Page 221 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

gallery. The sculpture was molded from the preserved
trappings of three dead dreams. His creation had been
formed from gristle and guts, bones and plastic-coated
brains, broken smiles and whispered pain. All of it had come
from the hideously transformed bodies of my remaining—
biological—family. My mother, brother, and sister had
passed into art and beyond the world. Despite the deadness
of her eyes, I could feel my real mother’s gentle gaze upon
me, whispering across my face, trying to wipe the tears from
my eyes.

***

The lost memories slowly died into the darkness of the
dead house. The skin on my back had practically melted
from the heat of my father’s anger, and my sisters danced
across my palms, hoping to rouse a laugh from me. I stood
silent for quite some time, burning and bleeding and crying.
The days when things could remain hidden from me were
gone. The secret door to my father’s gallery yielded to my
strength. Cold air and unbidden memories rushed at me
as the door crashed open, revealing a secret only slightly
younger than myself. As I descended the crudely chiseled
stone stairs, the shadows embraced me, welcoming me
home. The marble floor was no longer glittering, as time
and the advance of the earth had long since laid a thick
tarnish across the meticulous stonework. However, the great
archway was no less impressive for the passage of time, even
if it no longer billowed with the glow of candlelight. Even
now, its great jaws appeared ready to devour the world—my
world, at least.
I lingered at the threshold, wary of the things that might
lay beyond. My father continued to burn me, and my sisters
still called upon me to play—but finally, I walked into the
gallery. With my first steps into the antechamber, I was but

224 | Mark Anzalone