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A Whole Child Ago
Blood-streaked portions of the sky swept across the clouds as the forsaken sun slowly slipped into exile behind the mountain pass. The molten orb retreated in the face of defeat from the torrents ripping across the night. It was dark, wet, freezing the rain into scattered crystal as it hit the ground. Flashes of light slid down from the heavens to smash into the soil with theatrics, harmonizing the roar of thunder rippling in the air.
One flash of lightning came closer than the rest, lighting up the porch of an old brick house to expose the figure resting on the seats in front. The house seemed strong, the well-built kind able to shrug off the most violent of nature much less the storm overhead. Shifting to ease the ache of cold bones, the man on the lacquered wood shivered slightly from underneath the knitted sweater. He gave a discomforted groan, breath billowing into a thick steam. His eyes stayed open and staring out at the edge of the clearing, waiting.
Upstairs, a small boy reste
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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