Lost Boy - Ker Dukey Page 0,4

as I try to keep up with her. Her grip is so tight, she’ll leave a bruise.

“Ow, mama!” I whine as her nails pinch my skin, breaking the flesh.

Rain begins to pour from the sky. Only…it’s not raining. The drops are thick crimson splats.

You’re dreaming. Wake up.

We’re inside. Jack’s mom takes our hands and ushers us into the spare bedroom.

“I need you to hide—hide and don’t come out for anyone but me,” she tells us, pulling us to our knees.

A car screeches to a stop outside, the tires kicking up dirt, then the slam of a door.

“Hide now,” she orders. Her voice shakes so much, it sounds like she’s someone else—a stranger.

“I’m scared,” I cry out.

“Stay together. Keep each other safe.” She nods her head, pushing us farther under before leaving us there.

Jack grips my hand, pulling away from the edge. The warm trickle of my pee soaks my panties and dress when the sounds of the front door crashing open and raised voices reverberate outside the closed door.

Fear suffocates me. I can’t breathe. I’m drowning in my tears seeping into the skin of Jack’s palm pushed firmly against my mouth.

“It’s okay, Liz Wiz. It will be okay.” Jack clutches me to him. I can’t make my body stop trembling. I’m scared he will hear my bones rattling.

Bang!

“No…” I mumble against Jack’s palm, squeezing my eyes closed as tight as I can.

Wake up! Wake up!

“Where the fuck is my son, cunt?” Nasty words punch through the air as the door gives way and heavy feet pound inside. The bed dips under the weight of someone thrown down on top of it.

I’m not sure if it’s my mom or Jack’s crying. Their pleas become muffled when Jack wraps his other arm around my head, blocking my ears.

The mattress pushes down above us as we cower beneath the bed.

Mama, mama, mama.

Wake up.

Fear is overwhelming me, my head feels dizzy. I want to run away and for this to be just a game. Marco…Polo…

But it’s not. I know what this monster who invaded our happy day is doing to her on the bed we’re sheltered beneath.

Jack’s voice sounds in my ear as the heat of his body shifts.

“It’s going to be okay, Liz Wiz.” I latch my finger with his in a pinky promise.

“Where is he!” the man roars, making my stomach twist. The gurgling sounds cause my head to swim. The room is darkening, the rain from outside now pouring inside, covering the carpet in red liquid.

You’re dreaming.

“Mama?” Jack cries out, and the room falls silent.

The bed creaks with movement before two dirty black boots thud to the floor.

Whoosh!

My hand reaches out for Jack’s as he’s pulled from my grasp, his body sliding away from me. “Noooo!” we both cry out as he’s yanked from beneath the bed. Our eyes hold each other’s gaze.

The earth shakes the foundations of my world.

His startled eyes begin to tear up.

“Jack!” I mime reaching out, willing my hands to go further…but he’s gone.

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

A gasp escapes me, jolting me from sleep. My eyes struggle to open. I will my erratically beating heart to calm inside my chest, the dream fever still holding me hostage in its suffocating grip. “In, out. In, out. In, out,” I coach myself, sucking air into my restricted lungs.

Swiping my hand over my head, I wipe the sweat dripping from my brow. My eyes peek open, and I try to focus. When the world floods in, I wish I could shut it all out again.

I have a love-hate relationship with my dreams of Jack. It’s been so long, I’m not even sure which parts of the memory are real anymore, or what’s been embellished from the nights spent thinking of different outcomes.

Wasted thoughts. Wasted life.

Knowing Jack, being his friend, became the catalyst of my entire life.

Thoughts of him wash through my mind like the tide receding after a hurricane, exposing debris and chaos in its wake. Shards of my world float around, damaged, unrecognizable, the destruction everlasting on my soul.

Reality hits me full force with the sun beaming through the drape-less window, heating my already warm room. I almost wished the memories of my lost boy would fade into nothing, dissipate with time, but he clings on, haunting me, and I seek those dreams out because, as painful as the idea of what happened to him is, the hurt reminds me he was real—is real.

If I feel him, he lives. Right?

Shrilling sounds from my cellphone, almost catapulting me