I Got To See Him Again Today. Yesterday was the day I got…
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I Got To See Him Again Today.
Yesterday was the day I got to see him again. He's grown so, so strong ever since I was last allowed to see him. I turned off the light, dragging the heavy metal door open with a loud screech. I heard his thick feet pad away, and his shawl drag on the ground into the dark. Oh, it hurt how he couldn't let me see him. The rusted door slammed behind me as I crept in, despite my best efforts to slow the thing.
"Hey.” My voice was shaky and quiet; I didn’t want to scare him, but it's hard when he knows me as well as he would a stranger. I heard him back away as my voice reverberated off the concrete walls. It pained me to think that he was scared of me. I, who loved him very much, who tried so hard to give him a better life than our father ever had given me. I wanted him to know how much I loved him, but it was hard enough. I wish he didn't make it harder.
I passed him the crinkled piece of paper that I had smuggled in my pocket. "Write what you want to tell me, okay?" I heard his shawl drag and flip before a small match burned behind the wall of thick wool he held up. I heard it clatter on the ground, illuminating his figure upon the wall as he scratched out a note on the paper. His shadow looked so beautiful, so strong and full-bodied. I couldn't wait to see what he had written me; I was practically bouncing up and down in excitement.
He had always been a prodigy. Every time I visited, I gave him hand-me-down books from father: old reads such as To Kill a Mockingbird, The Grapes of Wrath, and Huckleberry Finn. Great stimulation for his mind. He'd hoot with excitement as he felt the thickness of the book. It always made him happy to have something to pass the time between visits. His intelligence was that of a genius. Maybe it's just my bias, but he is the smartest man I've ever met. Give him a book, and he'll have a review on it that'll make you more emotional than reading the book yourself.
He stifled the match, and I felt his breath on my face. The paper poked me in my chest and I recoiled. Reaching out, I grabbed the paper, feeling his hand. What a nice hand he had; the softened contusions and gnarled, raw flesh nearly gave way against my own. "I love you," I said, kissing my hand and placing it on his. I stood up, heaving open the door and shutting it behind me. I looked at the note he had written, smoothing out the crumpled sheet.
"I wish Pa loved us," it read in malformed letters. My misshapen hands dug into the letter as my eye grew wet with emotion. "Maybe then he would let us out more."
#entertainment
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Yesterday was the day I got to see him again. He's grown so, so strong ever since I was last allowed to see him. I turned off the light, dragging the heavy metal door open with a loud screech. I heard his thick feet pad away, and his shawl drag on the ground into the dark. Oh, it hurt how he couldn't let me see him. The rusted door slammed behind me as I crept in, despite my best efforts to slow the thing.
"Hey.” My voice was shaky and quiet; I didn’t want to scare him, but it's hard when he knows me as well as he would a stranger. I heard him back away as my voice reverberated off the concrete walls. It pained me to think that he was scared of me. I, who loved him very much, who tried so hard to give him a better life than our father ever had given me. I wanted him to know how much I loved him, but it was hard enough. I wish he didn't make it harder.
I passed him the crinkled piece of paper that I had smuggled in my pocket. "Write what you want to tell me, okay?" I heard his shawl drag and flip before a small match burned behind the wall of thick wool he held up. I heard it clatter on the ground, illuminating his figure upon the wall as he scratched out a note on the paper. His shadow looked so beautiful, so strong and full-bodied. I couldn't wait to see what he had written me; I was practically bouncing up and down in excitement.
He had always been a prodigy. Every time I visited, I gave him hand-me-down books from father: old reads such as To Kill a Mockingbird, The Grapes of Wrath, and Huckleberry Finn. Great stimulation for his mind. He'd hoot with excitement as he felt the thickness of the book. It always made him happy to have something to pass the time between visits. His intelligence was that of a genius. Maybe it's just my bias, but he is the smartest man I've ever met. Give him a book, and he'll have a review on it that'll make you more emotional than reading the book yourself.
He stifled the match, and I felt his breath on my face. The paper poked me in my chest and I recoiled. Reaching out, I grabbed the paper, feeling his hand. What a nice hand he had; the softened contusions and gnarled, raw flesh nearly gave way against my own. "I love you," I said, kissing my hand and placing it on his. I stood up, heaving open the door and shutting it behind me. I looked at the note he had written, smoothing out the crumpled sheet.
"I wish Pa loved us," it read in malformed letters. My misshapen hands dug into the letter as my eye grew wet with emotion. "Maybe then he would let us out more."
#entertainment
source
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