Wild Thing

She was his foster mother. This much he knew for sure. He had lived with her since the age of five. A very young age, indeed. It was hard to remember things before that age, but he did have vague memories of living someplace with other kids. If he tried hard enough, he thought he could recall a man, someone with a broad smile who was putting him up in a tree. This memory, however, was just a shadow in his mind, whereas the knowledge of his foster mother was real and ever-present.

At night, she stood in the doorframe and just looked at him. The soft glow cast by his nightlight made her into a silhouette. For a long time, his imagination worked overtime. He imagined her as some scary beast off in the distance. The room grew into a jungle. He slipped past the beast, and then he would be off on a boat by himself.

He sailed off to an island.

Yes, they would soon call him WILD THING. There he lived, free and unburdened by his old life. In his imagination, at this point, things became hazy. Magical, but still hopelessly obscure.


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