I woke up to the rotting stale air, laid still for a moment, then pushed myself out of bed and wandered down the narrow hall for a cold drink. My hollow steps seemed to echo. My eyes glanced around at the tan peeling wallpaper which seemed to tell me that I’d forgotten something, mocking me in its own way. When I reached the kitchen I grabbed a can out of the cooler, though my hands still tired from my restless sleep let it slip, letting the can smash into the ground, creating a mess on once clean floors. The clang made such a noise, that it caused an unease to grow in the room. I scanned the room to see if another had been bothered by it and I noticed a pair of short legs hanging off the side of the couch. When I went closer to inspect it, I saw the body of a small boy.

My eyes settled on my sleeping son. He was in the same spot I’d left him when I retreated to my sleep which was taken in vain. As I took a closer look, I saw my loud ruckus had yet to wake him from his slumber. Though as my shadow covered his leathered face, I could see his polished porcelain eyes had slit open just the smallest amount. His mouth opened ever so silently; I swear I heard him whisper “Dad” at me. I rushed to sit next to him to tend to his cry, placing my hand on his waxed hair, letting his eyes, too heavy to look around, know I was there.

“Why did you sleep out here?” I calmly laughed at his foolishness. I quietly waited for his response, but I could tell he had rolled his eyes at me; our banter and chatting the night before must have rendered him asleep in his place. Unlike most kids his age he lacked energy.

“Hey?” I whispered ever so slightly, feeling silly for my playful laugh. I gave his shoulder a good tug, but he seemed done with talking now. Maybe still upset about my careless laugh. I pondered what I could do to regain his loving trust. Like a call, a shiny story came to form in my head. A story to let him resettle into the night. I closed my eyes to remember how things once were.

“You were such an active boy, you know?” I reminded him, his eyes slyly tilted at me now.

“Well, have you ever heard this one? Once upon a time, there was a boy as active as you, more, if you will, and he was a prince.” I could hear the excitement in my voice as I got started.

“This prince was a little different from other princes, for he never wanted to grow up. He wanted to stay small and young forever and ever. He had made sure that everyone knew, young and old, family and servant, friend and enemy. So naturally the boy was nicknamed Peter.”

I chuckled at my cleverness.

“Well one night, when Peter was more down than usual, he climbed out of his tower window to search for a blue fairy. It is said that blue fairies can turn a pile of wood into a living human, so who’s stopping them from making someone immortal in youth, he wondered?”

I took a loud breath.

“Peter searched high and low and as the night grew ever so endless, he tried hard to cling on to his fantasy. Just as all seemed lost, he found one. It was small, no bigger than a butterfly. Shiny bright blue it was. Peter, in desperate desire, lunged at the fly, clasping his hands tight together, ensuring no escape.”

Something inside me grew heavy.

“As the boy’s hand unclenched, there the dead blue butterfly retreated to permanent slumber.”

I questioned if I should have continued the story to the young mind of my child, but in the end, I believed he was old enough for a silly story.

“You see, Peter was heartbroken when he saw this, but the night was no longer endless, and its older brother, day, had seemed to poke its head out, warning Peter to return home. For the King was a stern man, and you see, the prince, in his long adventure, never left the royal garden. The King knew this for he watched Peter high into the night from a window made of crimson-stained glass. Young Peter tried re-entering through the window, but the sheets he tied to lower himself down had fallen. He had no choice other than to use the front door.”

I stroked my son’s hair to comfort him.

“The King was fed a potion by the servants, you see. They were bitter and wanted to mock him. So, when Peter met his eyes and told the story of the Blue Fairy, the King had no patience to listen. In doubt, the King asked for proof, and then his son pulled out the crumpled butterfly. The King, enraged by the Prince’s foolish tale, grabbed his sword to bring down on the Prince’s head — but something odd happened. As the sword hit Peter, a beautiful mist of mystery blue engulfed the both of them. To the son it brought the gift of never growing older, and the King clarity for the crime he had tried to commit against his son. In tears for the first time since he himself was a Prince, the King embraced his son, now ever so happy for his new gift.

“For you see, sometimes we have to almost lose things to understand their importance” I mumbled to my young Prince.

Now in deep slumber like a sweet butterfly, his eyes had fallen closed during my story ramblings. I picked up his body which felt limp in my arms, as my son slept much like a log. I carried him to his desolate room on the other side of the house, while I got a sense of why he didn’t bother to do it himself. The tattered dry paint tried to grab at my shirt as I watched the shadows on the wall dance with our every movement. The wall on this side of the house had been discoloured; it must be the walls emitting a rotten smell. My brain tried so hard to tell me I knew better. When I approached the door, I pushed it open with the tip of my foot as it let out its shrieking scream, begging to be saved from the rust. I jolted and turned to look at my son’s face for signs of disturbances, but his expression stayed still as the muscles in his face still slept soundly.

Quietly, I placed him on the imprint now made in his bed, where he lied so often that the cotton once sky blue had now discoloured to a brownish white. The sheet wasn’t the only thing to discolour. As I leaned into my son’s face, I noticed that there was a dark blemish on his cheek. The blemish was made of rot. I turned and quickly searched the drawers. I finally found what I was looking for. Grabbing the chair at his dented desk, I made a spot for myself right next to his bed. Heavy of heart I sat for a second, then with a brush I applied another layer of wax over his face to preserve him ever more, as memories rushed to my head, memories I wished to delete more than I wished for my own sanity to return to me. As I finished, the glossy shine taunted me like the puddle that remained on once clean floors in the kitchen. I could hear my pathetic cries of sorrow as I pleaded for my mistakes to be erased. I hugged the corpse of my son, for I will do whatever it takes to protect him and keep him alive.

I rested my head on the side of his bed, as I had left him to his slumber countless nights before. I couldn’t bring myself to leave tonight. A force too great to explain choked me, letting my eyes wander only to fall on a calendar. Through my blurred vision, I could see that the last date etched into the paper was today’s date, though it was on the wrong day of the week. I looked at the top of the calendar to see it was six years old.

With that my wish was granted, as the salt-filled voice of my son broke the trance of the calendar, erasing it from our existence.

“Goodnight Dad, I forgive you.”