The Tragic Tale of Teddy Woven Chapter 14

The depiction was made in black ink, a detailed illustration of his house at some point in time. It
appeared abandoned then, with tall weeds growing at the side of the house. The windows were
boarded up with wood, and the shabbiness of the house was felt profusely the longer I stared at it.

“Not so long ago,” he revealed. “That it looked that way.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No?” He questioned me with a playfulness to his voice. “Then I shall take credit for it.” Teddy
straightened his back to bring himself to his full height. “This was a little more than five years ago.”

“I thought it was over fifty years at least.”

“No, at that time it was quite livable.” He looked over his shoulder at the closed doorway. “Thriving.” He
averted his attention back to the hand-drawn sketch in front of him. “When my mother was still young
and happy. When her father and the rest of her family were still alive.”

“Do you have any images of them?”

“I would have to go looking for them.” He left my side, intent on seeking out the images that would
quench my curiosity. When he was gone I turned the page, too curious for my own good. It was a small
depiction of Teddy as a child, probably between the ages of six or eight. He was a tall, wiry sort of boy
with an unusual growth spurt. His clothes were shabby though, disorderly and worn out to the point that
it looked too small for his frame. The strangest image of all was that he was holding a raggedy old
teddy bear; it was pressed hard against his chest in a protective manner that matched the haunting
sadness to his eyes.

“I couldn’t…” Teddy paused, realizing the image that I had discovered. His jaw clenched tightly and
then he tore his eyes away from me to look out the open window.



“Sorry.” I shut the sketchbook closed and took a large step back.

“There is stuff in there that is private,” he growled. A hand reached downwards to snatch it off the table.
“And I can’t locate the photo album. I think it’s in the cellar.”

“Should we go looking for it?”

His eyebrows arched upwards. “Look for it?” he echoed with a voice that was full of mockery. “No,
Sela.” The sketchbook was tossed into the open drawer at the side of the table. “I think it’s time for you
to go outside.”

“Teddy, I…”

He stepped away from me, burying his hands inside of his trouser pockets. The door was soon pushed
further back, a tell-tale sign that it was time for me to leave the art room.

“I’m sorry,” I finished off. “I went too far.”

He never made a word when I bypassed him, he simply watched me place on my rubber boots with an
overwhelming sense of guilt.

“Teddy!” I called out, for I hated the distance that stretched between us. “I really am sorry for snooping.”

“It was a mistake leaving it there with you.”

I pursed my lips tightly, wishing there was something I could do to make the situation better.

“You trusted me,” I pointed out. “And I ruined that trust.”

The man was silent as he stood in front of the art room. It was the first time he had ever allowed that
door to be open, and I because of my own curiosity I may have stopped him from taking the chance to
open up to me more. My curiosity had gotten the better of me. Luna padded down the hallway, heading



towards the music room where Teddy and I had first sat down to have a proper conversation. How long
ago it felt, but it had been just days since we first met. I forced my gaze to shift to the right, noticing that
he had trouble looking at me. There was pain coursing through him, and I realized then that his anger
had turned to another direction.

“Teddy!” I called out yet again. “Please, can we talk some more outside?”

He stepped forward and slipped on his shoes. Grey slippers were lined up neatly against the wall; he
decided to not take a proper spring coat and stepped outside into the bright sunlight first. Teddy waited
for me to join him before he slammed the door behind us, though he frequently looked back as though
we were being followed. We steadily walked towards the small wooden shed, and to my surprise he
pointed out a shady area where we could have a private conversation with one another.

“What do you have to say?” he asked with impatience.

“What is that sketchbook for?”

“It’s for my memories,” he sighed out. “I like to suppress them, but sometimes they force themselves
out. So that book is my coping mechanism. Some people write diaries.” Teddy stretched out a long arm
to rest his hand over the sturdy tree bark. “I draw.”

The leaves of the willow tree blew softly, it was a large one that must have been planted when the
house was first developed. I was too busy looking up at the treetops to focus on Teddy, it was as
though my lucid mind was slipping away from me.

“Do you keep a diary?” he inquired with a sharpness to his voice.

“No.”

“Some people do.”



“I am not much of a writer,” I told him with some reluctance.

“Are you ever haunted by some things?”

I took a step backwards so I could see the expanse of his garden. The grey bricks glowed in the bright
midday sunlight, letting me know that time was slipping away faster than I could have ever imagined.
“Like memories?” I questioned him. “Or something more than that?”

“Memories,” he clarified.

“I’ve made mistakes,” I assured him. “Sometimes we do things in life to please other people. At other
times, it felt like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Or the wrong,” he laughed out sadly.

“It’s what makes us human.”

“Human,” he repeated with an air of melancholy.

“You did not have a happy childhood,” I stated as fact, which immediately caught him off-guard. “Did
you?”

“I had the worst,” he huffed out aggressively, to the point that I could sense the burning anger inside of
him. “And I live everyday…” He stopped himself short. “I’ll only be free of it if I die, maybe.” He looked
downwards at the ground. “No, that doesn’t sound right. How…”

“Yes?”

“How can I move on?” he stammered out. “How can I live when….” He stared hard at the house, as if it
was his own prison. “When everything around me forces me to live in the past.”



“You move away,” I suggested.

“Sometimes I wish I could.”

“You are troubled, Teddy.” I reached out to touch the sleeve of his dress shirt. “I only wish I could help.”

“Then stay away from me,” he murmured, so soft I could barely hear it. He stepped backwards after
that, intent on creating an even larger distance between us, which made me feel the full weight of his
words.


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