The wind began knocking tree branches against his window– rain pelted the roof like tiny stones and the unceasing cold purged its frigid nails deep into his skin. The child crawled out from beneath his damp bedding and soundlessly crept into his parent’s room. Mildew had latched itself to the grey walls along the hallway in various areas– as if these walls were chosen to reveal the first signs of sickness. As the child burrowed himself beneath the unfinished quilts upon his parent’s bed, he wondered where the Worms sleep, and where the Raven goes when all is dark and cold in the night. He lay shivering in their bed, peering vacantly out the window, past the dripping film of rainwater on the glass, deep into the old creaky trees. The moon was luminous that night, curating thunderclouds– flashes left quick scars, and a fury shook the world. “Remember when we threw stones in the river and watched how big the splashes would be?” The fish would scatter most of the time, but there were always a few that just stayed as if nothing happened… I think about that sometimes when i’m painting.
“Do you think someone is up in the
sky throwing stones at us?” No one answered.
Walls do not speak.
He fell asleep to the howling of the wind.