Page 90 of Silent Oaths
Themother hesitates.Fora moment, she looks like she might say something.Eventually, she does.
“Wetried,” she says to no one in particular.Maybeto herself.MaybetoGod. “He’sjust… too much.”
Hisfather won’t even look at him.
Andthe boy just stands there.Silent.Watching.
Hismother gives him his favorite doll, and they leave without a goodbye.Thegates close behind them, and the home swallows the little boy whole.
Hedoesn’t cry or scream.Hewalks through the halls with his hands in his pockets, his head tilted to the side, like he’s listening for something no one else can hear.
Whenhe’s in the confines of his new room, he gives the doll a name—Vico.HetellsVicoeverything.Abouthow he loves the feeling of cold metal in his hands.Howhe doesn’t understand why people are so afraid of blood.
Theother boys steer clear of him.Theysay he’s strange.
Tooweird.
Tooquiet.
Toodangerous.
Andthe truth is, he liked it that way.
Becauseeventually, he realized something.
Monstersweren’t the things hiding under beds.
Theywere the ones who left you there.
* * *
Isit alonein my office atMadhouse.Themusic is muted here, drowned out beneath layers of concrete, butIcan still feel the beat in my bones.
Inone hand,Itwirl a knife balanced perfectly between my fingers.Inthe other,IholdVico.
Thedoll is weathered now, the once-bright colors of its painted face faded into muted tones.Oneof its eyes is chipped, the stuffing around its neck frayed, barely holding it together.Still,Ikeep him close.Ialways have.
Ishould’ve thrown it out years ago.Should’veburned it, buried it, or left it behind atSt.Dismaslike everything else.
ButIdidn’t.
BecauseVicois the only piece of my pastIever chose to keep, even if that past tastes like ash in my mouth.
Istare down at the crooked smile painted on his face.Vicodoesn’t judge; he never has.Hewas there whenIdidn’t speak.Whenthe other kids flinched away.Whenthe fathers whispered behind my back and crossed themselves after catching me carving patterns into the wooden bedposts.Hewas there whenIbled… and whenIliked it.
Andhe was there when my parents left me.
Myjaw clenches.Theknife stills in my hand.
Themention of them sends something black curling up my spine.
Idon’t just resent them.Idon’t just hate them.
Iloathethem.
Formaking me feel likeIhad to be fixed, likeIwas some kind of defect they didn’t know how to manage.
Irotate in my chair slowly, letting the tension snake through my muscles.Myeyes land on the portrait on the wall, a dusty, framed photoIdug up years ago in the town archive like a grave robber searching for bones.
