06
685 Words
The ride home was quiet, a heavy, suffocating silence that Miki tried to fill by humming. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the car window, watching the trees blur into green streaks.
He was trying to find the garden in his head again—the one with the rocking chair—but Arthur’s grip on the steering wheel was too loud, the leather creaking under his knuckles.
When they pulled into the driveway, the house stood tall and silent. No cars in the drive. No lights in the foyer.
Arthur checked his watch, a slow, dark smile spreading across his face. "The Pearsons are at their gala until midnight," he murmured, almost to himself. "It seems we have the whole castle to ourselves, Miki."
Miki didn't like the way 'castle' sounded when Arthur said it. It sounded like a dungeon.
"I want to play with my blocks," Miki said, his voice small as he climbed out of the car. He tugged at the hem of his short shorts, feeling suddenly very exposed in the open driveway. "And then the story? You promised."
Arthur didn't answer until they were inside and the heavy front door had been double-bolted. He turned, leaning against the wood, his eyes scanning Miki from his messy curls down to his bare, pale knees.
"You were defiant at the shop, Miki," Arthur said, his voice dropping into that smooth, terrifyingly calm register. "You argued about the ice cream. You made a scene in front of that... giant."
"I just wanted the chocolate bit," Miki whispered, backing away. He hit the bottom step of the staircase. "I'm sorry. I'll be good now. I'll go to my room and be quiet."
"Oh, you'll be quiet," Arthur said, pushing off the door and walking toward him. "But first, we have to finish our lesson. Since you liked showing off your legs at the shop so much, I think we should find a way to make sure you remember why modesty is important for a boy like you."
Miki’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. "No... no more lessons today. Please."
Arthur reached out, his hand wrapping around Miki’s throat with just enough pressure to make the boy’s breath hitch. He leaned in, his peppermint breath ghosting over Miki’s nose.
"Don't throw a tantrum, Miki. You know I hate it when you're 'crazy.' It makes me have to be so much firmer."
He yanked Miki upward by the arm, dragging him toward the stairs. Miki stumbled, his knees hitting the wooden steps.
Creak-thump. Creak-thump
Miki squeezed his eyes shut as he was pushed into the dark bedroom. He frantically tried to find the grass. The sun is warm, he told himself. The needles are clicking. Mama is singing. But the image was flickering. The grass was turning grey.
"Take them off," Arthur commanded, pointing to the tiny denim shorts. "And get on the rug. We’re going to practice 'The Silent Doll' for the next hour. If you move, if you make a single sound, we start the clock over."
Miki stood there, trembling, his hands fumbling with the button of his shorts. He looked so small in the center of the vast, expensive room—a twenty-three-year-old man lost in the terror of an eight-year-old’s world.
"Eyes on me, Miki," Arthur whispered, sitting in his chair and unbuckling his belt with a slow, deliberate 'clink'.
Miki’s eyes snapped shut. He didn't want to see. He retreated further into the dark, reaching for the hem of his mother's skirt in his mind, sobbing silently where no one could hear him, while the man who was supposed to protect him moved closer in the shadows of the Pearson’s empty house.
The Pearsons were miles away, sipping champagne and complaining about the "burden" of their nephew, never realizing that the silence they loved so much was bought with the soul of a boy who was still waiting for his mother to finish her knitting.
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- Writer
