fresh milk and vegetables. Mmmm, these are my favorite. She makes a noise, like when I dance, and says, “pickled onions” in a way I don’t like. It’s not music.

She says I have “magic.” That’s how I get my way most of the time, but I don’t think that’s it. I don’t like that name. I curl my fingers and push the bubble. She gives me more of the “pickled onions,” and She starts to sing “Home” again.

“I wish I was back home.” She stops. I don’t like it. The bubble shakes, and I hop.

“There, there, it’s all right, hun. We got you. Don’t worry. The Center, New Home, is here for you,” a new voice, almost as nice as Hers.

“I can’t do this alone. John left for college. What’s a baby gonna do without a dad? Mom and Dad don’t want anything to do with me. Mom always said she didn’t want to raise any more babies. How am I supposed to get a job? Live? I’m a homeless sixteen-year-old with a baby and no dad.”

“We’ve got you, babe. Always will. That’s what New Home is all about.”

I want Her to sing more. More music, so I do my magic. I can’t make loud like Her, but I can in my dreams. I can when I press on the bubble. I can make Her sing.

The noise stops, and the shakes stop. I hear Her again. We sing together. She and I fill that whole outside world with music, just like She taught me. And I dance.

I do some more magic. I think we’re shaking again, but it feels like a dance. I love magic—not the word. I can stop the ugly shakes. I can do anything I want.

#

Something weird is happening. I don’t know why the bubble is moving, but I don’t like it. I tickle the bubble, I try my magic, but it’s not working anymore. My magic always works. I can do anything I want. And I don’t want this to happen.

I know what will work. I sing my last drops of magic. It has to work.

I let it all out, the music, the magic. It fills me so much I open my mouth, and out of it, all comes.

It’s working! I see it bright and wonderful. No more squeezing. With magic in my fingers, I try to tickle the bubble, but I tickle something else.

She is the most beautiful thing. She’s soft like the bubble. Her voice. I know it.

“Hello! I’ve been waiting so long to meet you. I can’t wait to turn thirty again.” She shakes me again. She makes that sound I don’t like, but I know how to save Her. I’ve done it before. I can make Her do anything.

I sing again. With all the magic in me, I dance.

“It’s he the cutest little thing,” a new voice says. I look up at someone who looks like Her, but their face isn’t smooth. The other one is entirely different. I don’t want to touch their face. My magic doesn’t work on them.

“Mom, Dad,” She says, “meet Michael.”

“We’re so glad you called. We’ve been so worried about you,” says the one that doesn’t look like Her in a deep voice that makes my ear rumble.

I bring my eyes back to Her. “Sleep, little Michael. I’ve got you now. You’re home.”

AUTHORS BIO

Kevin M. Casin is a gay Latino fiction writer and research scientist. His fiction work has been featured in Tealight Press and will soon be featured in Collective Realms. His work can also be found in Medium publications, such as ILLUMINATION and Prism & Pen under the pseudonym Allen R. Marquez (link: https://armarquez.medium.com/).

He can be found on Twitter @kevinthedruid.