03
679 Words
The "private lessons" were always conducted behind the heavy oak door of Miki’s bedroom, a room that smelled faintly of lavender and the metallic tang of fear.
Arthur sat in the wingback chair by the window, his legs crossed, watching Miki. The boy stood in the center of the rug, dressed in the tiny denim shorts and the ribbed tank top that left his pale midriff exposed every time he took a shaky breath.
"Posture, Miki," Arthur commanded, his voice a silk-wrapped blade. "A little prince doesn't slouch. Hands behind your back."
Miki obeyed. His fingers locked together behind his waist, his knuckles white. He could feel Arthur’s eyes wandering over his skin like a physical weight.
"Now," Arthur stood up, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He walked a slow circle around the boy. "Tell me the rule about whispering in the hallway."
"I... I shouldn't," Miki stammered, his lip trembling. "I have to be... be seen and not heard. Like a good doll."
"Exactly." Arthur stopped directly in front of him. He reached out, his hand wrapping firmly around Miki's throat—not to choke him, but to tilt his head up, forcing the boy to look at him. "And what happens to dolls who make noise when guests are over?"
Miki’s eyes flared with a sudden, sharp panic. This was the moment where the room usually started to disappear, where the "lesson" became a blur of hands and stinging skin.
He did the only thing he knew how to do to survive. He slammed his eyes shut.
The sun was warm. Not the fake, sterile warmth of the Pearson’s heater, but real, golden sun that smelled like cut grass and honey. Miki was five—actually five this time—and the blades of grass tickled his bare shins as he pushed a wooden train through a clover patch.
The rhythmic "creak-thump, creak-thump" of the rocking chair was the heartbeat of the world. His mother sat there, her face a soft blur of love and tired smiles. Her knitting needles clicked—silver flashes in the light—as she wove a soft, yellow yarn into something that looked like a hug.
"Close your eyes, my little bird," she sang, her voice a low, melodic hum that drowned out the rest of the world. "The wind is high, the stars are bright, and Mama’s here to hold you tight..."
"Are you listening to me?"
The voice shattered the garden. Miki flinched, his eyes still squeezed shut so tight that colorful sparks danced behind his eyelids. He refused to let go of the image of the yellow yarn.
Arthur’s hand moved from Miki’s neck to his shoulder, his thumb digging into the collarbone. "I asked you a question, Miki. Don't go drifting off. It’s rude to ignore your teacher."
"I'm sorry," Miki whispered, his voice cracking. He could feel Arthur’s other hand sliding down to the waistband of the short shorts, the fabric straining. "I'm being good. I'm being a good boy."
"You're being a quiet boy," Arthur corrected, leaning in until Miki could smell the peppermint on his breath—a scent that would forever be linked to the feeling of being trapped. "That’s why I like you best. The relatives think you’re crazy, but I know better. You’re just... perfect."
Arthur’s hand tightened, and Miki felt the familiar, sick tug of being pulled toward the bed.
Creak-thump. Creak-thump. Miki clung to the sound of the rocking chair. He imagined the yellow yarn wrapping around him, thicker and thicker, until he was a cocoon that Arthur’s hands couldn't penetrate.
He stayed in the grass, watching his mother’s needles click, while in the cold room of the Pearson house, his body went perfectly, terrifyingly still.
The Pearsons downstairs heard a faint thud from above, but Silas simply turned the page of his newspaper.
"Arthur is really making progress," he remarked. "The boy hasn't screamed once today."
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- Writer
