Hero
““Stop that, Lucy,” I snap, dropping my pen and wheeling back my chair. I squint at her. Even in the shadow of the desk, Lucy’s eyes are so blue they evoke darting swallows and the canvas of billowing sails. I am aware that many fathers would feel a surge of wonder, not discomfort. I focus instead on the ugly, orange-haired rag doll she grips between her forearm and her chest. “Go and play by the window,” I mutter, colouring, ashamed that something as natural as the touch of my daughter’s finger...tips makes me recoil.
“I just wanted to see if your legs were real.”
She frowns at me from the dim light of her cave, the rag doll bent double as she wriggles backwards.
“What do you mean if my legs are real?”
I’m vexed with myself for engaging with her fancy, but the question is necessary. Several times recently I have believed Lucy to be teetering upon the edge of some nightmarish abyss only to find that it is merely my own imagination infusing some childish twitch of thought with dangerous unreason.MoreLess
“I just wanted to see if your legs were real.”
She frowns at me from the dim light of her cave, the rag doll bent double as she wriggles backwards.
“What do you mean if my legs are real?”
I’m vexed with myself for engaging with her fancy, but the question is necessary. Several times recently I have believed Lucy to be teetering upon the edge of some nightmarish abyss only to find that it is merely my own imagination infusing some childish twitch of thought with dangerous unreason.MoreLess
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