Hazelthorn
He has hidden under the bed, his only secret place, to finish putting all of the bluebells in his mouth.
When asked where he found the flowers, he stays silent.
Since the accident, he’s forgotten most things—how to read and speak and respond to his own name.
Black stitches riddle his stomach and they’ve taped socks to his hands so he’ll stop clawing at his wounds.
It also stops his fingers dancing and flicking and tapping.
Hands are meant to be still, he is told. He is meant to be still.
So he lies motionless beneath the bed, his eyes two luminescent green jewels, glowing from the depths as petals cling to the curl of his tongue.
It is his guardian who pulls him out by the ankles, but his disapproval morphs to alarm as he snatches the little boy’s jaw and pries it open.
Not bluebells. It’s wolfsbane.
His guardian picks him up and bolts for the bathroom to wash the little boy’s mouth out a hundred times. “Goddamn it. Who gave you these? Where did you find them?”
It is too difficult to answer, so the little boy merely bites the crooked old fingers squeezing his jawbone and leaving thumbprint bruises on his delicate skin.
After that, he is given medicine. He forgets what he did wrong.
He forgets there ever was wolfsbane.