Ben
The room is dark like the basement at the house I grew up in. I have two memories of that house: hiding in the basement to get away from my father when he was so angry; and when they ripped me away from my mom’s body when I found her in the middle of the kitchen floor. It took me a while to figure out the pool of red stuff around her was blood.
I pat the space around me for something. My fingers graze against rough carpet.
“Where am I?” I yell.
Nothing.
There’s no answer.
Pain shoots through my leg when I try to stand. He hit me. The memories flood my blurry mind, but I do remember that. Everything had been clear, and then it faded into darkness. I went for a walk, which I knew Mom would be mad about, but I was angry with her. She’s always trying to fix things, and sometimes I wish she understood she can’t always make my life better.
Someone pulled up, and I remembered the talk the police officer gives us every year in school. Don’t talk to strangers. The moment the stranger’s eyes landed on me, I knew something was wrong. He parked the car, and before I could scream, he dragged me into the back seat. I saw the gun on his hip. I was scared, but I caught a glimpse of the street sign we turned down before the cloth bag had blinded me.
Now, I’m here.
But where is here?
Mom and Dad are going to be so mad at me.
Dad’s going to have to leave his game.
I’m in so much trouble.
I scoot around the room. When I connect with a soft surface, I know I’m in a bedroom. I have to be. My fingers skim every surface until I find the wall. The light switch has to be around here somewhere.
When I find it, I flip it on and squint. White walls. Bed with a dark blue blanket. A bedside table and lamp. Nothing else. Someone can’t actually live here. This looks more like my house when I lived with my mom than the home I live in now.
With a loud thud, the door swings open, and a man I don’t recognize walks forward. His steps are heavy, and his dark hair is a mess, slicked back from gel or sweat. His shirt is untucked like Rico’s when he gets home from work. It’s his face that makes breathing too hard. I know when someone is angry.
“You’re...” I stutter, afraid and unsure. My mind plays tricks on me, because if what I’m seeing is true, then the man in front of me is my grandpa.
“That’s right.” He sneers. His blood shot eyes bulge with every step he takes towards me. I fall to the stained carpet and scoot away until my back hits the wall. When he stops directly in front of me, a stale, rancid smell comes from his mouth. Dad let me smell his beer once when I asked. That isn’t comparable to this foul scent. He points a glass bottle at me. “I’m your Grandpa Black.”
“That’s not possible. You’re in prison,” I say, confused. Could this really be Dad’s dad? They sort of look alike.
“I see my little shit of a son has been talking about me.” His voice sounds funny, like he can’t keep his thoughts together.
“Why am I here?” My breath bursts from my lungs. “I want my mom and dad.”
“If I’m right about your mom, she’ll figure out where you are soon enough.”
Why is he wiggling his eyebrows like that? Does he want my mom to come here?
“And if you’re wrong?” I test him, remembering what my mom always says about speaking to adults. Give them respect. Something tells me that rule doesn’t apply to the man in front of me.
A creepy laugh slaps me across the face. “Then I’ll kill you.” He leaves the room, but he doesn’t flip off the lights like I expect him to.
Then I’ll kill you.
Then I’ll kill you.
Then I’ll kill you.
My eyes burn, and I crouch down on the floor, folding my knees tight to my chest. I glance around the room, searching for anything. A cold breeze hits my cheek. The window. I pounce towards the curtains. Wood covers it behind the ripped fabric. The breeze comes from the fast job someone did when they bolted it to the trim.
What would my dad do?
If he were here, he’d know what to do. He always does. Mom goes to him when she has problems. When she screams out at night, he’s the one who comforts her. My dad would fight. He’d find a way to make it back home to Mom. That’s what I’ll do, too.
“You’re young, but you’re not stupid. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel less than,” is what Mom always tells me.
“I’m not stupid,” I whisper to myself.
I walk to the door, but find it locked. I knock on it, and it swings open. The man, my grandpa, leans on the door frame, shocked to see me standing there. Did he forget he brought me here?
“Is there a bathroom?” I ask, my voice quiet, so not to surprise him.
“Right over there, kid. Make it quick.” He points down the hallway.
With slow steps, I walk in the direction he shows me. I take in everything around me. The raggedy couch. The coffee table in the middle of the room. The small television. The Xbox on the floor.
“Is that mine?”
He looks between the console and me, shaking his head. “No, it’s mine, kid. Go to the bathroom.”
I do just that. Go into the bathroom and search for anything I can use to help me get back to my mom.
The place is bare. No toilet paper. No medicine or soap. This place isn’t a home.
Treading lightly, I walk back out and circle the couch. He chugs a glass full of smelly liquid.
“What are you doing out here?” He sneers.
“You remind me of my father,” I blurt.
“Graham is my son, kid, so that’s no surprise.”
“No, my real father.” I don’t remember much about my biological father, but what I do know, I never liked. He hit me when he was angry. Sometimes I thought I did something wrong, but I was a kid being a kid. I couldn’t help how loud I was or how I left my toys in the middle of the hallway.
“Must have been a good man.” He pats the seat next to him. I don’t have the courage to tell him it isn’t a compliment. “Now, what compelled my son to do something like adopt a kid like you?”
I shrug, not knowing what to say or what not to say. He gives me a sideways glance, and I know quiet is the better option. He’s like those bears in the woods you aren’t supposed to poke. Mom says things like that sometimes.
Mom.
“Do you have games?” I point at the Xbox.
“I do.” He stands. “Do you like to play?” He tosses me a remote, and I take it, assuming this is his way of being nice, but it doesn’t carry to his face. That is cold and angry.
“Can I pick the game?” I stand and walk over to the pile in front of him. He has every game I know of, and an Xbox connect sits on top of the TV. “This is just like my stuff at home.”
“Don’t read too much into it, kid. I don’t care about you. I just don’t want your little ass crying.” He steps away, and I choose my game.
I’ll bide my time. That’s what I’ll do.
Play the game until the right time comes along, and then I’ll get out of here. He won’t have to kill me or hurt my mom. Why am I so calm on the outside? I’m freaking out. I want to go home. I want to play catch with my dad and be Rico’s wing man, whatever that is. He always says I’m the best wing man a guy can ask for.
For the next hour, I play Halo. Every so often I look behind me to see if he’s fallen asleep yet. Once he’s out, I’ll make my move. It’s a risk. He could catch me. The other option is to stay here and wait.
I can’t wait.
I need to get out of here.