several minutes, leaning my cheek into my hand while my elbow rests on the table. I enjoy seeing her happiness, enjoy her being the child that she should be, that she could be. When she is almost done, I stand to go eat some of my own oatmeal. I spoon a small amount of jelly into mine—just enough to give it flavor and sweeten it a little, but not so much to make it turn pink. I want to save it all for Lilly. I want to see this smile on her face every day for as long as I can. Because all we are left with at the end is a handful of memories to brighten the darkness.
I look out the kitchen window while I eat, looking for any sign that they have been here in the night, but as is becoming the usual, there is none—no scratches, no blood, no disturbance outside. I smile and realize that they—the smiles—are coming easier each day. This both frightens and excites me. The tentative tendrils of hope are beginning to grow inside me, and I’m struggling each day with dampening them back down. I don’t want to hope, but it’s hard to stop the buds from blooming.
After breakfast, Lilly goes off to the bedroom to play and I pace the house, checking each room for broken windows or a disturbance of any kind. When I find none, I open the back door and take the bucket of pee from last night out to the drain and pour it away, happy to see that both of us are not dehydrated anymore. Lilly has even put on a little weight; the hollowness to her cheeks is filling out, and the big gray bags under her eyes are almost extinguished.
Perhaps I can lock us away here forever, trapped in this house’s magical safety. I would like that, I think, and so would Lilly. There is a bike leaned up against the side of the house. It’s rusty and old and has a brown wicker basket on the front. I imagine that the woman who had lived here would ride her bike into town. She would probably go to the butcher’s and the baker’s, perhaps even the post office. She would fill her days with small trips on this bike, a smile on her face and the sun on her back. On her way back home she would stop and pick some flowers from the roadside, filling that brown wicker basket up with them. And when she got home she would put them in a vase with some water and place them in the kitchen.
I lean down and pluck a small yellow flower from the edge of the path. It’s a weed, really—not a real flower—but it’s pretty all the same. It reminds me of the sunflower field I found Lilly hiding. The monsters had been scared to go into that field. The brightness of the flowers had confused them. Perhaps I can plant thousands of these yellow flowers, all around this house, to keep them out.
I bring the flower back inside, putting it next to her coloring book, and then I take the bucket back to the bathroom. I walk back along the hallway, examining the books on the shelves. I pluck one off the shelf that has maps of the United States on it, and I take it back to the kitchen. I sit down at the table with it, using one of Lilly’s crayons to mark where we are and where we have been. I use the blue, and the color looks strange against the white of the paper for some reason. Too vivid, almost as if my eyes are still growing accustomed to colors, like they have been blinded to only muted grays and blacks for too long. Like the world has been washed free of its color but it is slowly being colored back in by a little girl with golden curls.
Our journey has been long, but I’m grateful for that. This place has given us roots—roots that we didn’t have for a long time. We have been wandering the country for months and months, driving or walking from one place to another. Because no place stays safe for long. My thoughts drift back to our last location, with the light that still worked at the top of the hill, and I mark it on the map. I worry about staying here too long, especially since I could hear the monsters last night, yet the desire to stay here pulls strongly at me. What
I look out the kitchen window while I eat, looking for any sign that they have been here in the night, but as is becoming the usual, there is none—no scratches, no blood, no disturbance outside. I smile and realize that they—the smiles—are coming easier each day. This both frightens and excites me. The tentative tendrils of hope are beginning to grow inside me, and I’m struggling each day with dampening them back down. I don’t want to hope, but it’s hard to stop the buds from blooming.
After breakfast, Lilly goes off to the bedroom to play and I pace the house, checking each room for broken windows or a disturbance of any kind. When I find none, I open the back door and take the bucket of pee from last night out to the drain and pour it away, happy to see that both of us are not dehydrated anymore. Lilly has even put on a little weight; the hollowness to her cheeks is filling out, and the big gray bags under her eyes are almost extinguished.
Perhaps I can lock us away here forever, trapped in this house’s magical safety. I would like that, I think, and so would Lilly. There is a bike leaned up against the side of the house. It’s rusty and old and has a brown wicker basket on the front. I imagine that the woman who had lived here would ride her bike into town. She would probably go to the butcher’s and the baker’s, perhaps even the post office. She would fill her days with small trips on this bike, a smile on her face and the sun on her back. On her way back home she would stop and pick some flowers from the roadside, filling that brown wicker basket up with them. And when she got home she would put them in a vase with some water and place them in the kitchen.
I lean down and pluck a small yellow flower from the edge of the path. It’s a weed, really—not a real flower—but it’s pretty all the same. It reminds me of the sunflower field I found Lilly hiding. The monsters had been scared to go into that field. The brightness of the flowers had confused them. Perhaps I can plant thousands of these yellow flowers, all around this house, to keep them out.
I bring the flower back inside, putting it next to her coloring book, and then I take the bucket back to the bathroom. I walk back along the hallway, examining the books on the shelves. I pluck one off the shelf that has maps of the United States on it, and I take it back to the kitchen. I sit down at the table with it, using one of Lilly’s crayons to mark where we are and where we have been. I use the blue, and the color looks strange against the white of the paper for some reason. Too vivid, almost as if my eyes are still growing accustomed to colors, like they have been blinded to only muted grays and blacks for too long. Like the world has been washed free of its color but it is slowly being colored back in by a little girl with golden curls.
Our journey has been long, but I’m grateful for that. This place has given us roots—roots that we didn’t have for a long time. We have been wandering the country for months and months, driving or walking from one place to another. Because no place stays safe for long. My thoughts drift back to our last location, with the light that still worked at the top of the hill, and I mark it on the map. I worry about staying here too long, especially since I could hear the monsters last night, yet the desire to stay here pulls strongly at me. What
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