Page 93 of Demonic Cage
“Are you Dad’s friend?”
“Something like that,” I say uncertainly.
“Will you take me to the mountains?”
Words get stuck in my throat, but the child’s sparkling eyes melt the lies off my lips.
“Yes,” I breathe.
Mathys nods, smiling. He hands me a sheet of paper.
“You can draw too,” he says, diving back into his work.
Actually… when was the last time I drew? It was before Bengt’s death, but I did so constantly. Afterwards, only sporadically. Grief drowned out all the colors I could fill an empty page with.
I pick up a pencil and start drawing. It’s only after a few minutes that I realize it’s Pandora. The colors don’t come at first, but I force them. I grab a blue, but the little boy squeezes a paler green color into my hand. I stroke Pandora’s beautifully curved eyelids with it. Then I draw stars on it, with an ocean blue background. For her eyes, I choose a color that resembles dates. I focus on the garden that surrounds the drawn girl. I paint flower petals, hibiscus spreading across my page.
Time flies by, with Mathys by my side, neither of us looking at each other, but both of us comforted by the other’s presence. Finally, we’re not alone, but we’re not bothered either. I don’t know how long we can draw like this, but we put down our pencils at the same time. My words falter as I look at his creation.
Snowy peaks cover the paper, and green pines punctuate the blue painted sky, their tops sometimes disappearing into lamb clouds. In the center, a blonde, blue-eyed girl skis with a green-eyed boy dressed in a loose black outfit. There’s no blood in the drawing.
I smile.
“You know, if you really want to go to Sweden, you’ll have to wear a bonnettoo.”
“My mom always says that,” he murmurs, looking interestedly at my drawing. His eyes widen. “Wow! This is really nice,” he says, taking the paper in his hands. “Is this your mom?”
I chuckle softly. Pandora barely looks a year or two older than me.
“No,” I say, “she’s a… a friend of mine.”
The boy scrutinizes the paper carefully.
“Why does she look sad?” he asks, and I gaze at the drawing.
“Maybe because… she was used,” I say. “Forced to do something without seeing the consequences. But perhaps she’struly sad because she knows that, even if they had told her, she would’ve done it, anyway. She couldn’t resist the temptation.”
I could tell from looking at the boy that I over-philosophized the answer, so I quickly add:
“Pandora is lonely. She’s alone. It’s hard to fight alone.”
Mathys doesn’t look at me.
“I know what it’s like to be alone,” he whispers.
“So do I,” I reply softly.
We stare at the paper for a while, then he picks up his own drawing and hands it to me.
“Here. You won’t be alone anymore.”
I gulp. Here’s a five-year-old boy, capable of much more than me. I should’ve been the one to comfort him. I can’t help but think about where we could be together. I’ll never take him to Sweden, but I could take him somewhere where he could not only ski but also fly over mountains. He’d transform; he’d be able to. He’d never be alone. In the corrupted world Darya created, souls struggling with their own demons are never alone.
It would turn him into a killer. A cruel monster, and he wouldn’t care. I look worriedly at his drawings. I’m not sure if the blood signifies trouble. Maybe he just drew what he saw. He lives on the edge of a forest, so what is it should he draw? Happy schoolchildren he never meets? No. He doesn’t need to become a demon to be happy. He can fight this on his own. Filizi would only encourage his unnatural urges. Here, in this world, he has a chance not to be corrupted.
I hand him Pandora’s drawing.
“She was there for me when no one was. I’ll leave her to take care of you, too.”
