22. Deakon
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
deakon
Sixteen years earlier
The boy spends many minutes, or hours, or days huddled in a bed, crying and moaning for help.
Days and days.
They pass by.
He hugs himself and rubs his own arms, pretending his hands are not his, pretending they are someone else’s, someone who cares. He wants to know if he is still alive, a boy, a son, human, loved...
Is this death?
When he falls asleep during the day or night, he has no tears left inside his body, and when he wakes, salty rivers are crusted on his soft young cheeks—his body found more tears during the night.
The boy doesn't know what time it is or what seconds, minutes, and hours are, but the first time the blonde girl brings him a meal, it feels like a long time has passed.
She brings him meals. He counts them, desperate to know how long he’s been away from home. How long he's been in the cage.
Where is my mummy?
She will come for me.
Soon, though, he runs out of numbers to count the meals. The boy can only count to twenty, and he's already done that twenty times.
Why have I run out of numbers?
He makes a wish for more numbers because he believes without the numbers, he might not be alive.
The numbers never come.
To the boy, that can only mean one thing—he has been in the cage forever. He is lost in the dark, losing himself, losing his name, losing his memories, losing his…
Did I have a mummy?
Was that a dream?
The dark starts to swallow his pain, and in return it gives him new powers—exciting ones. Now, after lots of twenties of meals, the boy believes he died.
He is now born again as a dog.
Pacing his home, from the bed to the toilet and back again, he ponders this revelation. He squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates, summoning his inner dog. He bears down, trying, trying, changing... And then it happens.
He can hear the trees talking and chatting around outside the basement. He can hear the bees gossiping and singing, telling him stories and making him laugh out loud. He can hear everything and everyone; they all talk to him at once.
The boy opens his eyes and stares at the concrete wall, nodding to himself. The darkness has given him strength. His mind is expanding to connect him with the world.
He is evolving, becoming something else.
When he hears the girl, every step, every step, every step, he rushes to the edge of his cage. The latch swings open. He can hear the chamber breathing, sucking in clean air and releasing the stale. He can hear her heart racing as she slowly descends the steps, each little step cautious.
I can hear everything!
I must be a dog.
“I want to be a dog,” the boy says as the girl comes down the stairs, carrying a bowl of food. Those six words change him. The beautiful girl has never uttered a word to him. No matter how many times he's begged for answers.
“A dog has good hearing," he continues. "Very good. A dog can run fast, too. And... and they live in cages, too. Boys don’t live in cages. I think I might be changing into a dog. Do I look like a dog?”
She stares at him; her brown eyes circled in violet. “You could be a dog.” She nods slowly. “Maybe. Turn around.”
A voice!
Her voice!
Excited, the boy spins around, his arms sweeping out wide so she can inspect him.
She nods again. “Yes, yes, I think you are.”
I like her voice.
A spike of excitement hits the boy, and he grips the bars, peering between the gaps at the girl. “If I’m a dog, then this is okay,” he proclaims, his tone calm for the first time in minutes or hours or days. "This room is good for a dog. The food is, too.”
A small smile tugs at the girl’s swollen and bruised lips. “I’d like to be a cat. Maybe…”
“Why a cat?” he asks, scrunching up his nose in disapproval. He likes dogs.
“A cat can climb high. Higher than people can reach.”
The boy tilts his head in thought, looking at her bruises, understanding that whoever hurts her might not be able to climb trees. He releases a little sigh. Yes, he thinks, she should be a cat. “Can I name you?” he asks, a flutter filling his chest at the thought. “The cat you?”
“Yes,” she replies, sitting on the fifth step, watching him pace around in contemplation.
“Um…” The boy hesitates. “What about Sunshine?”
“Okay,” she agrees. The boy’s lips curve up, his cheeks revealing distinct dimples. She looks at them, and smiles back, asking, “Can I name you?”
“Yeah,” the boy says.
“Kon.” The girl’s sweet voice fills his chest with hope. “My mum...” Her voice falters. “My mum said Kon means ‘dog’ in her language, but I don’t remember the language.”
“Okay!”
Unfortunately, Sunshine doesn’t turn into a cat. She can’t climb out of reach of the person who hurts her, but she does go to school for the minutes or hours or days that Kon is alone. She learns to read, count, write, and then tells him stories and tries to teach him more numbers.
She is a girl, and he is her dog. The boy doesn't mind; he likes being hers. Even though his place is in the cage, in the basement, below the daisy-covered ground, he still wakes up with bright eyes. He knows that she will come for him, and they will play.