Read Online The Boy Who Drew Monsters: A Novel by Keith Donohue - Free Book Online

voice, guiding him to his place. “Nothing to fear. We’ll leave it open if you like, but it was just your imagination.”
    Nick climbed back into his bed with a dozen pictures in his head, and as she kissed him good night, he wanted to beg her to stay, at least until he could fall asleep, but he let her go, stumbling back to her room. He turned on the lamp on his nightstand for he knew he could not sleep in the dark.

 
    vii.
    His bedroom faced the ocean, and in the morning, the rising sun would blaze fire over water and shine through his window. If he had not drawn the curtains the night before, Jack Peter would watch the reflection of the dawn in the bureau mirror on the opposite side of the room. With a rapt devotion, he would study the way the light chased away the dark. Find the pattern, watch how it repeats itself. He would not move until it was over. He tried not to blink until he saw the whole sun. The glass would slowly come to life, changing by degrees nearly imperceptible, but with patience he could distinguish each shade and hue when the pale lavender sky was shot through by the circle of the sun. Soon he could see the long trail of glowing orange run from the horizon to the shore along the smooth surface of the sea and the gentle breaking of the waves along the bottom of the mirror. Then the burning disk would continue its slow ascent, the sky would yellow then blue, and a new day had begun.
    He got out of bed and scurried to his desk. Although the winter sunshine now filled his room, he switched on the lamp to throw a spotlight on his work. Last night’s drawings lay hidden under sheets of virgin white. The stub of a pencil weighed down the papers, and he stared at the blank surface, waiting for an image to appear, some transfer from his mind, and then with the pencil in hand, he carefully drew the first curved line, satisfied that he had at least, at last, started. Within those first few moments, he was free from all exterior distraction and possessed by the flow of lines against the page. A face appeared slowly out of nothing, not a real face, but facelike enough to stand for the thing itself, so that the image on the page became a substitute for the image that had been in his mind.
    He had nearly completed his new picture when the others began to awaken. The alarm clock in his parents’ room disturbed him from his work, and his mother rose from her bed, the box springs creaking, and out slipped a mild curse as she stubbed a toe. She would be in soon to awaken him, after she had made a pit stop in the bathroom, so he had just enough time to put away his drawing, turn off the light, climb back into bed, and pretend to be asleep.
    “Jack,” she called from above, and when he refused to answer, she spoke his name again, careful not to touch him. “Rise and shine. I can’t afford to be late today.”
    With a long and deep moan, he rolled away from her entreaties, so she circled around to the other side and sat on the edge of the bed. He opened his eyes and offered himself to her, remembering yesterday morning he had struck her by accident and wanting to make peace. He pulled her hand to his face, and she caressed his cheek and then brushed his mussed hair with her fingers. “C’mon, Jack, you’ve got to help me out here. Wake up, wake up, buttercup. Time to get out of bed, sleepyhead. We need to get dressed and have some breakfast.” After a few moments of cajoling, she succeeded at last in raising him to a seated position. He pretended to rub the sleep from his eyes.
    Mornings had become a game between the two of them. He would dawdle as long as possible whether actually tired or not, and she would coax as long as patience held out. “Lift your arms,” his mother said, and when he had surrendered, she tugged his pajama top over his head. The cold gave him the shivers and he yearned for his sweater.
    From the direction of his desk came a rattle, and as they turned toward it, they saw the top drawer