His laughter spills over my face as I’m tickled into a ball, and I feel true happiness burst inside my belly.
Why did I bury this memory so deep? I want to live in it forever ...
Our laughter echoes until it sputters out, and I’m no longer in the field with cheeks sore from giggling. I’m in a cozy room I recognize. One that smells like yummy things and makes me feel safe, but it looks strange from down here, where I’m huddled in the corner under the eating table.
I make a sound, feel something wet slide down my cheek, but the little boy puts his hand over my mouth and holds me tighter.
“Shh. It’s okay,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ll look after you. Always.”
But I don’t think it’s okay.
There are lots of strange people in the room. I can see their dirty boots from under the tablecloth—can hear their mean voices.
They’re making my heart scared.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now please, get out of my home and leave me to finish my meal in peace!”
Mommy.
Why is her voice mad?
“There are three meals on the dining table ...Search the room!”
Feet move, heavy things go sliding across the floor, bits of paper land everywhere, and someone steps on the picture I was painting for the boy holding me tight.
A hand drops down and picks it up.
Paper rips, and I feel the sound somewhere in my chest.
The boy slides me against the wall, then puts a finger to his lips for me to be quiet. He’s holding something sharp, and I think he might be scared like me because his hand is shaking.
I reach for him.
He turns away at the same time the table flips, making me cry out.
There are people everywhere, but the ones I know are in the corner crying.
I’ve only ever seen them happy.
Other people are dressed in gray, and they have strange marks on their foreheads. They’re looking at me with angry eyes that make me want to hide again, but there’s nowhere else to go.
No.
No more.
I’ve seen these people on my wall ... In pieces in my nightmares. I know what’s coming, and I don’t want to watch them get feasted on.
But my subconscious is strong, and I’m weak ... dying.
It holds my eyes open and forces me to look.
The scary, angry people step closer, yelling things I don’t understand, pointing fingers.
One of them has my mommy. Sparkly tears are dripping down her cheeks. Maybe she needs a cuddle?
“Mommy ...”
Her face crumbles.
