Den is my name.
I am twelve years old, son of the late George Myko, older brother of Vivian Myko, and best friend of Pence, my dog who was taken away.
On the day Pence went away, my mother, Adrianna, was in tears, as if she was mourning, and a few days after that, Adrianna said she was going to the woods and would be back. She did not return. And right now, I do not expect her to, since I have been waiting for two years.
She planned her escape well, leaving me with words on a paper that I find myself desparately holding on to for the times I have to: in the dead of dark nights when I feel empty and used by my physical idleness but mental overdrive. I vainly meditate on her words and try beat the significance out of them each time I think of them before I close my eyes in the still nights.
Vivian is four years old now. After Adrianna left, we had to abandon our isolated house and live with our aunt Trace. Trace took us in her care with no objection. We settled in easily for a month; rarely leaving her house which was made of simple square rooms which were unsurprisingly similar to our home. In such simplicity, this is where my mind would sometimes knot up in emotional complication.
But that is it about my life.
I am content with myself because despite my occasional mental meltdown, I easily adapt to matters of the reality, consciously avoiding selfishness and bitterness.
Though Vivian and I have each other, we feel the vacancy. Regardless, we soldier on under Trace's guardianship.
Despite the past, everything is normal now. After having been introduced to my new life under Trace, I can surely say that it is, in summary, normal.
YOU ARE READING
Window Cracks
Ficción GeneralHis mother left him with words he has thought to not be his anchor to survive, alone. Now, he is constantly confronted by a cold reality which is not compatible with the last words of her mother. Now, he finds himself defying the system of the commu...
