ounce of my willpower to keep myself from hurling it to the floor and stomping it to dust under my shoe. Frustrated, I stopped pacing for a moment and tried one more time.
“What if Father would let me stay at school for just another two years? Then I’ll come to work with him. I’ll give him my solemn promise.”
Mother’s face swelled with a combination of love and pity as she looked upon my face. I often wondered if my mother saw the souls of all her eleven children staring back at her from my eyes. For it was as if she drew all the love for the lost ones together into a deep, concentrated adoration of me.
The sudden thump of Father’s footsteps on the stairwell caused both of us to jump with fright.
“I’ll do my best, John,” she whispered, her hands rushing to smooth out the folds of her skirt as the heavy stomp of his boots drew nearer.
But unfortunately, as I was to learn later that night, my father was adamant about his decision.
Whilst preparing for bed, I discovered a birthday present hidden under my pillow. It was a book. A beautiful hardback copy of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. The first book I’d ever owned. The first book on my way to three hundred. After I’d caught my breath back, I opened the cover carefully and inhaled the inky smell of the fresh new pages. A folded piece of creamy notepaper fell out and landed on my lap. Still clutching the book, I unfolded the note and read:
Happy Birthday to my beloved son.
I am so very sorry, but your father will not be persuaded. I promise to do what I can to make the situation bearable for you. Your collection of books has begun today. Be sure to keep this in a safe place and please let it be our little secret.
As always,
Your loving Mother
For the remainder of my short life, I received a secret book from my mother on my birthday every year. It was the only way she knew how to apologize for failing me.
10 - Max
Caroline was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a dirty, dusty floor. She was holding a small, white cat in her lap and looking up at me with eyes that were wide with fear.
“No, don’t kill him, Max!” she cried. Her lips weren’t moving with the words, but I could hear her voice breaking somewhere in her throat. I stared at her in shock.
Kill who? The cat? Why would I do that?
When I started walking toward her, she clutched the little animal to her chest and began to scream, although her mouth still wasn’t moving. I wanted to run and comfort her, but I was frozen in place by her fear. What’s going on here? My thoughts were spinning with the force of so much confusion that I thought I was going to fall over. I tried to widen my stance to regain some balance, but I couldn’t force my feet to move even an inch. That’s when I looked down and saw a long hunting knife in my hand, the blade glistening like water. I opened my own mouth to scream, but nothing came out. I tried harder, horrified by the monster I’d clearly become. But it was like I was choking on the air. I couldn’t catch a breath. Finally, I managed to suck in a small bubble of oxygen and push out a low, guttural yell.
“Aaaaaaaaaah!”
The effort of making the sound is what raised me up out of the dream. Or nightmare, to be exact. I opened my eyes, gasping for air, and blinking through the darkness, the leftover yell still buzzing in my throat.
Just a dream , I told myself, sitting up in bed. But my pounding heart needed a bit more convincing. It wasn’t until I switched on my bedside lamp that I realized my sheets were soaked with water. And the skin on my arms and chest was shining with sweat. But was it sweat? I wasn’t hot at all. In fact, I was shivering from the cold night breeze that was blowing in through my window.
What’s going on? I don’t remember going to sleep with it open.
But the weirdest part of all was the smell that was coming off my wet skin. It was dank and raw and earthy … like a mix of worms and frogs. I smelled
“What if Father would let me stay at school for just another two years? Then I’ll come to work with him. I’ll give him my solemn promise.”
Mother’s face swelled with a combination of love and pity as she looked upon my face. I often wondered if my mother saw the souls of all her eleven children staring back at her from my eyes. For it was as if she drew all the love for the lost ones together into a deep, concentrated adoration of me.
The sudden thump of Father’s footsteps on the stairwell caused both of us to jump with fright.
“I’ll do my best, John,” she whispered, her hands rushing to smooth out the folds of her skirt as the heavy stomp of his boots drew nearer.
But unfortunately, as I was to learn later that night, my father was adamant about his decision.
Whilst preparing for bed, I discovered a birthday present hidden under my pillow. It was a book. A beautiful hardback copy of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. The first book I’d ever owned. The first book on my way to three hundred. After I’d caught my breath back, I opened the cover carefully and inhaled the inky smell of the fresh new pages. A folded piece of creamy notepaper fell out and landed on my lap. Still clutching the book, I unfolded the note and read:
Happy Birthday to my beloved son.
I am so very sorry, but your father will not be persuaded. I promise to do what I can to make the situation bearable for you. Your collection of books has begun today. Be sure to keep this in a safe place and please let it be our little secret.
As always,
Your loving Mother
For the remainder of my short life, I received a secret book from my mother on my birthday every year. It was the only way she knew how to apologize for failing me.
10 - Max
Caroline was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a dirty, dusty floor. She was holding a small, white cat in her lap and looking up at me with eyes that were wide with fear.
“No, don’t kill him, Max!” she cried. Her lips weren’t moving with the words, but I could hear her voice breaking somewhere in her throat. I stared at her in shock.
Kill who? The cat? Why would I do that?
When I started walking toward her, she clutched the little animal to her chest and began to scream, although her mouth still wasn’t moving. I wanted to run and comfort her, but I was frozen in place by her fear. What’s going on here? My thoughts were spinning with the force of so much confusion that I thought I was going to fall over. I tried to widen my stance to regain some balance, but I couldn’t force my feet to move even an inch. That’s when I looked down and saw a long hunting knife in my hand, the blade glistening like water. I opened my own mouth to scream, but nothing came out. I tried harder, horrified by the monster I’d clearly become. But it was like I was choking on the air. I couldn’t catch a breath. Finally, I managed to suck in a small bubble of oxygen and push out a low, guttural yell.
“Aaaaaaaaaah!”
The effort of making the sound is what raised me up out of the dream. Or nightmare, to be exact. I opened my eyes, gasping for air, and blinking through the darkness, the leftover yell still buzzing in my throat.
Just a dream , I told myself, sitting up in bed. But my pounding heart needed a bit more convincing. It wasn’t until I switched on my bedside lamp that I realized my sheets were soaked with water. And the skin on my arms and chest was shining with sweat. But was it sweat? I wasn’t hot at all. In fact, I was shivering from the cold night breeze that was blowing in through my window.
What’s going on? I don’t remember going to sleep with it open.
But the weirdest part of all was the smell that was coming off my wet skin. It was dank and raw and earthy … like a mix of worms and frogs. I smelled
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