Lunarmaruna - Luna Maru's Art

Oh, here you are And you're all you wished to be You're alive and you're Not alone Not alone in this.

At the end of our street stands an old house with dusty windows. It’s been there forever, long before all the other houses and it belongs to Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠. He hasn’t been here forever, though. I know that for sure. He’s been here for a year at best, but everyone acts like he hasn’t. They act like he’s been here longer than his house has been and that’s what they think, too.

 They all like him because he’s polite and because he keeps his lawn neat and because he always tips his hat when he greets them.

They don’t see him for how he really is. They don’t see how ashen his skin is, they don’t see how his mouth is too wide, how he has too many teeth. They don’t see how his long fingers bend and turn in all the wrong directions. They don’t see how when they look into his dark eyes, what lies behind them is not human. But I do.

I see it. I always see it. I see it when I wake up in the middle of the night and find him standing at the window, waiting for me. I see it when he opens the window and hands me a paper bag with his long, curling fingers.

I see what lies behind his dark eyes and then I open the bag.

 In the paper bag is something bulky. It’s a ham sandwich with lots of cheese, a chocolate cookie and an orange soda. It’s food and he brought it just for me. It’s my midnight lunch.

 Mom doesn’t want me to eat stuff like this, she says it’s too much carbs and sugar and that’ll make me fat. Mom doesn’t like fat, she likes thin. Thin and pretty, pretty and thin. If I’m not pretty enough she gets upset and sends me to bed without dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast.

Mom needs me to be pretty so I win the contests and get a lot of trophies. Mom needs me to win so she can be happy. If she doesn’t win, she won’t be happy. She’ll be angry and yell at me till I apologize for not being pretty enough. And then she’ll ground me.

Mom would kill me if she knew about Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠’s visits. She would kill me if she knew about the food. And she’d definitely kill me if she knew I ate it.

But I don’t care.

 Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ helps me climb outside the window and lifts me over the fence. Then we walk down the dark street together as I eat my lunch. Sometimes I hold his cold long fingers and then he’ll smile at me with too many teeth. I like it when he smiles because I know it’s just for me.

We always go to the park and he’ll push me on the swing and catch me when I fall off the monkey bars. He’ll help me catch frogs in the pond and when it’s winter, he’ll always build a snowman with me. He’ll ask me about school and my friends, and my family and I’ll tell him about them. Sometimes I’ll ask him about his work and his friends and his family and every time it’s a different story. A different job, different friends and a different family. But they’re all his stories and I like it when he tells me about them.

 In the morning I wake up in my bed and I’ll wonder if I really talked with Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ that night and if I really had that midnight lunch and if I really went to the park. Sometimes I’m sure it was all a dream. But then I’ll see the dark footprints in my carpet and the mud on my boots. I’ll see the little paper bird on my nightstand, and I’ll see the dirt on the windowsill. I see them and I know it wasn’t a dream. Not at all.

 When I go to school, I always pass the house at the end of the street. Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ will be in his yard every morning and water his roses. When he sees me, he’ll tip his hat and smile with too many teeth.

When I come home, he’ll be sitting on the porch, reading a book. Every time it’s a different one and I never recognize the language on the cover. I try to decipher the letters sometimes, but it always gives me headache.

When he sees me, he’ll tip his hat and smile with too many teeth.

 I like Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ and I like it when he comes and visits me. Before he visited me, my stepfather would visit me, and I didn’t like that. He wouldn’t bring me midnight lunch and he wouldn’t take me to the park. He wouldn’t ask me about school and my friends, and my family. He wouldn’t say a lot, he just would do things I didn’t want to do. I didn’t like that at all.

But since Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ started visiting me, my stepfather would stay way. He would just lie in bed and sleep. Or at least he would lie in bed because in the morning he would always look tired. Like he hadn’t slept at all.

 Sometimes I’m scared of what will happen when Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ leaves again. When he gets himself a new house and new friends and a new family.

I’m scared he’ll go away, and I’ll never have midnight lunch again and never hold his too long fingers and never see his smile with too many teeth. I’m scared I’ll wake up in the night and he won’t be the one visiting me.

But Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ said that will never happen. Ever.

He said that when he leaves, he’ll take me with him. He says I’ll be part of his next story and I really hope it’s true. I really like his stories and I really like Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ But most of all I like his smile that’s just for me.

Thief 💗

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