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It was all a blur really…lights flashed past him, he could hear many voices, but he couldn’t see where he was going or what he was doing. Although he knew it was coming, he could never stop it…WHAM! The blinding impact came and he could feel himself flying through the air, his head in unbelievable pain…he landed hard, screaming and screaming, but the pain wouldn’t stop. He cried, wishing the pain would stop. And finally, it all went black…
Joby awoke with a start, torn from the vivid nightmares that plagued him every night. He felt so hot…cold sweat dripped from his forehead onto the saturated pillow. The sheets clung to him like a thin wetsuit, and he struggled to free himself from the claws of his own bed.
He groggily sat up, brushed his hand through his hair, and opened his eyes. He laughed confusedly…this wasn’t his bedroom. He’d had dreams like this before, where he’d ‘wake-up’ and find himself in a completely different environment. Admittedly, although it would seem the most likely scene, he never woke up in a different bedroom, it was usually somewhere outside, like in the tiger’s den at the zoo. Once he even found himself lying across the sofa at a local church committee group meeting.
However, this was real, Joby was sure of that. Well for one thing there were no tigers, cups of tea or elderly women…but there was one item that caught his attention instantly. It was the ceiling. Well it wasn’t exactly a ceiling, but more of a transparent blanket that covered the whole room. He gazed in awe as the sun’s rays shone through the glass, distorting his vision, creating silhouettes of angels that danced across his eyes.
He smiled happily, got to his feet and twisted around, taking in his surroundings. He was greeted by a wave of white…the whole room had been painted white, and the sun’s glare forced him to squint before he gradually became used to the brightness. The room was relatively small and perfectly square, the bed situated in the far left-hand corner.
He walked to the far end of the room and examined the windowsill. There wasn’t much there, a Liverpool moneybox, full of 1 and 2ps by the looks of things. There was a rather crude clay pot, obviously something made by a young child, and a number of small model toy cars. Underneath the windowsill was a basic wooden desk, with a couple of drawers and another little shelf just above it.
The shelf housed a collection of children’s books, ranging from the odd Mr Men story to a rather dusty and obviously unopened version of Treasure Island…Joby guessed this book was a little old for whoever’s room this was. A small Winnie-The-Pooh lamp stood tall like a tower in one corner of the desk. It was already on, illuminating the unkempt piles of books and videos that took up most of the space. Joby took a quick look in the drawers, not wanting to pry too much and found a lot of drawings. Most were just doodles, but they were full of colour and imagination. He also found the odd story, obviously written by a child because they were only a few lines long and the writing was a little hard to read, but it certainly wasn’t bad.
Joby closed the drawers and turned off the lamp. In doing so, something caught his eye behind the bed…a rocking horse. It was pure white, just like the walls. He rocked it for a little while, trying to imagine the child that lived in this room. After a minute or so he looked back at his bed.
On the left-hand wall above was a painting. It was nothing professional, if anything it was childlike…very childlike. He took a closer look, and realised it was a painting done in school. It was a painting of a boy, standing on the beach in the bright sunshine, seagulls flying above and the sea lapping calmly nearby. The boy was smiling widely. It was a self-portrait by the looks of things.
It was signed at the bottom, but it was very hard to make out. All he could make out was, “-ge 5. August.” The picture filled Joby with a sense of happiness and fulfilment, and he smiled. For a 5-year-old, it was very good, whoever’s room this was obviously had some imagination.
He turned around completely to face the opposite wall, and what he saw chilled his blood. It was a painting, much like the one he’d just studied. In fact it was similar in almost every way. But in this one…it was raining. Pouring. The sea was a dark, dirty green, and the boy…the boy wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even crying. He was just…lifeless. In a split second, this painting had destroyed whatever bright, cheery and happy ideas Joby had about the room. Like a leech, it sucked all the blood, all the life, from the bedroom…Joby was unsure as to why it had such an effect on him, but he was sure of one thing, he would not be able to view the room in the same way ever again.
This made Joby sad. At the bottom it was signed, but again, all he could make out was “-ge 5. September.”
Joby slowly turned a full circle, his sadness ever growing. There was really nothing else in this room. It was just so…empty, and bland. Even the glimmering sunshine didn’t add life to what was in fact, a dead room. He turned back to the first painting, and wondered how a child that could paint such a vibrant, colourful and…happy picture, could have such a lifeless room.
He twisted once again, and took another look at the second painting. What happened? Why had such a happy picture been transformed into something…something that literally sent shivers down his spine.
Suddenly the door opened, and a middle-aged woman with a worn face slowly walked in. She was probably in her thirties but she had not aged well. She smiled thinly, “good morning Joby. I was going to make you some break…ah, I see you’re looking at the pictures. Do you know who did them?”
Joby shook his head.
The woman sighed, “no…no, I suppose you wouldn’t. It might surprise you to know this, but you did them darling.” A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she pointed to the first painting, “you did this just a day before…before the accident.” She took his hand and held onto it tightly, “you were such a happy boy…” She trailed off, almost as though she was talking to herself. She nodded towards the second picture, crying quite openly now, “and that…that you drew one day after…just minutes after you were told the news.”
She let go of his hand and wiped her eyes with a tissue, before looking down at him once again, “but I suppose you don’t remember that either. Maybe one day…maybe one day you’ll remember, and you’ll be my little Joby once again.”
She stood and stared into a space for a moment, silently asking God why this terrible tragedy had befallen her own son. In many ways, she wished that like him, she couldn’t remember any of the last couple of years either. Finally she wiped her eyes one more time and said, “I better go and see how your sister is.” She tried to smile for her son, “call me if you need anything honey.” And then she left, shutting the door behind her.
Joby stood, confused for a moment. Who was she? He wasn’t scared of her, no…for some reason she felt familiar. And she obviously knew and cared for him. He looked at the pictures once again…he’d done them?
Suddenly Joby felt so tired. He stumbled back into bed, his head pounding and closed his eyes tight. He tried to ignore the sunlight and think of his own room back home… wherever that was. But he just couldn’t picture it. He couldn’t remember…he couldn’t remember anything! He grimaced and shut his eyes even tighter, desperate to fall back into sleep…
The paintings had been signed, “Joby. Age 5. August” and “Joby. Age 5. September.”
____________________________
It was all a blur really…lights flashed past him, he could hear many voices, but he couldn’t see where he was going or what he was doing. Although he knew it was coming, he could never stop it…WHAM! The blinding impact came and he could feel himself flying through the air, his head in unbelievable pain…he landed hard, screaming and screaming but the pain wouldn’t stop. He cried, wishing the pain would stop. And finally, it all went black…
Joby awoke with a start, torn from the vivid nightmares that plagued him every night. He felt so hot…cold sweat dripped from his forehead onto the saturated pillow. The sheets clung to him like a thin wetsuit, and he struggled to free himself from the claws of his own bed.
He groggily sat up, brushed his hand through his hair, and opened his eyes. He laughed confusedly…this wasn’t his bedroom.
Joby awoke with a start, torn from the vivid nightmares that plagued him every night. He felt so hot…cold sweat dripped from his forehead onto the saturated pillow. The sheets clung to him like a thin wetsuit, and he struggled to free himself from the claws of his own bed.
He groggily sat up, brushed his hand through his hair, and opened his eyes. He laughed confusedly…this wasn’t his bedroom. He’d had dreams like this before, where he’d ‘wake-up’ and find himself in a completely different environment. Admittedly, although it would seem the most likely scene, he never woke up in a different bedroom, it was usually somewhere outside, like in the tiger’s den at the zoo. Once he even found himself lying across the sofa at a local church committee group meeting.
However, this was real, Joby was sure of that. Well for one thing there were no tigers, cups of tea or elderly women…but there was one item that caught his attention instantly. It was the ceiling. Well it wasn’t exactly a ceiling, but more of a transparent blanket that covered the whole room. He gazed in awe as the sun’s rays shone through the glass, distorting his vision, creating silhouettes of angels that danced across his eyes.
He smiled happily, got to his feet and twisted around, taking in his surroundings. He was greeted by a wave of white…the whole room had been painted white, and the sun’s glare forced him to squint before he gradually became used to the brightness. The room was relatively small and perfectly square, the bed situated in the far left-hand corner.
He walked to the far end of the room and examined the windowsill. There wasn’t much there, a Liverpool moneybox, full of 1 and 2ps by the looks of things. There was a rather crude clay pot, obviously something made by a young child, and a number of small model toy cars. Underneath the windowsill was a basic wooden desk, with a couple of drawers and another little shelf just above it.
The shelf housed a collection of children’s books, ranging from the odd Mr Men story to a rather dusty and obviously unopened version of Treasure Island…Joby guessed this book was a little old for whoever’s room this was. A small Winnie-The-Pooh lamp stood tall like a tower in one corner of the desk. It was already on, illuminating the unkempt piles of books and videos that took up most of the space. Joby took a quick look in the drawers, not wanting to pry too much and found a lot of drawings. Most were just doodles, but they were full of colour and imagination. He also found the odd story, obviously written by a child because they were only a few lines long and the writing was a little hard to read, but it certainly wasn’t bad.
Joby closed the drawers and turned off the lamp. In doing so, something caught his eye behind the bed…a rocking horse. It was pure white, just like the walls. He rocked it for a little while, trying to imagine the child that lived in this room. After a minute or so he looked back at his bed.
On the left-hand wall above was a painting. It was nothing professional, if anything it was childlike…very childlike. He took a closer look, and realised it was a painting done in school. It was a painting of a boy, standing on the beach in the bright sunshine, seagulls flying above and the sea lapping calmly nearby. The boy was smiling widely. It was a self-portrait by the looks of things.
It was signed at the bottom, but it was very hard to make out. All he could make out was, “-ge 5. August.” The picture filled Joby with a sense of happiness and fulfilment, and he smiled. For a 5-year-old, it was very good, whoever’s room this was obviously had some imagination.
He turned around completely to face the opposite wall, and what he saw chilled his blood. It was a painting, much like the one he’d just studied. In fact it was similar in almost every way. But in this one…it was raining. Pouring. The sea was a dark, dirty green, and the boy…the boy wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even crying. He was just…lifeless. In a split second, this painting had destroyed whatever bright, cheery and happy ideas Joby had about the room. Like a leech, it sucked all the blood, all the life, from the bedroom…Joby was unsure as to why it had such an effect on him, but he was sure of one thing, he would not be able to view the room in the same way ever again.
This made Joby sad. At the bottom it was signed, but again, all he could make out was “-ge 5. September.”
Joby slowly turned a full circle, his sadness ever growing. There was really nothing else in this room. It was just so…empty, and bland. Even the glimmering sunshine didn’t add life to what was in fact, a dead room. He turned back to the first painting, and wondered how a child that could paint such a vibrant, colourful and…happy picture, could have such a lifeless room.
He twisted once again, and took another look at the second painting. What happened? Why had such a happy picture been transformed into something…something that literally sent shivers down his spine.
Suddenly the door opened, and a middle-aged woman with a worn face slowly walked in. She was probably in her thirties but she had not aged well. She smiled thinly, “good morning Joby. I was going to make you some break…ah, I see you’re looking at the pictures. Do you know who did them?”
Joby shook his head.
The woman sighed, “no…no, I suppose you wouldn’t. It might surprise you to know this, but you did them darling.” A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she pointed to the first painting, “you did this just a day before…before the accident.” She took his hand and held onto it tightly, “you were such a happy boy…” She trailed off, almost as though she was talking to herself. She nodded towards the second picture, crying quite openly now, “and that…that you drew one day after…just minutes after you were told the news.”
She let go of his hand and wiped her eyes with a tissue, before looking down at him once again, “but I suppose you don’t remember that either. Maybe one day…maybe one day you’ll remember, and you’ll be my little Joby once again.”
She stood and stared into a space for a moment, silently asking God why this terrible tragedy had befallen her own son. In many ways, she wished that like him, she couldn’t remember any of the last couple of years either. Finally she wiped her eyes one more time and said, “I better go and see how your sister is.” She tried to smile for her son, “call me if you need anything honey.” And then she left, shutting the door behind her.
Joby stood, confused for a moment. Who was she? He wasn’t scared of her, no…for some reason she felt familiar. And she obviously knew and cared for him. He looked at the pictures once again…he’d done them?
Suddenly Joby felt so tired. He stumbled back into bed, his head pounding and closed his eyes tight. He tried to ignore the sunlight and think of his own room back home… wherever that was. But he just couldn’t picture it. He couldn’t remember…he couldn’t remember anything! He grimaced and shut his eyes even tighter, desperate to fall back into sleep…
The paintings had been signed, “Joby. Age 5. August” and “Joby. Age 5. September.”
____________________________
It was all a blur really…lights flashed past him, he could hear many voices, but he couldn’t see where he was going or what he was doing. Although he knew it was coming, he could never stop it…WHAM! The blinding impact came and he could feel himself flying through the air, his head in unbelievable pain…he landed hard, screaming and screaming but the pain wouldn’t stop. He cried, wishing the pain would stop. And finally, it all went black…
Joby awoke with a start, torn from the vivid nightmares that plagued him every night. He felt so hot…cold sweat dripped from his forehead onto the saturated pillow. The sheets clung to him like a thin wetsuit, and he struggled to free himself from the claws of his own bed.
He groggily sat up, brushed his hand through his hair, and opened his eyes. He laughed confusedly…this wasn’t his bedroom.
Nice to see a rare entry by Ant (hmmmm... that sounded a little wrong to me.)
Nice story, suitably bleak, very descriptive and the ending was great. A very nice read.
Nice story, suitably bleak, very descriptive and the ending was great. A very nice read.
:D
Me like.
Bit psychotic, bit odd, but me like. 'Tis scary though. The whole "me not know who am... Me crazy."
But yeah, good :D.
Me like.
Bit psychotic, bit odd, but me like. 'Tis scary though. The whole "me not know who am... Me crazy."
But yeah, good :D.
1) You don't have to sign up
2) I'm glad you entered. It's nice to see another story from you after so much time and this just shows that you haven't lost that touch!
Great story.
2) I'm glad you entered. It's nice to see another story from you after so much time and this just shows that you haven't lost that touch!
Great story.
First time I've entered, sorry it doesn't have much to do with a leech heh...I just had an idea and wanted to run with it. It's obviously not as good as most of yours but I haven't written for a while so I'm probably a little rusty.
And apologies if I was supposed to...sign up or something first. {:)
Edit - And apologies to Joby for using his name...obviously has nothing to do with him, I just love the name. :D
And apologies if I was supposed to...sign up or something first. {:)
Edit - And apologies to Joby for using his name...obviously has nothing to do with him, I just love the name. :D
It was all a blur really…lights flashed past him, he could hear many voices, but he couldn’t see where he was going or what he was doing. Although he knew it was coming, he could never stop it…WHAM! The blinding impact came and he could feel himself flying through the air, his head in unbelievable pain…he landed hard, screaming and screaming, but the pain wouldn’t stop. He cried, wishing the pain would stop. And finally, it all went black…
Joby awoke with a start, torn from the vivid nightmares that plagued him every night. He felt so hot…cold sweat dripped from his forehead onto the saturated pillow. The sheets clung to him like a thin wetsuit, and he struggled to free himself from the claws of his own bed.
He groggily sat up, brushed his hand through his hair, and opened his eyes. He laughed confusedly…this wasn’t his bedroom. He’d had dreams like this before, where he’d ‘wake-up’ and find himself in a completely different environment. Admittedly, although it would seem the most likely scene, he never woke up in a different bedroom, it was usually somewhere outside, like in the tiger’s den at the zoo. Once he even found himself lying across the sofa at a local church committee group meeting.
However, this was real, Joby was sure of that. Well for one thing there were no tigers, cups of tea or elderly women…but there was one item that caught his attention instantly. It was the ceiling. Well it wasn’t exactly a ceiling, but more of a transparent blanket that covered the whole room. He gazed in awe as the sun’s rays shone through the glass, distorting his vision, creating silhouettes of angels that danced across his eyes.
He smiled happily, got to his feet and twisted around, taking in his surroundings. He was greeted by a wave of white…the whole room had been painted white, and the sun’s glare forced him to squint before he gradually became used to the brightness. The room was relatively small and perfectly square, the bed situated in the far left-hand corner.
He walked to the far end of the room and examined the windowsill. There wasn’t much there, a Liverpool moneybox, full of 1 and 2ps by the looks of things. There was a rather crude clay pot, obviously something made by a young child, and a number of small model toy cars. Underneath the windowsill was a basic wooden desk, with a couple of drawers and another little shelf just above it.
The shelf housed a collection of children’s books, ranging from the odd Mr Men story to a rather dusty and obviously unopened version of Treasure Island…Joby guessed this book was a little old for whoever’s room this was. A small Winnie-The-Pooh lamp stood tall like a tower in one corner of the desk. It was already on, illuminating the unkempt piles of books and videos that took up most of the space. Joby took a quick look in the drawers, not wanting to pry too much and found a lot of drawings. Most were just doodles, but they were full of colour and imagination. He also found the odd story, obviously written by a child because they were only a few lines long and the writing was a little hard to read, but it certainly wasn’t bad.
Joby closed the drawers and turned off the lamp. In doing so, something caught his eye behind the bed…a rocking horse. It was pure white, just like the walls. He rocked it for a little while, trying to imagine the child that lived in this room. After a minute or so he looked back at his bed.
On the left-hand wall above was a painting. It was nothing professional, if anything it was childlike…very childlike. He took a closer look, and realised it was a painting done in school. It was a painting of a boy, standing on the beach in the bright sunshine, seagulls flying above and the sea lapping calmly nearby. The boy was smiling widely. It was a self-portrait by the looks of things.
It was signed at the bottom, but it was very hard to make out. All he could make out was, “-ge 5. August.” The picture filled Joby with a sense of happiness and fulfilment, and he smiled. For a 5-year-old, it was very good, whoever’s room this was obviously had some imagination.
He turned around completely to face the opposite wall, and what he saw chilled his blood. It was a painting, much like the one he’d just studied. In fact it was similar in almost every way. But in this one…it was raining. Pouring. The sea was a dark, dirty green, and the boy…the boy wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even crying. He was just…lifeless. In a split second, this painting had destroyed whatever bright, cheery and happy ideas Joby had about the room. Like a leech, it sucked all the blood, all the life, from the bedroom…Joby was unsure as to why it had such an effect on him, but he was sure of one thing, he would not be able to view the room in the same way ever again.
This made Joby sad. At the bottom it was signed, but again, all he could make out was “-ge 5. September.”
Joby slowly turned a full circle, his sadness ever growing. There was really nothing else in this room. It was just so…empty, and bland. Even the glimmering sunshine didn’t add life to what was in fact, a dead room. He turned back to the first painting, and wondered how a child that could paint such a vibrant, colourful and…happy picture, could have such a lifeless room.
He twisted once again, and took another look at the second painting. What happened? Why had such a happy picture been transformed into something…something that literally sent shivers down his spine.
Suddenly the door opened, and a middle-aged woman with a worn face slowly walked in. She was probably in her thirties but she had not aged well. She smiled thinly, “good morning Joby. I was going to make you some break…ah, I see you’re looking at the pictures. Do you know who did them?”
Joby shook his head.
The woman sighed, “no…no, I suppose you wouldn’t. It might surprise you to know this, but you did them darling.” A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she pointed to the first painting, “you did this just a day before…before the accident.” She took his hand and held onto it tightly, “you were such a happy boy…” She trailed off, almost as though she was talking to herself. She nodded towards the second picture, crying quite openly now, “and that…that you drew one day after…just minutes after you were told the news.”
She let go of his hand and wiped her eyes with a tissue, before looking down at him once again, “but I suppose you don’t remember that either. Maybe one day…maybe one day you’ll remember, and you’ll be my little Joby once again.”
She stood and stared into a space for a moment, silently asking God why this terrible tragedy had befallen her own son. In many ways, she wished that like him, she couldn’t remember any of the last couple of years either. Finally she wiped her eyes one more time and said, “I better go and see how your sister is.” She tried to smile for her son, “call me if you need anything honey.” And then she left, shutting the door behind her.
Joby stood, confused for a moment. Who was she? He wasn’t scared of her, no…for some reason she felt familiar. And she obviously knew and cared for him. He looked at the pictures once again…he’d done them?
Suddenly Joby felt so tired. He stumbled back into bed, his head pounding and closed his eyes tight. He tried to ignore the sunlight and think of his own room back home… wherever that was. But he just couldn’t picture it. He couldn’t remember…he couldn’t remember anything! He grimaced and shut his eyes even tighter, desperate to fall back into sleep…
The paintings had been signed, “Joby. Age 5. August” and “Joby. Age 5. September.”
____________________________
It was all a blur really…lights flashed past him, he could hear many voices, but he couldn’t see where he was going or what he was doing. Although he knew it was coming, he could never stop it…WHAM! The blinding impact came and he could feel himself flying through the air, his head in unbelievable pain…he landed hard, screaming and screaming but the pain wouldn’t stop. He cried, wishing the pain would stop. And finally, it all went black…
Joby awoke with a start, torn from the vivid nightmares that plagued him every night. He felt so hot…cold sweat dripped from his forehead onto the saturated pillow. The sheets clung to him like a thin wetsuit, and he struggled to free himself from the claws of his own bed.
He groggily sat up, brushed his hand through his hair, and opened his eyes. He laughed confusedly…this wasn’t his bedroom.
Joby awoke with a start, torn from the vivid nightmares that plagued him every night. He felt so hot…cold sweat dripped from his forehead onto the saturated pillow. The sheets clung to him like a thin wetsuit, and he struggled to free himself from the claws of his own bed.
He groggily sat up, brushed his hand through his hair, and opened his eyes. He laughed confusedly…this wasn’t his bedroom. He’d had dreams like this before, where he’d ‘wake-up’ and find himself in a completely different environment. Admittedly, although it would seem the most likely scene, he never woke up in a different bedroom, it was usually somewhere outside, like in the tiger’s den at the zoo. Once he even found himself lying across the sofa at a local church committee group meeting.
However, this was real, Joby was sure of that. Well for one thing there were no tigers, cups of tea or elderly women…but there was one item that caught his attention instantly. It was the ceiling. Well it wasn’t exactly a ceiling, but more of a transparent blanket that covered the whole room. He gazed in awe as the sun’s rays shone through the glass, distorting his vision, creating silhouettes of angels that danced across his eyes.
He smiled happily, got to his feet and twisted around, taking in his surroundings. He was greeted by a wave of white…the whole room had been painted white, and the sun’s glare forced him to squint before he gradually became used to the brightness. The room was relatively small and perfectly square, the bed situated in the far left-hand corner.
He walked to the far end of the room and examined the windowsill. There wasn’t much there, a Liverpool moneybox, full of 1 and 2ps by the looks of things. There was a rather crude clay pot, obviously something made by a young child, and a number of small model toy cars. Underneath the windowsill was a basic wooden desk, with a couple of drawers and another little shelf just above it.
The shelf housed a collection of children’s books, ranging from the odd Mr Men story to a rather dusty and obviously unopened version of Treasure Island…Joby guessed this book was a little old for whoever’s room this was. A small Winnie-The-Pooh lamp stood tall like a tower in one corner of the desk. It was already on, illuminating the unkempt piles of books and videos that took up most of the space. Joby took a quick look in the drawers, not wanting to pry too much and found a lot of drawings. Most were just doodles, but they were full of colour and imagination. He also found the odd story, obviously written by a child because they were only a few lines long and the writing was a little hard to read, but it certainly wasn’t bad.
Joby closed the drawers and turned off the lamp. In doing so, something caught his eye behind the bed…a rocking horse. It was pure white, just like the walls. He rocked it for a little while, trying to imagine the child that lived in this room. After a minute or so he looked back at his bed.
On the left-hand wall above was a painting. It was nothing professional, if anything it was childlike…very childlike. He took a closer look, and realised it was a painting done in school. It was a painting of a boy, standing on the beach in the bright sunshine, seagulls flying above and the sea lapping calmly nearby. The boy was smiling widely. It was a self-portrait by the looks of things.
It was signed at the bottom, but it was very hard to make out. All he could make out was, “-ge 5. August.” The picture filled Joby with a sense of happiness and fulfilment, and he smiled. For a 5-year-old, it was very good, whoever’s room this was obviously had some imagination.
He turned around completely to face the opposite wall, and what he saw chilled his blood. It was a painting, much like the one he’d just studied. In fact it was similar in almost every way. But in this one…it was raining. Pouring. The sea was a dark, dirty green, and the boy…the boy wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even crying. He was just…lifeless. In a split second, this painting had destroyed whatever bright, cheery and happy ideas Joby had about the room. Like a leech, it sucked all the blood, all the life, from the bedroom…Joby was unsure as to why it had such an effect on him, but he was sure of one thing, he would not be able to view the room in the same way ever again.
This made Joby sad. At the bottom it was signed, but again, all he could make out was “-ge 5. September.”
Joby slowly turned a full circle, his sadness ever growing. There was really nothing else in this room. It was just so…empty, and bland. Even the glimmering sunshine didn’t add life to what was in fact, a dead room. He turned back to the first painting, and wondered how a child that could paint such a vibrant, colourful and…happy picture, could have such a lifeless room.
He twisted once again, and took another look at the second painting. What happened? Why had such a happy picture been transformed into something…something that literally sent shivers down his spine.
Suddenly the door opened, and a middle-aged woman with a worn face slowly walked in. She was probably in her thirties but she had not aged well. She smiled thinly, “good morning Joby. I was going to make you some break…ah, I see you’re looking at the pictures. Do you know who did them?”
Joby shook his head.
The woman sighed, “no…no, I suppose you wouldn’t. It might surprise you to know this, but you did them darling.” A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she pointed to the first painting, “you did this just a day before…before the accident.” She took his hand and held onto it tightly, “you were such a happy boy…” She trailed off, almost as though she was talking to herself. She nodded towards the second picture, crying quite openly now, “and that…that you drew one day after…just minutes after you were told the news.”
She let go of his hand and wiped her eyes with a tissue, before looking down at him once again, “but I suppose you don’t remember that either. Maybe one day…maybe one day you’ll remember, and you’ll be my little Joby once again.”
She stood and stared into a space for a moment, silently asking God why this terrible tragedy had befallen her own son. In many ways, she wished that like him, she couldn’t remember any of the last couple of years either. Finally she wiped her eyes one more time and said, “I better go and see how your sister is.” She tried to smile for her son, “call me if you need anything honey.” And then she left, shutting the door behind her.
Joby stood, confused for a moment. Who was she? He wasn’t scared of her, no…for some reason she felt familiar. And she obviously knew and cared for him. He looked at the pictures once again…he’d done them?
Suddenly Joby felt so tired. He stumbled back into bed, his head pounding and closed his eyes tight. He tried to ignore the sunlight and think of his own room back home… wherever that was. But he just couldn’t picture it. He couldn’t remember…he couldn’t remember anything! He grimaced and shut his eyes even tighter, desperate to fall back into sleep…
The paintings had been signed, “Joby. Age 5. August” and “Joby. Age 5. September.”
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It was all a blur really…lights flashed past him, he could hear many voices, but he couldn’t see where he was going or what he was doing. Although he knew it was coming, he could never stop it…WHAM! The blinding impact came and he could feel himself flying through the air, his head in unbelievable pain…he landed hard, screaming and screaming but the pain wouldn’t stop. He cried, wishing the pain would stop. And finally, it all went black…
Joby awoke with a start, torn from the vivid nightmares that plagued him every night. He felt so hot…cold sweat dripped from his forehead onto the saturated pillow. The sheets clung to him like a thin wetsuit, and he struggled to free himself from the claws of his own bed.
He groggily sat up, brushed his hand through his hair, and opened his eyes. He laughed confusedly…this wasn’t his bedroom.