Babadook
His whole body aches. It’s all he’s aware of, at the moment. He’s still a child and so he clings to the physicality of his situation, as children often do. A headache brings them screaming the day away, a bee sting has them running from flying bugs for the next week, tripping over a log influences them to limp overdramatically for the next two days.
His stomach is growling for food, his bruises throb with a dull pain, his lungs feel sharp and small from heaving air, his cuts are biting and tender, his muscles are sore and tight from running.
The spring grasses are watered by Babadook’s tears. He is lost in the storm of his emotions and pain when her voice startles him. It’s a soft, sweet sound — a drastic shift from his mother’s biting words — and it soothes his anxious mind. The skeletal boy looks up through swollen eyes to see the pretty red girl standing above him. She extends her nose to touch him and he scrambles to his feet, gasping in mingled terror and fatigue.
Although his mother touched him without violence at times, his nervous brain is in the frame of mind that he will be hurt by whomever touches him.
He stands in an awkward position, weak legs spread wide to balance his heaving, sweating, bleeding body. She offers to help him find something to eat and his dainty ears prick forward. “Food?” His voice is light, unsure. His mother’s told him about strangers — mainly the strangers that aim to steal him away into the unfathomless night — and he remembers her words now as the filly looks at him.
Babadook knows where he’ll find Mother after he gets food. He also knows that Mother will not feed him until much later.
He’s hungry now.
“I’ll go with you.” He manages a weak, tender smile. “I’m Babadook.”
His stomach is growling for food, his bruises throb with a dull pain, his lungs feel sharp and small from heaving air, his cuts are biting and tender, his muscles are sore and tight from running.
The spring grasses are watered by Babadook’s tears. He is lost in the storm of his emotions and pain when her voice startles him. It’s a soft, sweet sound — a drastic shift from his mother’s biting words — and it soothes his anxious mind. The skeletal boy looks up through swollen eyes to see the pretty red girl standing above him. She extends her nose to touch him and he scrambles to his feet, gasping in mingled terror and fatigue.
Although his mother touched him without violence at times, his nervous brain is in the frame of mind that he will be hurt by whomever touches him.
He stands in an awkward position, weak legs spread wide to balance his heaving, sweating, bleeding body. She offers to help him find something to eat and his dainty ears prick forward. “Food?” His voice is light, unsure. His mother’s told him about strangers — mainly the strangers that aim to steal him away into the unfathomless night — and he remembers her words now as the filly looks at him.
Babadook knows where he’ll find Mother after he gets food. He also knows that Mother will not feed him until much later.
He’s hungry now.
“I’ll go with you.” He manages a weak, tender smile. “I’m Babadook.”
@[Margaux]