Clarissa Morgenstern sat on the hard plastic chair, fidgeting with her hands. She wasn't entirely sure why they were here. She couldn't read very well yet, but her brother told her that the sign above the front door said "Police Station." "Why are we here, Jonathon?" Clarissa asked in a small voice. "Where's daddy?"

"I'm not sure, little sister." Jonathon didn't enjoy being uncertain about anything. Like Valentine, he appreciated a well-formulated plan. This detour was definitely not something his father had foreseen.

Valentine had met some colleagues in the city. He'd brought his kids along so that they could see the lights and the skyscrapers. Jonathon hadn't really cared; he'd never been interested in the finer things in life. But little Clarissa had found everything exciting. She'd flitted around like a tiny faerie, her unruly red hair forming a halo around her chubby head while she twirled under the sky. Valentine had laughed with her, his rich baritone voice mixing with her high-pitched squeals of delight. Jonathon had stood to the side and watched, entirely uninterested.

They were driving home along the nearly-deserted road when red and blue lights flashed behind them. Valentine pulled the car over, cursing colorfully while Jonathon covered his baby sister's ears. A young cop came up to the driver's window, asked for license and registration, and informed Valentine that he had been going fifteen miles over the speed limit. Valentine apologized and promised it wouldn't happen again. They were about to leave when the officer noticed Jonathon in the backseat. He stared open-mouthed at the bruises covering the boy's face, then he saw the finger-shaped marks around the little girl's tiny wrists. He called for backup and brought the whole family into the station.

And now here they were. Valentine had been taken in for questioning, leaving the two siblings to cling to each other for protection in this strange place. "It'll be alright, Clarissa." Jonathon whispered to the little girl who clutched at his arm as if her life depended on it. "We'll make it out of this. Together."

"Together," she agreed.

ooo

Jacob looked at the clock again. His tutor had left ages ago, after criticizing the boy's rendition of Bach's Minuet in D Minor. Jacob's finger's had slipped while he was doing a trill, and the instructor had yelled at him and hit his fingers with a ruler.

His father had promised to be home today. He said he had new stories about his other children to share. Jacob wanted to meet them someday. He wanted to meet anyone really. He was stick of being stuck in this house all by himself all the time. He loved his father and he enjoyed his father's company. Jacob loved it when Valentine took him on business trips and adventures.

But Jacob was four years old, and he got lonely sometimes. He tried to be tough, because that's what Valentine wanted. But Jacob wasn't as strong as his father, no matter how much he tried to act like he was. He wanted someone to chase the monsters away, to read to him, to just sit and be near him. He was so sick of being so alone. "Daddy," the young boy whispered into the darkness. "Please come home, daddy."

ooo

The woman in front of Clarissa looked nice enough. She had the same vibrant red hair, the same green eyes, the same freckled face as the little girl in front of her. "Hi there, sweetie," said the strange woman with a small smile.

Clarissa didn't respond. She didn't trust this woman yet.

"My name is Jocelyn Fray. You can call me Ms. Jocelyn, if you'd like. What's your name?"

"Clarissa Morgenstern."

"What a pretty name, Clarissa. Do you mind if I call you Clary?"

The girl rolled the new word around in her tongue, tasting its strangeness and beauty. "Clary." She smiled. "I like that."

"I do too." Ms. Jocelyn smiled. "I'm supposed to sit down and talk with you, but I'm not always a huge fan of talking. Do you like to draw?"

Clary's face lit up. "I love drawing," she admitted shyly.

"Me too. I'm a part-time painter, you know."

"Like for your job?" Clary asked, eyes wide. People could have jobs where all they did was art? The idea was foreign and wonderful to her.

"Only sometimes. But yes, I do get paid to draw. Do you want to draw right now?" she asked, pulling out a large bag filled with supplies.

Clary nodded her head eagerly. She liked this woman.

ooo

Jonathon sat with perfect posture, looking at the man in front of him. He wasn't fooled by the man's kind eyes or small smile. He didn't accept the peace offering the man had placed in front of him. He didn't show any emotion at all.

"Are you hungry, my boy?" the man asked in what Jonathon assumed was supposed to be a jovial tone. "Thirsty maybe?" He pushed the soda further across the table.

Jonathon stayed silent, looking at the man evenly. His father had shown him how to kill a man with whatever household items happened to be lying around. He figured it was probably bad form to murder a cop in a police station, but he entertained himself with the idea for a few minutes.

The officer, as if sensing the boy's thoughts, flinched visibly.

ooo

"Clary," Jocelyn began. "Who is that?" She pointed to a figure Clary had drawn on the side of the page with surprising detail.

"That's my daddy."

"Is he a good daddy or a bad daddy?" Jocelyn asked while drawing her own picture.

"Both, I guess," Clary said. She continued to draw two more figures. "That's me," she grinned, indicating a stick figure with frizzy red hair and a pink dress. "That's my brother, Jonathon." She pointed to the third stick figure. It looked like a small version of the father. "Jonathon's nice, but he scares me sometimes."

"How so?" Jocelyn asked, handing Clary an orange crayon.

"He's like Daddy. They both love me very much, but they can get mean sometimes." She drew another picture. "Daddy," she said, pointing to the biggest stick figure that was towering over the other two. "Sometimes he hits me or Jonathon. But he's always nicer to me."

"Why does he hit you?" Jocelyn's voice was contained, but her breathing hitched slightly.

"He only hits us when we're bad. Like the other day, I was scared of the monsters in the dark and he slapped me on the face. I'm a big kid now. I shouldn't be afraid."

"And you say Jonathon is like him?"

"Jonathon doesn't really hit me. Sometimes, but he always says he's sorry. Daddy never does. Jonathon is mean, though. He's bad. He likes to tear the wings off butterflies and he shoots things for fun when he and Daddy go hunting together. He says he'd never hurt me, but sometimes he does. He doesn't really mean to, I know." Clary looked at her drawing critically. "Can you pass me the black? I want to get their eyes right."

Jocelyn passed Clary the crayon and excused herself from the room. How on earth had she let this happen?

ooo

"Well, my boy, it looks like we're in a bit of a pickle. You know that my name is Detective Jameson, but I don't know a whole lot about you." He twirled a blue pen around his fingers. "Son, I need to know what you're all about. Can you tell me about yourself, my boy?"

Jonathon hated this man's condescending use of the phrase "my boy." Jonathon was not his boy; in all honesty, he wasn't even Valentine's boy. He was his own person. He was already a more capable man than this old cop who was afraid of a six-year-old. And he would become better, smarter, stronger than even his father with time.

"You see, my boy," Jameson began. Jonathon tried to block out those two offensive words, but they drilled into his brain. My boy. My boy. My boy. The phrase burrowed its way into the center of his mind until he felt like he had to explode to get it out. So explode he did.

Without being fully conscious of his actions, Jonathon lashed out at the old man. He grabbed his hideous tie and brought his head down to the metal table with a resounding crack. Jameson swatted the boy aside, throwing him into the wall. Jonathon split his lip against the cinderblock. The detective ran for the door, screaming for help. The six-year-old grabbed Detective Jameson's blue pen from the table and stabbed his jugular with it. The detective's last words were garbled. "What is it, my boy?" Jonathon mocked. "I'm sorry, my boy. I can't hear you." Jameson's eyes were wide as they stared into the eyes of his killer, the empty shards of obsidian that held no remorse. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out. The police burst into the room as Jameson went limp under the tiny murderer. Jonathon stood above the body. He looked up at the officers and grinned a feral smile, his face covered in blood, his front tooth missing.


Is Jonathon creepy or what?

Jocelyn is doing something called art therapy in this chapter, hence the name of the story. Art therapy comes in a few different forms, but Jocelyn's using it as a way to get Clary to talk about her home life, since Clary's three and not the most loquacious person in the world. This is a real technique used by CPS, Big Brothers Big Sisters, and other organizations to get kids to talk about their circumstances. It seemed fitting, since both Clary and Jocelyn are artists

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