Malum

I let it go for now, ru

ing my hand over the first page. Was this him as a child? Is he showing me his first memory?

“Goddammit, Daemon.” I flip the page over to find another drawing, this time the boy is inside the house, the door slightly open with his shadow sprawled out over the busted porch. There’s a dark rocking chair that’s opposite him in front of a fireplace, again, with very little detail. I feel like he didn’t add anything extra to the drawings that he didn’t feel necessary, therefore, what is in here is very important. Squinting my eyes, I look closer at the rocking chair. It’s all smudged in with grey pencil, but if—I freeze. Eyes peer back at me in almond blue orbits. They’re not obvious, only there.

Licking my lips, my eyes feel heavy again, but I want to go through the book more and see what else is in it. Another part of me also knows that I can’t rush through. Every page is a chapter to a story, a story I have no idea what it is about. A story that needs to be whispered like a gentle lullaby to be sure you don’t miss any important lyrics rather than speed rapped and everything goes over your head.