Owlish Story

"Steve." His mother called from her chair, looking at his sick looking son with longing eyes, searching where in that body was his son. A pair of icy, dull light blue eyes stared blankly at the window, and he tilted his head to the woman, who now sat on the edge of her chair. "Dear, shall I close the window? It's quite cold-"

"No."

"But Steve, it's winter and it's going to be cold now-"

"No, mother." His son answered harshly, glaring at her. His eyes piercing hers, blue clashing with blue until the woman stepped down their glaring competition and walked off, sighing loudly, and before she left the room, she stared sadly at his son, who read the damn paper over and over again. whenever his Owl was around, laughter and dreams, and hope, shared smiles and wishes were too, but she took them with her for good, now all gone from anyone's grasp. She shook her head tiredly and walked quietly off, passing the poor nurse who had to attend to her son.