Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
A faint aroma of frying chicken lingered in the air.
The little girl flipped on the light switch.
Dark green paint coated the walls and peeled in some places. The wooden floorboards were weathered and worn, covered with books, shoes, toy soldiers, and knickknacks.
The little girl moved with familiarity through the mess, stepping over items without a second glance, her stuffed lion now held close to her chest.
Further off, an old television set was perched on a battered stand. It was clearly turned on due to the flickering lights casting across the space.
An odd song sounded from it.
In front of the TV, stood a green couch with faded brown cushions.
If only this couch could talk to us.
It was more than just a piece of furniture; it had been a witness to the history of this place, to the laughter and tears that had once filled the room.
Next to the couch, a small, scratched wooden coffee table bore the marks of everyday life, rings from coffee cups mingling with scratches and stains.
The whole place held an eerie stillness like it was suspended in time—a snapshot of a moment long passed.
In a far corner, toys and doll clothes covered the dusty floor. A lone chair sat in the corner as if it were a throne for the little girl’s imaginary kingdom.
Perhaps.
Pavel got in front of the television and watched whatever was on it. “Funny.”
What’s funny?
I headed over there.
Meanwhile, the little girl went over to the window and pushed it up. “The roof is this way.”
“Hold on.” I held my hand up and got to Pavel’s side to see what could be playing on the television. “Uh. . .”
It was some scene from a musical that I’d never heard of. A black man wore this. . .lion costume complete with a shaggy mane and odd tail.
I quirked my brows. “What is this?”
The little girl stared at me as if I were crazy. “It’s The Wiz.”
“Is it good?”
She flashed a huge smile. “It is the best movie ever in the world.”
This man in the lion costume stomped around on the steps of a building while these other people appeared scared on a yellow tiled road.
I caught some of his words as he sang and pranced around. “Did he just say that he is a mean old lion?”
Pavel snickered. “He did.”
The little girl remained by the window. “But, he really is not mean at all. He is nice.”
I pursed my lips and watched this some more.
His movements were a caricature of pride and confidence, a dance that seemed to mock the very nature of a lion.
Pavel laughed.
I frowned. “This is not funny.”
The lion pranced around with his paws—clumsy fabric-covered shoes—stomping the ground with deliberate heaviness.
Even more, his voice carried a mix of defiance and insecurity, a bravado that seemed to mask a deeper vulnerability. He flexed his muscles and bared his teeth, but the slight quiver in his voice betrayed him.
He seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as his audience of how fierce he was.
I thought of Lunita and her nickname for me.
Mean ole lion. No. This could not be the source.
A surge of annoyance surged in my chest.
Was this how she saw me?
As some caricature of a lion man, prancing around in a costume, more laughable than fearsome?
The thought was unsettling, demeaning even. I prided myself on my strength, my ability to instill fear, respect, or at least recognition of my authority.
But this. . .this was a mockery.
I looked back at the little girl. “Lunita calls me a mean ole lion.”
The little girl giggled.
I frowned. “You think that is funny?”
She bobbed her head.
“And do you think I am a mean ole lion too?”
“No.” She widened her eyes with this sweet innocence. “You are a nice, strong lion.”
“Good.” The frown left me. “Thank you.”
At least one alter understands me.
I gazed back at the TV and now the idiot man in the lion costume ran away from a tiny dog.
Hmmm.
The irony was not lost on me. Here I was, a man feared and respected in the real world, yet in Lunita’s mind, I had been reduced to a figure of ridicule.
The parallels between the lion’s false bravado and my own facade of invulnerability were uncomfortably clear.
Was I, too, just prancing around in a costume, hiding my true fears and insecurities behind a mask of toughness?
If yes, I would never admit it out loud. Not to anyone. Not even my mouse.
I tensed.
The realization that Lunita, in her childlike wisdom, might have understood me better than I understood myself was humbling.
I felt a sudden, irrational urge to switch off the television, to erase the mocking image before me, but I resisted. This was a piece of Emily’s world, a clue, perhaps, to understanding her—and, by extension. . .maybe. . .myself.
The little girl spoke, “Lunita only calls you mean ole lion so she won’t be scared of you.”