Читать книгу Dorian Gray - John Garavaglia - Страница 28

knew her hand would gently brush against her swollen abdomen then come to rest on his small, bulging stomach. Very soon he would look into her eyes and let her know he loved her, too.

He was six hours old when he opened his eyes to see her standing over him. A sweet proud smile was on her lips.

“You are so beautiful,” she said, playing with the fringes of his already thick, brown hair. “You look so much like your father.”

He recognized his mother’s voice—it had comforted him for as long as he could remember—and he returned her a small smile in response. Her fingers danced across his tummy again, tickling him. He giggled, the chubby flesh around his eyes wrinkled as he reached to touch her long dark hair. She was beautiful but her bright blue eyes were welling up with tears. He didn’t understand what was wrong with her, but in the nine months he grew inside her he had learned to deal with her shifting moods.

A second figure entered the room. When he spoke Dorian knew it was his father, a handsome raven-haired man with piercing blue eyes. He heard his soft voice, muffled and distant, many times before, but now there was anger in it Dorian had never known, and the words, which of course meant nothing to him, were spat out quickly, as if rushing through them would let his father get past the annoyance, whatever it was, and onto something more pleasurable.

DORIAN GRAY

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