Chapter 15
226 Words
Chapter 151963Seven-year-old Anton Gallimard tore through the salon of his expansive house waving a sheet of paper over his head.
“Do not run in this house!” his father shouted. “Go back!”
Anton held up his paper. “Papa, I want to show you—”
“Go back!”
The boy’s head drooped. He turned and walked out of the room and back down the corridor, lined with paintings and etchings in gilt frames, many of great value. He sighed and turned back around, taking another look at his drawing. It was good, wasn’t it? He had thought so, but now he was not sure. Maybe he shouldn’t show it to Papa after all.
“Anton!” his father’s voice boomed.
Slowly the boy made his way down the corridor, the sheet of paper flapping against his legs. He didn’t want to show it now. He knew it was dreadful and his father was only going to scream at him. The joy he had felt while the pencil was moving across the paper had evaporated. Meekly he approached his father and held it out.
A short pause. Anton could feel something happening in his brain, a clashing disturbance, and he put his hands over his ears before his father had even spoken.
“What sort of puerile scrawling have you given me?” his father sneered. He tore the paper in two, balled up the pieces, and threw them at Anton. “What is the matter with you?”
Young Anton had no answer.
- Writer
