Prompt: Every cloud has a silver lining.

 

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2. Scraped knee and scraped pride

 

It was summer.

Stolen gas station candies filling both his pockets to the brim, little Mason rides his bike like there’s no tomorrow. The sun was shining in his path, and he took the opportunity to go even faster. Maybe it was the universe’s way of telling him to race. His laugh rumbles the empty-streeted town, occasionally stealing glances over his shoulder to see if anyone might be on his tail. The curls of his chocolate hair whip against his forehead, so he can’t clearly make out every face he comes across, but as long as it wasn’t the lanky guy with the gas station uniform, he will be just fine.

Mason cycles on, and on, and on… Through various buildings, his eyes are on the lookout for his house. But again, maybe that wouldn’t be such a great idea. His mother is home, probably still baking casseroles, and she never gave Mason money for snacks or sorts for today. If Mason returns home with his pockets full of unbought candies, his mother would drive him back to the gas station store, make him apologize to the store clerk, and then return the candies.

He laughs, looking over his shoulder again. Still an empty street. Fixing his eyes forward, he couldn’t comprehend what was in front of him until he flew off his bike, landing on the hot tarmac as the sound of plastic wrappings sprinkled to the ground; all the candies made an escapade from Mason’s small pockets.

He yelped, only for a second, Mason thought, even though it was of a scream that lasted for three seconds.

Mason struggles to stand up with all his might, his scratched palms lifting him, although he only manages to stay on all fours. Even with that, his whole body was already shaking. He hissed as soon as his knees made contact with the ground. Looking down, a splotch of dark red is visible on his right knee; the other was a nasty bruise. Albeit the empty street and the fact that nobody was watching, his vision starts to blur as tears build up in his eyes. Mason knows no one saw him fall, but he never falls. It hurt more than the scraped knee, because Mason couldn’t see the wound, but he knew it was there—carving his heart out. He should have been more careful. To keep his eyes on the road, as her mother would always say. He is not some loser who can’t ride a bike.

“Ouch…” a stranger’s voice sent an alert to Mason. He quickly looked up, noticing another boy his age on the ground. He doesn’t seem as injured as Mason, but his bike… “Your knees,” the stranger said, making eye contact with Mason.

Mason took a quick glance at his knees, even though he knew it was already bleeding and swelling. He raised his head again, eyes drawn to the bicycle belonging to the stranger. “Your bike.”

The stranger slowly stands up. Mason can tell from his eyes that he is still processing the minor mishap that just happened. His eyes then went to his bike, split in half. “My dad just bought it for me.”

Mason swallowed a lump. I’m sorry, he thought. But the words didn’t come out.

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They both stare at each other.

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Another few seconds of stillness.

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“I know you,” the stranger finally said. “You’re Mason.”

Mason furrows his brows. “How do you know that? Maybe I’m Bill.”

“Bill the blond,” he replied with a shrug, or more like an attempt to shrug without wincing in pain. “You’re Mason like the bison. Bison have brown fur, like your hair.”

The frown on Mason’s face hasn’t ceased. He doesn’t know whether he should be offended or not, because the stranger actually had a good point. No one has associated him with a bison before, but come to think of it, Mason thought it was cool.

The stranger groaned, holding and kneading his purple elbow, as purple as Mason’s left knee. “Can you stand up?”

Mason shook his head. Can’t the guy see he’s bleeding?

“We need to get that fixed before it’s infected.”

Mason shook his head once more. “My house is still far.”

“Mine’s not.”

The stranger approached Mason. He slowly knelt to wrap his uninjured arm around Mason’s shoulder, carrying him up with that same groan.

Mason scowled. He tries to fight off the aid, but instead, his muscles lean against the stranger. “I’m fine- are we leaving our bikes behind?”

“We can get them later. No one is gonna steal broken bicycles.” One step at a time, the stranger holds Mason by his side.

“But mine’s not broken!” Mason whined. He looked behind, only to find his argument to be false. Although his bike didn’t split in half like the stranger’s, one of the handlebars flew off, the saddle is lopsided, and the crankarm with the pedal is nowhere to be found. That was never a good look.

“Stop crying, unless you want people to hear you.”

Mason scoffed off his tears. “I’m not!” he cried.

The blazing sun above them didn’t help at all. Mason’s body was burning, just as his tears burn against his sunburnt cheeks. His head was pounding, and both his knees were throbbing. He couldn’t hear the chirping birds as much as his heavy breaths were all he could pick up on.

“Does it hurt that much?” The stranger’s voice broke off his focus against his heavy breaths.

“No,” Mason breathed out.

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“You know, every cloud has a silver lining.”

Mason faces the stranger. He blinked. “What does that mean?”

“That there’s always something good behind something bad. My dad always says that.”

“What can possibly be good about this? I can’t walk.”

“I dunno,” the stranger said, looking over at Mason. “Does your dad give you chores?”

“I don’t have a dad.”

That made the stranger falter for a second before finally coming up with another question: “Does your mom give you chores?”

“Yeah.” But what if Mason didn’t have a mom? What would the stranger ask? That is, whether his guardian gives him chores or not?

“Then you won’t have to worry about that anymore. You have a broken knee.”

Mason hated the fact that he wanted to laugh, at least chuckle for a bit. But he managed to conceal it. “It’s not broken.”

“You can’t walk without me.”

“And who exactly are you?” Mason asked, unsure if his tone was too harsh for the stranger. That’s because he knows every kid in his neighborhood, in the whole town. But he doesn’t seem to even recognize this freckled boy with the unkept orange hair, and he doesn’t know if he should trust this boy who’s walking him to his house. A stranger’s house. Yet Mason’s heart doesn’t tell him otherwise.

“I just moved in,” the stranger said. “I’m Peter.”

 

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