The Blue Boy hung in my Grandmother's guest room. I was a small child. My blanket was itchy, and the potent stench of mothballs hung in the humid air. I could not sleep.
He judged me for my fear, and for my innocence. He had done terrible things, but he did not regret them.
Each time I visited my grandmother, his face had become more pale. The sun worked steadily on the cheap print, bleaching The Blue Boy's face. As his visage faded, it only became more vivid in my imagination. In the dim light, his eyes moved. His lips shifted. He spoke to me.
These imperfect renderings are the only cure I have found for his near constant presence. They occupy the space in my vision and mind that he would otherwise fill. But they are not the same. They are quiet. I cherish them.
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He judged me for my fear, and for my innocence. He had done terrible things, but he did not regret them.