Home Is Where the Mind Is

“Home sweet home!” Dad roared as we walked into the shadow of the old, ivory mansion, its wooden facade fading from white to dark green moss, and the colorless wisterias slowly turning yellow, like the crispy rug of grass on the front yard. Dad shook the silver keys in his hand, composing a bittersweet melody, and opened the heavy door. Mom and Dad gasped before they coughed as a dense cloud of dust rose and settled on the dark, wooden floor. Leaving the luggage by the door, they wandered around, loving every square inch of the immense house, the floor creaking and groaning under their every step. I did not love it. I didn’t like the funeral flowers above the door, or the sharp, crystal chandeliers hanging from the unnecessarily tall ceiling. This wasn’t home. Home was small and cozy, full of friends and neighbors. If we hadn’t won the lottery, we would still be there. I would’ve used the twenty thousand for my college, for a new car, or new smartphones, but starting a new life in a foreign country is hardly what I had in mind.

Interrupting my thoughts, Mom grabbed me by the hand and dragged me up the wide, curved stairs. Looking down at the empty space below, I realized the true dimensions of the first floor. The house could very well be a castle.

“Here’s your room!” She squealed, her smile brighter than the light reflected in her honey-glazed eyes. “You can put your bookshelves over there, or we can find another room and make it your own library. Or-”

“Mom,” I sighed, “can I just unpack now?”

“Oh.” She gazed down for a second. “Sure sweetie. Let us know if you need anything.” She pecked me on the forehead, her thin brown hair tickling my face, and hurried downstairs.

Pacing and watching the dust dance in the window light of my enormous new room, the wooden floor creaked under my foot, but unlike the regular groaning of the house, that area croaked deeper, louder. Curious, I got down on my knees, and removed the loose, dark plank. Inside was a black book covered in dust, thin and light in my hands. Flipping through its fine, yellow pages, I gazed at the detailed graphite landscapes. As I kept turning the pages, the drawings became rougher, less detailed, as if the artist were running out of time. The last drawing was near the middle of the book. It was the mansion, but the door shrank under the oversized wisterias, and the windows stretched beyond the roof, revealing the eerie silhouette of a young boy.

Intrigued by the odd evolution of the drawings, I turned back to the first page to observe and analyze the development more carefully. It was a monochromatic meadow with a miniature cottage on the bottom corner. Storm clouds covered the sky, and the swaying grass, slender and tall, almost made me feel the blissful autumn air. Suddenly, a strong, cold wind swept through my room, making me squint as the disturbed dust fled the room. When I looked up, I found myself sitting on tall, green meadow grass under imposing blue-gray clouds. The book was gone, along with the entire house. My heart raced like the frigid wind, and my mind struggled to comprehend what was happening, and how I ended up in such a place. As I stood from the grass, someone in the cottage waved at me, yelling something the wind carried away. I walked towards the tall boy, but halted when I recognized him from the very last sketch. He had the same unruly curls as the boy in the window, but his eyes were not gray, or black like in the drawing. They were as rich as the soil in the meadow, and light green at the center, like the grass reaching for the clouds.

“What are you doing here?” He shouted, his voice that of a child. “I apologize for yelling, but the wind is rather strong,” he lowered his voice when he approached me, still stoned in front of the cottage.

“I’m Tomazzo,” he said while stretching a skinny arm towards me.

“Lila.” I shivered as I shook his bony, frigid hand. “What is this place?”

Tomazzo took a deep breath, “My drawings. When did you find my book?”

“Your- you made these drawings?” I perked up, “What happened to the last ones? How did I get here? Who-”

“Stop!” He screamed, shutting his eyes, and pulling his brown curls while blocking his ears with his arms. “Stop asking questions. You must leave, get out of this place, and never, ever return.”

“But the drawings-”

“You mustn’t stay here! It’s dangerous,” he warned with his eyes, now open and concerned.

“Okay, fine, but how do I leave?” I asked.

“Close your eyes and set your mind on reality. Where were you when you saw the illustrations?”

As I focused on the emptiness of my new room, Tomazzo’s voice faded, the wind subsided, and the grass was replaced by a wooden floor covered in a gray snow of dust. The weight and pain of not being home tore my heart from my chest when I realized I was still in the mansion, now dark. I remained on my knees for a few moments, feeling the smooth, worn surface of the thin book in my hands. Once my heart returned, I took a shaky breath until my lungs were filled with dust, and exhaled all the sadness out of my system. Looking at the worn cover, I began to wonder if it had all been a dream. The meadow, Tomazzo, the wind, they all felt so real, yet nothing made sense. I opened the little book on the page with the meadow again, but before I could turn to the following drawing, a boy’s voice pierced the silence of the room.

“Don’t!” Tomazzo yelled.

Springing from the floor, I gasped and swallowed a scream to keep my parents from waking up. My heart, pounding in my chest with a supernatural force, felt as if it were growing larger as the beats intensified in strength and sound.

“I don’t know how, but that thing,” he panted and pointed at the book my hands, “made my drawings a shelter from reality, and I became so fond of them that I lost myself. I can’t let that happen to you too.”

“But you’re fine. You found yourself.” I whispered, clutching the drawings to my heart, while partly remembering his spontaneous reaction back in the meadow.

Shaking his head, Tomazzo stretched his arm and grabbed for the book, but his skinny hand passed through it like a shadow.

“How- but- in the meadow-” I uttered, my mouth gaping at the boy in front of me.

“I’m only alive in the book,” he whispered, “I’ve been dead long enough, and my mind is only sane here, but in there-”

“You can live in the book?” I mumbled as my heart skipped a beat in excitement, and my fingers flipped the thin, yellow page.

“Wait!” He cried, “Lila, don’t!”

His screams became murmurs as the wooden floor shifted into a rough cobblestone path, and the window grew into an arched doorway leading to the stone streets and buildings of a bustling old town. Gleaming with a wide smile, I walked through the cozy place for a while, and when I saw Tomazzo running towards me and screaming my name, I left the drawing, and entered the next one.

Time passed by as I hiked through cold mountains and walked on warm shores. However, each place felt emptier than the previous. They were all rich in nature and scenery, but the people were indifferent. They never smiled, spoke, or looked at each other, making me long for my old home more than ever. So, desperate to create my own world, where we hadn’t won the lottery, where I still had my cozy room, I entered the last drawing. Inside the page, the mansion stood in all its magnificence, unlike in the chaotic sketch. I found Tomazzo sitting on the floor of my room, his brow deeply frowned, and his eyes concentrated on the drawing of the house, the last drawing in the book.

“Tomazzo?” I asked, but he kept scribbling rough, abrupt lines. “Can you draw my home?” Sitting next to him, I grabbed his trembling, icy hand, and his pencil rolled on the floor as he looked at me, his eyes drowning in lunacy, foam bubbling through his teeth.

“Lila,” He sang, leering at me, “Lila, will you stay? If you stay, I’ll draw your home. I’ll draw you real friends!” Laughing and spitting, he grabbed his pencil, and tore the page with the sharp graphite tip as the windows shattered and the wooden planks split and fractured.

Screaming and struggling to focus on reality, I appeared back in my dark, empty room, too troubled to notice the new bed and bookshelves. Tomazzo, the sane, insubstantial one, sat in front of me.

“What the heck was that?” I screeched, my heart louder than my screaming.

“That is what will happen to you if you continue.” He murmured.

Heavy tears flooded my eyes, and more flowed down my cheeks when Tomazzo tried to hug me, but hugged the air instead.

“I want my old home!” I cried.

“You must learn to let go. This is your home now. Be grateful and live it.”

Nodding and wiping my moist face with my sleeve, I took a trembling breath, and watched as Tomazzo dissolved into black wisps of smoke, spiraling into the yellow pages of the little black book. I returned it to its secret place under the floor, and darted down the curved stairs to bring the boxes with all my other books and belongings to my room, and finally settle in my new home.