He was a small, thin boy who was only six years old. He looked so fragile and light, as if the wind could carry him off like the fluff from a dandelion. His sandy blonde hair was getting long and matted with dirt. I found him alone, sleeping in a box, in a cold and dimly lit alley. That is why I felt the need to take him home.
I wanted to take care of him like he was my own. I had such a vision of my very own precious little boy. Oh the fun I imagined us having. Everything would have been fine if he had been good and did what he was told. I wouldn’t have locked him in the cellar if he hadn’t tried to get away. It wasn’t my fault he was down there, he made it necessary.
He lived in the cellar for two and a half years – never allowed one step in the sun after that day he almost got away. I let him play in the back yard, but he just had to climb the fence. Luckily my neighbor’s vicious dog sent him scrambling back where I could catch him. Like I said, he simply wouldn’t listen. It wasn’t my fault.
I made sure he had toys, but he sat down there all day staring at a picture of a rabbit. I gave him fresh water and food twice a day. At first he ate it all, but as time went by, he barely touched it. He was such a wasteful and ungrateful child, typical of children today. Maybe if I had gotten to him sooner, there would have been hope for him.
His wasteful, despondent demeanor was putting me in a bad place. I began to hear voices. They started quietly, sounding like a conversation happening in another room. I would wander the house trying to hear what they were saying, but it seemed they were always a few paces out of my hearing range. When the message finally became clear, I didn’t like what they had to say.
They hissed a single phrase at me like a chorus of serpents. “Kill the boy.” I argued and pleaded with them.  I begged for a chance to turn things around. They said the boy would only be good when he’s dead.  I couldn’t accept that answer so I began working with the boy. I spent hours sitting with him and talking to him but got no response. I tried being goofy, silly, telling jokes, anything to try to get through to him with no luck. The voices continued to hiss their command. I thought maybe if I cleaned him up a bit the voices could see he was worth sparing. That went horribly wrong.
I drew a nice warm bath and went down to the cellar to fetch the boy. He put up quite a fuss when I picked him up, making the first sounds I had heard from him since I put him down there. His weakness made his resistance pathetic and I was easily able to carry him to the bathroom. I let him tire himself out, waiting for what seemed like forever for him to be still. I lathered up the sponge and began washing him, thinking he was no threat. That was the fatal error.
He was still while I washed his chest and arms, but when I brought the sponge up to his face, he bit down hard on my hand. As I screamed in pain, trying to pull my hand from his mouth, I saw he grabbed the shaving razor I forgot to put away. He slashed at my face with the razor, making contact with my cheek. I saw blood dripping into the tub, turning into red clouds when it met the water.
The voices filled my head, enraged and fueled by the pain. I couldn’t take any more, so instead of trying to free my hand, I pushed it hard into his mouth. I pushed him under the water and held him there until he was limp and motionless.
I drained the bath and tended to my wounds. The gash on my cheek was going to leave a nasty scar. I filled the tub back up and cleaned the boy properly, dried his hair and gave him a much needed haircut. I put him in pajamas and tucked him in bed. He even let me read him a bed time story.Â
I hated to admit it, but the voices were right. He was a good boy. We had a great time together until there came a knock at the door one day…
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