A Word Of Silence He was watching them again. They were both looking up at him, squinting against the sun which was behind the block of flats, transforming it into a looming silhouette. One of them was leaning casually against the wall and lit a cigarette as his friend sat astride his bike rolling back and forth, not moving anywhere. They were both only about sixteen and were there every day' smoking, drinking and looking up at him while he looked down at them. Him, inside with his fish and them outside with their youth. Him and them, the careful balance of the universe. He'd always though that the young would overpower the old. “Outnumber us” he thought. He thought about how they looked, mean, hardened by the fights and drugs and sex and alcohol. Sometimes they threw rocks or bottles up at his windows but they never reached him. It didn't stop them trying though. They'd stamp and laugh as the stones skimmed the building and fell again, bring red dust with them. They'd shout too, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. He could see their lips moving abound cigarettes from under their hoods but any words and meaning were lost to the trees. He didn't care anyway, they were just silly children. Entertainment while the TV wasn't working. When it began to get dark the two boys would give the window one final glance and one would cycle off and the other would jog after him. When they'd disappeared behind the wall the curtain on the window would swing closed and he would slowly shuffle from his viewing point and go to his bedroom. He would sit down heavily on the bed and, hunched over the little table, he would rummage through old packets of pills, tissues and combs to find his notebook. Every night he wrote in the milky pool of light which split from a cheap lamp. In stiff, spiky letters the date was penned and then a couple word comment would follow: “smoking and watching”, “throwing rocks and watching”. Always watching. Then he would carefully close the book and put it back in the draw and slowly swing his legs onto the bed and fall into a light doze. In this way his days went on, the notebook filling up and his legs getting stiffer. During the day he didn't do much, mostly he wandered around his flat and sometimes he did a little shopping. One day, coming home from shopping, he was a little late and bumped into them. At first he stated at them and they looked at him. Both shocked to see one another outside their prescribed ritual. then one nudged the other, grinning menacingly, and he shuffled on head down. They came up beside him and he could see them jeering but a screaming silence surrounded him and he kept walking, humming a concerto and smiling to himself. One of them nudged him and he stumbled, dropping a bag, jars and bottles noiselessly smashed or rolled away. The other came round to his front as he began to climb the stairs to his flat and blocked the doorway. He looked into the face of the young boy and the boy snarled, his lip curling. As if in slow motion the boy raised his hand a touched his frail shoulder. Even with this tiny force he lurched backwards and toppled like a dead weight down the stairs; smashing his head against the pavement at the bottom. They scampered around above his head and he could see them silently shouting at each other, eyes bulging dangerously and glistening with fear. They ran away tripping down the street and he lay on the floor blinking and gurgling as frothy blood spilled over his lips. Ears, redundant, like the stitched on ears of a teddy bear, he slowly slipped away into the darkness. His world as silent on his exit as it had been on his entrance. He couldn't help but laugh in his head; the children had outnumbered him. They really were as mean as they looked.