“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?” the old man chortled joyously. “Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day!”
I dropped my gruesome trophy by the door as the old man calloohed and callay’d. He hugged me fiercely. He felt fragile in my arms. Long years had left him short of breath and shaky in flesh.
I remembered the day – ages ago – when he had taken me into his house. He was the storyteller. I was the outcast. He fed my spirit, and I cleaned his eaves. He asked for nothing. He gave me everything. He loved me when I did not love myself.
I thought of this and more as I beat him and stole his few possessions.