A grieving child is locked in with his great fear
It was frail. Old too. It had hair like twigs rotting in winter’s wrath. Easy to snap. Its body was made of a corpse of something beautiful, something fragrant. It was weak, lying there in the corner of the room, moonlight slowly spilling onto it.
There was a child too. Red-cheeked, eyes swollen, he sat at the edge of the room whispering words that wouldn’t be listened to.
It had eyes that couldn’t see, but could stab. And stab it did. The child might have cried, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. Nobody would listen except perhaps a guilty moon and a tired door.
The door might as well be the child’s enemy, locking him inside a room with It. The child had scolded, begged, and cried to the loyal door who didn’t move from its position. The door didn’t have time for a poor child and its problems. No time at all.
Time was a funny thing. It humored the child, making him feel like agonizing hours were weeks, perhaps even months. Time was sadistic. She laughed at the poor child and mocked his cowardice. Time was lonely, for whatever she touched aged and withered away. Far, far away.
“Little child,” It whispered with its dry, wrinkled lips. “Come closer, will you?” The child didn’t move; instead, he trembled.
“You’re not scared. Are you?” It said, inching closer.
Time giggled and whispered something into the child’s ear.
“I like children like you. You know that, right? You’re special.” It licked its lips, which now looked like a flooded forest, lifeless and solemn.
The child hid his face.
“Please don’t sulk in the corner.” The door had opened to his master.
Time watched in disgust and slithered away. It fell back into its position, still and silent.
The moonlight sighed in relief.
The man smelled of wet grass after heavy summer storms. He looked like unwashed laundry that sat for days, waiting for something, for someone. But who could blame him? Not after what happened.
“Papa!” the child wailed.
He ran to his father’s side and embraced him, emptying rivers. Nothing but this moment mattered to the child.
They sat there. Both saying nothing. Papa opened his mouth only to close it again. Slowly, he let his grip ease and dragged his arms off the child.
“You need to understand. She won’t come back,” Papa said as calmly as he could. He was like a storm trying to hold back his rain, but frankly he was not doing very well.
“Why did she leave?” The child asked with beady, unforgiving eyes. “She didn’t leave . . . it was an accident.” Papa bit his lips.
“She still loves me, right?” the child said, holding on to his papa’s leg.
The storm rained down. The wall had caught the child. It burst out laughing. “I am sorry. I can’t be around you.” Papa walked out of the room.
Light splashed onto the child’s face. He sat in shock. Then, after the world caught up with him, he screamed. It was a loud and long scream.
“Mama loved you.”
The child stopped screaming and looked up with his tearful eyes. He saw a girl whose beauty had been stripped from her. Her hair was like a thornbush without roses. Face, tear-streaked. Hands, scarred. She might have been close with the child, but right now she was a stranger at the door.
She sat next to the child and stroked his hair.
“There is no point in screaming. He won’t listen.” She smiled. “Mama will come back. She always does,” the child said.
“No. Not this time,” she said, putting her sad arms around the child. “Why, though?” the child said, pushing her arms away.
“The heavens took her, and as we all know, the heavens are greedy, so greedy that they wouldn’t give her back in spite of her grieving children and lost husband begging for her return.” The girl stared at a dent in the wall.
“Why are the heavens so greedy?” the child said, grasping onto the girl’s hand, staring at her with tear-filled eyes.
The girl looked at the child and then stood up. “You’re too little,” she said, beginning to leave.
“Don’t go! Not with It here!” the child began to scream again. “It?” the girl pried.
“T-the broom,” the child whispered, crawling toward her. “The broom?” the girl said, eyebrows pointed up.
“Yes, it was that one, the one that watched us that night when bad news slipped through the door and bore her away from me,” the child whimpered, pointing at the broom, who chuckled softly.
“No wonder Papa kept you here.” The girl sadly sighed and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Silence sat uneasily with the child. He slowly looked at the broom. It was upon him.
