The Boy Who Loved Wicked

by C.P. Harris

I wanted to know his story.

Mr. Wicked was starving for affection, and I shared in his hunger. I understood his unspoken language. Maybe he needs a friend, my ignorant mind supplied. Maybe...it could be me. If only it were that simple.

For years I’d kept him alive in my head. To hear details about him spoken aloud was the equivalent of being relieved that you weren’t imagining something after someone else took notice.

If someone had asked me to explain what triggered my interest in Mr. Wicked, what sent me crawling over the edge, it was his sadness. I fell in love with his sadness first.