Boy is playing in Winchester House. Sight-seeing parents confer and mumble about directions. Animated pointing... nodding... Boy is looping around a fluted column, humming, little fingers ... No more than 5 years old. He talks to himself, waiting, happy.
Breath vacates Boy.
Half Boy lies on the stone floor. He is still while his mother frantically breathes into his mouth, thumps his chest. She pleads and cries on his composed, still body. She has enough life for all of us, I think. But I am not really here. I am a spectator. Not in this scene. A man pulls her away, says it's too late. Boy is gone.
Dead Boy is dressed in a cornflower suit, linen... a vintage look, the look of grief. His hair is combed precisely, center parted, no hair straying. His skin is sallow. Sad. He's been laid on a stone slab. We are all still in Winchester House. It is gloomy in this room, partially indoors, partially out. A portico. I sense ghosts and mischief. Perhaps I'm one. I don't know what I am. All I know is I see.
Dead Boy is infused. He will perform one last show. He rises awkwardly, his limbs lurch and angle. His mother grins with insanity, claps her hands and coos at her marvelous child. Father leers with questions in his smile. Dead Boy is dancing. There is music, an odd rhythm. Stopping, starting, loud, soft. Dead Boy entrances the funeral party. His little frame juts and twitches. He jitters with stiff, buckling legs... contorts his arms oddly... All with a limp, passive face. His eyes never open.
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