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a shivering child, cold and shaking, in awe of the unknown.
With my next steps, memories became my master, and the
darkness tumbled beyond time.
Small cages hung from the ceiling, each containing the
tiny bones of children. Thankfully, the little skeletons had
been deprived of their eyes—eyes that had once clawed and
pinched at my tender flesh. This was the room where my
father kept a good deal of his most prized art supplies. He
insisted his paint be mixed with the blood of children, as it
was “the protean stuff of dreams, worthy of only the finest
artists.”
My hands glided across the cages, at one point grazing a
slender, white finger bone. It came away in my hand, light
as a baby’s breath, yet heaving with finality. To my father,
the child was nothing—just an empty tube of paint. I cannot
deny my father’s methods, but I’ve always held children to
be closer to dreams than any other creature. I have never felt
impelled to use them in my own work.
All the days I’d spent in this room, the subject of many
a hateful and panicked stare, started to overfill me. After
all, it was I who delivered them here, into the hands of my
father. He would lead me to such beautiful places, filled with
love and laughter. I’d fly to them—to play, to laugh, and
to lie. He taught me how to play like a cherub, to widen
my eyes to reflect the blazing sun. To laugh as sweet as
sugar, to smile like innocence. Of all the things he taught
me, the lie was most important—my promise to take them
somewhere secret and wonderful, beyond the sun, beyond
all eyes. But all paths lead to the inside of the same black
canvas bag. They’d just hang from the ceiling, encaged and
gagged, staring at me. So many eyes, all of them screaming,
Betrayer, betrayer, betrayer!
I just wanted to play with them. I always hoped it would
end differently. It never did, except for the last time, of
course—when the two little girls came to me, smiles like

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