Patterned, Part I

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The sun is a shining golden ball of heat that breathes dragon fire outside, while a little boy sits on the kitchen counter, awaiting his breakfast. He notices how the ball outside is a variant shade of burning orange with flecks of bright yellow somewhere. Good thing the wide glass on the way to the balcony prevents it from dashing inside in the room to spread fire flames and create a mess the little boy, Patrick forever fears.

The maid is dressed in a pale pink frock as always with a white apron covering her torso. As is the routine, Patrick gets his breakfast after a few minutes of waiting. To be precise, Patrick counts from one to ten, softly under his breath, on his small fingers and his breakfast lands in front of him sharp as he says ten.

He eats his egg with a properly cooked yolk and two slices of bread, drinks his orange juice and goes to his maid who waits for him by the washroom to help him clean his mouth and then helps him to the car.

Patrick’s father prepared him for his usual school day and kissed him good-bye before breakfast. Patrick never questions about his mother; he knows no such person exists in his small world where he only has familiar faces and cannot inch away from it. His life’s axis rotates around this fixed little breath of familiarity. Since Patrick does not question, he also does not know that he had a mother, who his father deeply adored, but she died while giving birth to her child.

The air conditioner is working before Patrick steps into the car, so the temperature difference is something the boy is familiar with. Both the sides of the car’s windows are covered with black shades, such that only scant sunrays slant through into the car, pouring over Patrick’s legs that are still not grown enough to take the full space of the car seat by bending over the edges. Rather, his legs dangle half way, sticking out of the seat and he hums slightly with his bag pack secured tightly on his back, providing a double layer of the seat.

Nobody wants for Patrick to forget his bag, as that would lead to a difference in his day. So he keeps wearing it. All the buildings are still aligned as they always are and Patrick remembers their colors one by one.

The car pulls over, and Patrick waits for a few heartbeats before the driver pulls open the door. The school corridor is the same haze of hustle-bustle, like bees rushing here and there. It is not exactly patterned, but there is a pattern itself in this shapeless rush.

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