nolan_void

Mrs. Ratliffe watched the little boy patiently as he sat in her office, coloring studiously as she tried to figure out how to approach him. His teacher had told her that he had always been a quiet boy, and that lately she began to suspect that he may have been receiving some sort of abuse at home. As a counselor, she was prepared to handle this sort of thing, but it was a very delicate matter and no two children were ever the same. She took a breath and entered the office.

"Hello, Devin," she smiled, "I'm Mrs. Ratliffe and I just wanted to talk to you a little bit. Is that okay?"

Devin continued to color, "Hi."

"How old are you Devin?" she asked, knowing how proud she had been of her age when she was as young as Devin and thinking of how ironic it was that the attitude reversed when she hit thirty.

"Seven," he answered, still intent on his artwork.

"Mrs. Anderson has told me that you keep to yourself a lot, " Mrs. Ratliffe said. Devin made no reply. "I just want you to know that you don't have to be afraid to talk to me. I don't have cooties like all the other girls."

"I'm not afraid," Devin said very assuredly.

Mrs. Ratliffe watched him color. From the time she had stepped in, he had not looked her once. His attention had remained fixed on the drawing. "What are you coloring?" she asked, "Can I see?"

Devin made no protest. Mrs. Ratliffe walked around the edge of the round table and sat in a chair that was low for her, but still rather high up for Devin's size. She felt her heart leap a little when she looked down at the paper. Devin was quite the artist, much better than she had expected from a seven-year-old, but more suprising than his talent was the content. Almost entirely in red and black crayon, Devin had drawn a screaming figure reaching out from a knot of chains and fetters. It appeared emaciated, with sunken glowing eyes and an expression somewhere between anguish and outrage. Mrs. Ratliffe took a breath and watched Devin a moment longer. He did not look up, but continued to wave the crayons back and forth, like little blades of black and red grass swaying in the wind.

She swallowed and asked, "Who is this Devin?"

Devin did not answer. Mrs Ratliffe tried again, "Is this someone you know, Devin?"

No reply, just coloring, adding detail to every shadow and curve.

"Is this you, Devin?" she asked.

"No," he finally said, "It's the Devil."

"Why are you drawing the Devil, Devin?" he still did not look at her. He was silent, and she was not sure whether which she felt more: frustration or anxiety. She had now grown quite uncomfortable, and could see why Mrs. Anderson had sent him to her. "Devin? Could you look at me please?" she asked. He stopped coloring and sighed.

"Don't be afraid," Devin said to her, and turned his head towards her. A shiver ran down her spine, and suddenly as she gazed into the child's face, she became so nervous that she could barely conceal it.

"Why are you coloring the Devil, Devin?" she asked again, trying not to let her voice waver. There was something about him that made her feel very silly, like when you are walking up stairs all alone at night and you feel as if someone is right behind you.

"I used to see him in my closet at night," Devin began, "and he would tell me things. He would try to scare me. Sometimes he would get under my bed and reach up towards the side, and try and make me feel like if I got too close he would get me. Sometimes he would get right beside me so I could feel him breathe on my cheek."

Mrs. Ratliffe shifted nervously in her seat. She now assumed that the assumptions she and Mrs. Anderson had made about abuse seemed to be accurate. Somehow this idea comforted her, but she was perplexed at her inability to be at ease. It was her job to be calm and strong in this situation, and she was almost angry that the positions seemed to be reversed. Devin had picked up his crayon again and continued coloring.

"Did he ever touch you, or hurt you, Devin?," Mrs. Ratliffe asked.

"No," Devin said simply, "He couldn't. He tried though. When he couldn't scare me, he tried."

"What do you mean he tried?" she asked.

"He tried to take me away. To the bad place, " Devin answered.

"What place is that?" she asked, though she had an idea.

"Hell, I guess."

"But he couldn't?"

"He tried. When he got ahold of me though, he got stuck. He got stuck and he couldn't get away. And now he can't do anything, because I've got him. He's all chained up."

Mrs. Ratliffe looked at Devin. She realized that her hands had become clammy. Devin glanced at her, and for a brief moment she saw into his eyes. Something burned behind them, like a scream that you couldn't hear but could somehow see instead. She turned her head away.

"You don't have to be afraid, Mrs. Ratliffe. I've got him, and he can't get away."