Читать книгу Dorian Gray - John Garavaglia - Страница 35

He was here.

These people were very close family friends were here.

His mother was not.

The living room in which he was standing didn’t seem even remotely involving. The couch alone must have cost over $5,000, and the cushions, which were made by the finest and most expensive fabric. He tried to sit on one and hadn’t liked the way it had stuck to the underside of his legs.

The man and woman who were bringing the last of his things into the house, were speaking in hushed whispers to the woman name Miss Johansson—the “social worker,” she’d been called—those people weren’t paying any attention to him.

That suited him fine.

Perhaps he could simply reside there like a ghost, no one noticing him. When he was hungry, he could sneak food from the kitchen, presuming they had one, and otherwise be left alone.

He wanted that more than anything to be left alone by the man, who was practically a father to him. The man’s son, Henry, has been Dorian’s best friend since they were both babies.

The door closed, shutting out the outside world. The carpet felt like wood. It felt slightly moist under his feet, as if it had been just washed. Just to add to the assault, there was a lemony smell coming from all the wooden furniture. He stared down at his reflection on the coffee table. There were flowers arranged neatly on a small lacy thing in the middle of it.

“Well, Dorian,” said the man, coming into the room.

JOHN GRAVAGLIA

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