1Chapter I: Snapdragon—They Are Watching
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
They breed in the shadows.
I hear Them at night. They watch me. They crawl up my bed and into my eyes, and if I close them, it makes no difference. I can feel Them. They're everywhere. I cannot be in darkness, for that is where They live, but I cannot turn the light on … because then I could see Them, too.
There is no escape for me. They are watching.
I spend a lot of time in my studio nowadays. It's the only place I feel safe. The feel of canvas, the smell of paint, it comforts me. Here, among my works, I am completely alone, and yet I am never lonely. My paintings are my family.
My other family—my real one, you could say—is outside. My son is napping, his older sisters playing with their friends. It is as it should be. Where Eluti is, I do not know, and I tell myself I don't care. But that's not true. I do care about him and for him, and I miss him. I thought this was normal, to feel this way, but now I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything anymore. Normal no longer exists for me.
I am troubled, I know. At night, when I am most afraid, I wish for him. For his touch, his warmth, which will keep Them away. But he never comes. He never did; he never will; and I know I musn't hope for him. Yet still I cannot help but long to merely see him smile.
Jahari comes in silently, as he always does. He is like a shadow, thin, pale, and dressed darkly. But the monochromatic appearance ends with his face—with his rainbow-coloured hair and mismatched eyes, one red, the other green. His arms are covered in black fingerless gloves reaching nearly to the shoulder, and his face is marked on one cheek by a thin, spidery scar.
He kneels beside me without speaking and watches me paint for a while. I notice he's brought his guitar with him. Though piano is his first and chief instrument, he has admitted it is more difficult to transport. "Why is it so bright?" he asks suddenly, his voice soft.
It takes me a moment to realise what he's talking about—the painting. I look at it, and it feels like I am seeing it for the first time. The picture is strange, abstract, the colours bright in hues of red, orange, and yellow. "They don't like it," I say finally.
He doesn't say anything more, but simply sits and watches. By and by he takes out his guitar and begins to play, using his long nails as picks. The sound comforts and heartens me. I paint, and he plays, and we sit in a circle of our combined shielding from They who surround us and watch us.
They want him. They surround him, cover him, feed from him. I see Them watching him, and I know how much They desire him, how strongly his darkness draws Them. But then he begins to play, and They scatter.
Music keeps Them away. Colour keeps Them away. But there is no escaping Them.
They are watching.