it is mid-october, the ground coated in fallen leaves and he RUNS clad in nothing but pajama bottoms, the hem of them tattered with hanging threads. it was not the first time his bare feet collected scrapes from the pavement, the wind whipping at his already brazen red cheeks. he is eleven years old and he’s running for his LIFE down the street of his childhood home. he pulls sharp breaths into his lungs, his feet bleeding into the pavement beneath him, but he does not stop until his spine rests against the old, warped wood of the abandoned house— maybe once, a home, now fallen victim to nature’s wrath. the house condemns trespassers, a WARNING to all those who enter. it is not safe, between decrepit walls & broken glass, but it is safer than the MONSTER he is running from.
—
a silence had settled over the house and a young angel crept up the stairs of his home, careful to avoid the spots he knew would CREAK beneath his weight. he approached the room at the end of the hallway, a burning curiosity beneath copper hues. he was cautious as he stepped one foot over the threshold, laying it slowly against the floorboards on the other side, as if he’d broken through an invisible barrier. he stood in silence once both feet lay flat against the hardwood, on the other side of the door, listening, waiting. with the closet door in sight, he stepped carefully towards it, avoiding faulty floorboards, moving in silence. he knelt down in front of the door, opening it slowly and WINCING when it groaned just barely, it’s frame worn with time. but he was SAFE because he could hear the monster sleeping, only a floor below.
with agile fingers, he reached out for one of the leather-bound sketch books, lying in darkness at the back of the closet. he wiped the dust from it’s surface. the book fell open to one of the first pages, a LAMB, drawn with oil pastels, drawn of naivety, of love. his mother had been an artist— and perhaps, she still was. was an artist still an artist after they had stopped creating? he turned the pages, works of art filling every page, filled with passion, with happiness, and above all, love, always love. that is, until he reached the center of the book.
the date was later than all of the others, the drawing in charcoal, drained of colour. the image, a warped version of his mother and father. she wore her wedding dress, but it was torn at the edges, his father not his father but his body with a monster’s face— a monster wearing a suit, vowing his love to her, offering the heart he does not have. his mother was drawn without a face, no expression to be read. his heart was beginning to pound in his chest. angel turned the pages, watching the twisted depictions of his mother’s nightmares unfold before him. the drawings becoming more erratic and disorderly as he went.
he stopped to stare at a particular page, a LAMB, like the one before, drawn in the jaws of a lion. he knew, almost immediately, his heart sinking in his chest. even if he wouldn’t admit it at first, he knew that the lamb was his mother and the lion, his father. he sat on the floorboards, drinking in the sight before suddenly starting to flip the pages with abandon, the drawings morphing with each page, becoming more and more frantic until they were nothing more than SCRATCHES of charcoal on torn pages. he slammed the book shut, and that’s when he realized he could no longer hear the monster’s sounds of sleep ringing through the house.
the silence hung, eerily. he had been distracted. how naive. he knew better than this, but curious had tempted, had pulled him to the secrets hidden in the shadows. he had been unable to resist, like a moth drawn to a flame. however, he did not feel satiated now. he felt sorrow, he felt FEAR. his heart felt as though it may beat from his chest, pulsing like a drum in his ears. he broke free of his statuesque position, moving as silent as he was able to place the book back where it belonged. then, the floor creaked beneath his knee.
heavy footsteps quickly began to make their way up the stairs and angel abandoned his mission of silence, moving back from the closet door and quickly shutting it, sure that he was heard, sure that he would be punished. his back had fallen against closet door as it fell shut and he stood facing the monster in the doorway. the monster’s face was already twisted with anger, not even fully aware of the situation but prepared to strike. ❝what were you doing, boy?❞ the monster growled, his voice low, reverberating. angel imagined smoke falling from the monster’s mouth, streaming from his nostrils as he spoke. he saw rows of sharp teeth behind a devilish curl of the lips, eyes that glowed red and talons that would dig into his skin.
❝answer me,❞ the monster demanded, causing angel to flinch, having realized his own silence, lingering for too long. unacceptably long. his lips parted but he struggled to form the words, the imaginary timer ticking. and then, he felt brave. ❝why won’t you let mom draw anymore?❞ he asked, moving from his spot against the closet door, approaching the monster, slow in movement. ❝drawing doesn’t pay the bills, boy. you should understand that,❞ the monster tells him, stepping towards the boy, his son. ❝you should also understand that you are NOT allowed in this room, or to look through our things!❞ he states, anger in his voice as he grabs angel by the arm with a bruising grip, dragging him from the room and into the hallway. angel fought against his grip, the talons digging into his skin, begging his father— begging the monster to let go.
& then, pulling back from the tight grip that enveloped him, he broke free, he fell, down the stairs he’d crept up, so silent before, but his frame now crashing against each step. he hadn’t the time to think when he reached the bottom, staring up the stairs for what could have been a FATAL moment of hesitance. he was filled with terror, watching the monster’s face contort with anger, with rage. he was torn from his trance when he watched him step down onto the first stair, the wood creaking beneath his weight, scrambling to his feet. he dared not look back, tore open the front door of the house that was never a home, and let bare feet hit the pavement.
Wir freuen uns sehr, mit der Deutschen Kinder- und Jugendstiftung (DKJS) am Programm „Qualität vor Ort“ zu arbeiten. In Partnerschaft mit dem Bundesministerium für Familie, Senioren, Frauen und Jugend (BMFSFJ) und der Jacobs Foundation fördert das Programm bundesweit die Qualitätsentwicklung in der frühkindlichen Bildung, Betreuung und Erziehung – damit alle Kinder in Deutschland die gleiche Chance erhalten, ihre Potentiale voll…
DKJS – Qualität vor Ort für frühkindliche Bildung was originally published on Kakoii Berlin Werbeagentur
