Roy tried not to be angry when they rejected him. Or, he at least tried not to show his anger where they could see it. But in truth, he was bitter. He felt the years had taken their toll on him, he wouldn’t have glanced in an old man’s direction when he was younger. He supposed he should be grateful for the opportunity to look at them at all. The war was seven years ago but he remembered it vividly. He was about ten years too old to be drafted so there he was, stuck at home with the women and old men.

“You’re not old,” his mother had said to him three years prior, “I’m almost eighty. If forty-four is old, what does that make me?”

“Prehistoric,” he’d replied. He often replayed the memory of how she laughed whenever he was feeling sorry for himself and supposed old was subjective. Old as opposed to what? Compared to his late mother, he wasn’t old at all. But compared to the objects of his desires? Well, he may as well belong to a museum.

Roy hadn’t even blinked when his wife brought up divorce. He was even less shocked when she demanded she be the one to file, despite her being the adulterous one. He didn’t fault her for it, he would’ve done the same if he’d only had the nerve. She barely even kept in touch, just moved out of Louisiana the moment it was finalized and had her new address sent to the army in time for their son to know where to go once the war was over.
He at least knew his son survived. He’d received the occasional letter from him proving that. His son never visited though. 

What type of man comes back from a war and doesn’t even want to visit hischildhood home, see his father? Roy always asked himself whenever he was feeling especially pitiful… But he knew what the truth was.
Extracting himself from his thoughts, Roy glanced around the room. The bar had thinned out, and the young man he’d subtly flirted with was nowhere to be seen. He let his forehead clunk against the wooden table, then sighed. The memory was embarrassing. He’d had his eye on Francis for the past three weeks. Francis was 24, Roy’d learned after their first conversation, and hadn’t served in the war but’d lost two brothers to it. 

Francis was getting married next spring.

Roy didn’t know what made him think the young man would reciprocate his feelings. Maybe it was in the way he smiled at him. Or the fact that he’d genuinely seemed to enjoy talking to him for the better part of an hour. Roy’d presented one extremely detailed charcoal sketch of him looking longingly at the ocean, and Francis looked like he might vomit.

Perhaps he just came on too strong? Was making someone one’s muse not an acceptable form of courting anymore? Maybe just not on men. It’d worked on plenty of women when he was younger.

Roy went home once the bartender stopped serving him. He was fond of his home, as lonely as it got. The tall, luxurious house was right on the cusps of swampy marshlands. One thing his wife had never been able to argue was that he wasn’t a good provider. Money had never been an issue for them, his father owned several properties in the city. And after he died, they passed right on over to Roy who profited off nightlife. And in a city like New Orleans, that counted for a lot— especially in 1925.

Roy’s favorite part of the house, however, was the pond. It wasn’t natural. He’d dug it out himself after being reminded of the story of Narcissus. He would often imagine how nice it would be to just drift off into his own reflection until he perished and became a flower. 

Staring at it now, drunk as a loon and idly scribbling into a sketchbook, he thought himself ridiculous for even dreaming he could have such a story. He wasn’t nearly beautiful enough to be a flower.

Beauty had always been such an important concept to him. Without it, what was life for? Even if one couldn’t be beautiful, or own beautiful things, one should at least make a point to admire beauty at any chance they could get. That was what he believed. 

He focused on the paper resting between the leader bindings. He’d been drawing a young man. That was all he seemed capable of drawing nowadays.

Narcissus? Roy wondered. He didn’t know who this man was. But he felt familiar. Perhaps he’d seen him in a dream. He thought back to when he was first given this sketchbook. A woman had given it to him for free in an old rundown Voodoo shop he’d found when wandering the city. She said she thought he needed it, that it could teach him a lesson. He’d asked her what was so special about a run of the mill sketchbook. It had no special symbols, no hidden charms within the pages. 

She told him it answered wishes.

Well he’d drawn half a million wishes into the old book by now, Francis being one of them. And yet none of them were granted. It was just a book filled with dreams and desires. 

Roy took one more long look at the drawing. The young man depicted had dark hair, and even darker eyes, and he was pulling himself out of the pond as if it were deep enough to have sucked him in whole. He had a glare, as if he were angry at the situation he found himself in. 

He is beautiful, Roy thought.

Roy stared at the page, studying it as if it would disappear soon. He traced a finger along the material, listening closely to the sound of the paper rustling. When he saw a droplet of water fall atop the page, he feared he was crying. He quickly ran his hands along his cheeks. Dry. It had begun to rain.
He stuffed the book into his coat, scrambling and failing to get on his feet. The copious amount of liquor had reduced him to a toddler-like sense of mobility. He struggled like that for a few moments, until it was almost pouring, thunder rattling the trees around him.

Once on his feet, he was delayed for one other reason: there was a hand wrapped around his ankle. 

Roy hadn’t reacted naturally at first. Only stared down, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. So when he did come to his senses, he screeched higher than he believed capable for a grown man. He fell back down, flat onto his bottom and yanked his leg attempting to free himself. But another hand latched on, and now two firm hands were squeezing his ankles and calfs, pulling. Fearing he was going to be dragged into the pond, he held onto the ground, his fingers digging into the wet dirt. But he wasn’t pulled in. Something, instead, was pulled out.

The figure was pale, even in the darkness, like a light blue mess of skin and black hair. Roy’s eyes didn’t recognize what they were seeing until the figure was free from the waist up. 

It was a young man. His face covered by a mop of black hair plastered to his face. The young man gasped for air— exactly like Roy’d been drawing. Snapped out of his trance, Roy rushed to help him. Grabbing him by the biceps then dragging him out of the pond. The young man clung to him, cold, shivering and naked. Roy quickly wrapped him in his wet coat, more for his modesty than warmth. With extreme difficulty, he took him into the house. He had no plan, but he at least knew it wouldn’t suffice to wallow outside out in the mud.

The young man didn’t speak. That was the first thing Roy learned. He sat there next to the fireplace in the den, wearing the pajamas Roy’d bought for his son (if he ever came home). They were too big for the young man, but they sufficed. Roy wrapped him in a blanket, and the young man clung to it for dear life. Roy was at a loss for what he should be doing in the situation. He’d bathed him and fed him and he fully intended to let him sleep here for the night, but what else was there for him to do? 

Time passed. The young man learned simple words and phrases. It’d taken a few days in the beginning for Roy to realize he wasn’t just being flat out ignored.

“Why?” The young man, whom Roy had affectionately named Marsh, asked one afternoon while he was drawing. Roy sat on a stool sketching with charcoal on a canvas, Marsh watching next to him. He was drawing a landscape instead of a man for the first time in a long time. Roy looked at him but did not know how to answer.

“Why?” Marsh insisted again, his frustration growing at his own limited vocabulary, gesturing toward the easel and canvas. Roy suddenly took the question to roughly mean, “what are you doing?” 

“I’m drawing. It’s when I use these tools to put what I see onto paper…would you like to try it?” Roy asked calmly. He found that Marsh understood him best when he just spoke to him like he would anyone. 

He held out the charcoal for him while Marsh eyed it suspiciously. Marsh slowly took it, hesitantly brushing it against the paper. When he saw it make a mark, he brightened with excitement.

Onward from that day, Marsh did little more than draw, and his skill seemed to accelerate at a rapid rate. Marsh’s skill in everything seemed to accelerate faster than normal. He learned to speak full sentences and phrases over the course of a few months, in fact he became very articulate. Regularly practicing on people in town whenever Roy would take him shopping or to the nice restaurant he owned. Marsh was so articulate that he could now inquired about complicated conepts that Roy really didn’t know how to answer. Like, Where did I come from? Did you create me? Am I human?

And worst of all, Are you my father?

“Of course not!” Roy rose his voice to Marsh for the first time ever, immediately regretting it. But instead of cowering in fear (like Roy’d expected him to), Marsh challenged him further. The glare in his eyes reminding Roy of the drawing he’d made the day they’d met.

“Then what am I doing here?” Marsh countered. 

They didn’t talk for a while after that. Marsh came and went as he pleased and Roy’s heart broke every time he did. He missed the days when Marsh knew nothing of the world, when all it consisted of was the house, the yard, and Roy. Roy’d loved him because he knew of nothing else. Now that he knew what the world had to offer, why would he ever stay with him?

Roy was in love with Marsh. He had been since the day the young man crawled out of the pond. No, since the moment he drew that photo of him in that old sketchbook. But Marsh would leave him one day, just like everyone else did that he knew…That’s when an idea occurred to him. He’d used the old sketchbook to draw Marsh. Roy could draw someone else, someone who would love him in return. 

Roy spent multiple afternoons in front of the pond. Sketching young men crawling out of it. Young men with kind eyes, and needy dispositions. Someone who could cling to him and never let go… 

Weeks passed and the drawings brought no luck. The pond was still. Lifeless. And Roy gave up.

One night when the rain lulled him to sleep in his cold lonely bed, Roy awoke with a sudden urge to go to the pond. He tugged his boots on over his night clothes and waded down the steps, out the front door. He found the pond as empty as he’d left it, but wanted get closer anyway. Sitting on the edge, Roy leaned toward the water, lookin at his own reflection when it suddenly morphed. Roy’s reflection began to show him young again. He touched his face, leaning closer and closer until he fell in. 

Roy splashed around in the water until he stood, the pond water only going up to his mid thigh. He continued to stare down at his reflection, marveling at his temporary youth. 

“So it does work,” Marsh said.

Roy turned to look at the familiar voice but was startled by his feet sinking deeper into the bottom of the pond. He tugged at his own legs to free himself but he only sank deeper, panic arising in him.

“Marsh, help me, I’m-”

“It’s going to swallow you,” Marsh said, his voice so cold that Roy could hardly believe it belonged to him. Roy was up to his waist now as he gripped the ground outside the pond— just like he had that night all those months ago, dirt piling under his fingernails. Marsh sat down just out of his reach when Roy realized the man was holding his sketchbook, fingers were dusted black with charcoal.

“Marsh wait, you’re misunderstanding.”

“You created me with this. Looks like you tried to create a lot more before me, and even more after me… I think the sketchbook is just finicky like that. It grants wishes it wants to grant.”

Roy could barely hear Marsh now. His ears were beneath water, his face barely peeking out. His arms flailed toward his creation with an animalistic desperation.

“Is this what you want?” Marsh calmly handed the book to Roy who, just before his face sank completely underwater, caught a glimpse of a drawing he didn’t recognize.

The drawing Roy saw was of himself, younger, drowning in the pond. Daffodils lining the edges of the piece that he recognized as being bulbs in the genus Narcissus. 

As Roy started at the photo and water filled his lungs, all Roy could think was, “I look so beautiful.”

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