The Tragic Tale of Teddy Woven

The depiction was made in black ink, a detailed illustration of his house at some point in time. It appeared abandoned then, with tall weeds growing at the side of the house. The windows were boarded up with wood, and the shabbiness of the house was felt profusely the longer I stared at it.

“Not so long ago,” he revealed. “That it looked that way.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No?” He questioned me with a playfulness to his voice. “Then I shall take credit for it.” Teddy straightened his back to bring himself to his full height. “This was a little more than five years ago.”

“I thought it was over fifty years at least.”

“No, at that time it was quite livable.” He looked over his shoulder at the closed doorway. “Thriving.” He averted his attention back to the hand-drawn sketch in front of him. “When my mother was still young and happy. When her father and the rest of her family were still alive.”

“Do you have any images of them?”

“I would have to go looking for them.” He left my side, intent on seeking out the images that would quench my curiosity. When he was gone I turned the page, too curious for my own good. It was a small depiction of Teddy as a child, probably between the ages of six or eight. He was a tall, wiry sort of boy with an unusual growth spurt. His clothes were shabby though, disorderly and worn out to the point that it looked too small for his frame. The strangest image of all was that he was holding a raggedy old teddy bear; it was pressed hard against his chest in a protective manner that matched the haunting sadness to his eyes.

“I couldn’t…” Teddy paused, realizing the image that I had discovered. His jaw clenched tightly and then he tore his eyes away from me to look out the open window.

“Sorry.” I shut the sketchbook closed and took a large step back.

“There is stuff in there that is private,” he growled. A hand reached downwards to snatch it off the table. “And I can’t locate the photo album. I think it’s in the cellar.”

“Should we go looking for it?”

voice that was full of mockery. “No, Sela.” The sketchbook was tossed into the open drawer at the side of the table. “I think it’s time for you to

“Teddy, I…”

stepped away from me, burying his hands inside of his trouser pockets. The door was soon pushed further back, a tell-tale sign that it was

off. “I went too

bypassed him, he simply watched me place on my rubber boots with an overwhelming sense

I hated the distance that

mistake leaving it there

my lips tightly, wishing there was something I could do to

me,” I pointed out. “And I

the hallway, heading towards the music room where Teddy and I had first sat down to have a proper conversation. How

yet again. “Please,

and stepped outside into the bright sunlight first. Teddy waited for me to join him before he slammed the door behind us, though he frequently looked back as though we were being followed. We steadily walked towards the small wooden shed, and to my surprise

you have to

is that sketchbook

for my memories,” he sighed out. “I like to suppress them, but sometimes they force themselves out. So that book is my coping mechanism. Some people write diaries.”

first developed. I was too busy looking up at the treetops to focus on Teddy, it was as though my lucid mind was slipping away from

inquired with a

“No.”

“Some people do.”

a writer,”

haunted by some