Chapter 8
Elliot was afraid of the garden.
That surprised me.
Not the column.
The entire lawn.
He stood at the terrace doors and refused to step outside.
“No.”
I crouched.
“Okay.”
No persuasion.
No bravery speech.
We ate lunch inside.
Next day, same.
Third day, he stepped onto one stone tile.
Then back.
Fine.
His monitor stayed quiet.
A week later he asked to water herbs.
We did.
He saw the broken column chain in a storage box.
Froze.
I removed it.
Not ceremonially.
Dropped it into the tool shed.
Then stopped.
Why hide it?
Because I hated it.
Was that for him or me?
I asked:
“Want it gone?”
He thought.
“Cut.”
Interesting.
So we cut it into pieces with the same heavy garden cutter I used to free him.
He watched.
Then picked one harmless short link.
“Keep?”
I almost said no.
Then:
“Your choice.”
He kept it in a drawer with rocks, coins, and one dead beetle he considered treasure.
Children refuse adult symbolism.
Good.
The chain became a piece of metal.
Not destiny.
His monitor began alarming less too.
Not zero.
Bodies remain bodies.
The first time it chirped while we were playing, he went pale.
“Bad?”
“No.”
“Punishment?”
“No.”
I sat beside him.
“We listen to it.”
He looked at the device.
Then me.
“What say?”
“That your body needs us to pay attention.”
He considered.
Not weak.
Not bad.
Information.
Simple.
Then he leaned against me until the alarm settled.
May you like
Trust replacing shame.
Slowly.
