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December 1st.
Hats off to Roger. For getting this book as a little joke, very funny. Even funnier now that I’m using it. He says I need to get my emotions out, in that shrill voice of his, the fool.
Thank you Roger, for being such a kind, wonderful, friend. Oh how I love it when you go out of your way to purchase things that I’ll never use nor have I ever asked for. And embarrassing me in front of everyone we know. What a good, fine, beloved chap you are!
Expect a gift under your pillow tonight.
December 10th
Simon has hair the same color as a mouse. It’s strange really, I’ve been seeing the pests all over the place. Nawing on someone’s lunch here and there, or hidden under the pews. The face of the old ladies who spot them is priceless. Maurice told me a story, he used to have one. I don’t care for them.
But…the similarities strike me. Same big buggy eyes, same tendency to run away when things get to real.
He’s been avoiding me as of late, the coward. Wonderful, now I have no one to talk to. Roger’s been a pain, and Maurice follows me everywhere. Atleast with him, he gave me space.
And actually listened.
I’m not the one to get emotional. Father says it makes a boy weak, I can’t say I exactly agree. Simon does not show emotion. That is what I like about him. He stays in the corner and doesn’t disturb the world with his thoughts.
If he had any.
He’s an empty brain, an airhead.
I’ve come to this realization during vows, sitting in the pews. It was boring. And then I saw it.
A mouse stared at me. As if begging for a piece of attention. I tried to kick it away, but surprise. It came coming back, like someone else I know.
Yes, if you must know I did fold. Threw the little pest a piece of biscuit from dinner. It’s eyes starting acting weird, going in and out of its nasty skull. Disgusting, but it seemed happy enough. I gave it one tiny piece and it still adored me.
How ironic.
December 15th.
Everyone is gone, except for the mice and I. And Simon. Holiday, the chance for everyone to run away like they’re normal children and not angels.
He’s always trying to escape me, even when I’m miles away. Am I that terrifying? To chase is relentless, but my efforts have worth. The walls are thin, and he is fast, but I am quicker.
This game of cat and mouse tires me so. He leaps, and I pick my teeth, the cycle repeats. Surely he knows how boring this is.
One day I’ll catch him, or even better, he’ll come to me.
Meanwhile, Maurice is by my side. Complaining of how his shoes weren’t polished, and his Christmas gifts were lacking compared to last year. His house is grand, white brick and white fence. Roger never writes to him, he complains of that too. I should be grateful I’m not alone, and yet… I am still bored.
I miss being truly entertained. Maurice asked me what I write, I lie, say it’s to keep track of the days.
December 20
Mother once said that blond boys were a gift from god. “Fair hair is a sign of glory,” she said. Not once have I felt glory. Untouchable maybe. Courageous, sure.
So I yelled. At the Tree of destiny closed my eyes and pretended that I did have a say. I could tell just from his eyes Simon was impressed, so a job well done.
At last. My efforts were paid! We met under the chapel’s bell, when Father Laurence bid us goodnight, the old fool was none the wiser.
Checked the clock, went out the door, and there he was, faced away near the arch. Somehow, I knew how he felt, right then and there.
I cannot tell anyone else. So I’ll tell you, useless thing.
It’s like he’s everywhere. It’s creepy. In the eyes of a praying mantis, a damn mouse in Maurice’s soup. He watches me everywhere, when I step outside and see that tree it haunts me so. It really does. I am never alone, even when I want to be. Because he’s there in the dewdrops, in the blades of green grass, terrible I know. Why can’t he just stay away? I hear piano keys when he’s gone. Roger gives me a strange look whenever he’s near, as if he has the slightest clue what’s going on with us— me. I can drown in the forests of his eyes, he sickens me. What’s wrong with him?
If he is not a God then how come he is everywhere the light touches. He seeps into the cracks of the stone where I walk, he sleeps in the large oak, I will not run. Because I’m not a coward, I will not be hunted.
I saw him. Today.
He kept staring at me. Why does he always have to suffocate me?
He irritates me. I hate him.
December 27th
My own mother didn’t stay to tuck me in. But you did.
How odd it is when someone you can’t stand cares for you.
We must have dived in thousands of books, ones that didn’t catch my favor discarded on the floor. They piled up.
Simon pitched his voice so hard it broke his vocal chords, it was hysterical. He craned his neck and pretended to have a cane for Aunt Polly, put bass for Tom Sawyer—it was brilliant. He has a talent, and that’s coming from me. And for Jim, I’ve never seen him so peaceful, so kind. He always looks so solemn, but for once he smiled, as his hands closed the pages.
Do not think that I have grown soft, for he’s just there for my entertainment honestly. Like how a jester performs for a grand king and his court. Like how a god makes his angels sing.
I, I think his face was warm. I could feel it spread throughout my hand, to my head, the pain numbed after a while. In sleep, I felt nothing. No pain.
This sickness must be deeper than I thought.
December 31
Not many boys can sing as high as me. Not at all, not even Maurice comes close and he’s quite the chirper. Everyone believes I am egotistical, but that’s simply their own insecurities darting back to me. I know I am special, because I know so.
Simon stood over me, a cloth in his hand with a face. Same as the tree, same as the hills, that same face.
It’s as if he can see right through me. And I am not glass, I do not need to be visible to anyone except my own reflection. He thinks he can look at people and decipher them if he tries hard enough. Well? There’s nothing to decipher, he got the point eventually. Flowers pull away from my touch, these woods no longer whistle when I cross. And our tree, the tree of destiny wilts right before my eyes.
He does not gaze at Maurice or Roger that way. Or Bill or Robert. Not George, not Philip. I have something special.
I am special.
Of course I always knew this.
But it’s good to have proof.
“Life’s not fair,” Father spat. I’ll make it fair. He’ll see. He doubts me now, but if we were not gods then how else would it the world be? Humans have more power than a God that cannot speak.
I can run. I write, I sing, me. Not God.
Where he floats, I walk on two perfect strong legs. He cannot be seen, and yet here I am. Perfect in vision.
Simon comes after my call. I don’t open my mouth to speak and yet he appears. Who else has such loyalty from him? No one. If I were not a god, then how come angels follow where I walk?
He should have known better. You get what you deserve, that's what I always say.
We ought to know who ought to say things.
Real men lead, and those who are smaller cling to them.
I only have one person who refuses to cling, and he more than anyone should get in line. It’s for his own good.
Jan 4
I packed all the essentials, things I’d need, or could give to someone else in case we were lacking. I am the leader afterall. Gauze, bandaids, septic, cinnamon candies. I didn’t tell anyone I had it in case they rallied on me for it, but still, I did it. So no one could say I was unprepared. Our days are numbered before we leave London. Soldiers preparing for a dark war. But not yet.
Just you wait, when that day comes.
Simon hasn’t written me back, I sent him an apology letter, and went all the way to his bloody house just to deliver it. Made sure no one saw, when mother and father were gone. His brick steps were always so quiet, I remember the stories of his drunk of a father, but still I needed wanted to go.
I think he spoke of something, the tree. His face contorted with sorrow, it was hideous, yet I couldn’t look away. I said nothing, because it’s a waste to dwell. Men do not…do not share such worlds with men alike.
It was quiet. Except for the sound of the flies buzzing around their only lantern. I wasn’t scared. Not at all.
It would have been stupid to knock on the door, so I walked around, his house is small, pitiful. His window wasn’t the first, or the second, not even the boarded up third. It was the last, hidden by a shield of bushes. As if he were some sort of princess to be protected.
And then he was, staring at me through the window. His hollow eyes, big as an owl's. His mouth opened to say something, some horrible curse, teeth grey and tongue black. To keep me ensnared, to keep me stuck to him.
Batty.
Insane.
Everyone was right about him. I dropped the letter, gone I was. Before I was infected.
He’ll be grateful for my efforts, that’s what I thought. Then Monday turned to Friday. And he hadn’t written a single damn word back. Surely I haven’t said anything wrong.
Jan 6
He hasn’t said anything.
It’s been days.
He better make good when that day comes, I expect utter servitude. After all I’ve done for him.