Lost Boy - Ker Dukey Page 0,8

people taking photos at a time like this—vultures standing in line to pick away at the carcass.

“Let’s hope it’s not another Hollywell situation. It’s only an hour from here,” the older woman warns. My body jerks at her words, making my feet stumble and foot slip from the curb. I crash to the ground, taking out the police tape as I do.

The impact makes me cry out more in shock than pain. The knowledge of everything that happened in Hollywell creaks and groans from the dark corners of my mind where I keep it tightly locked away.

Rape.

Murder.

Serial Killer.

Willis Langford.

Willis Langford

Willis Langford

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

Damp dirt seeps into my clothes. Embarrassment burns my cheeks as I fumble, trying to stand. “You okay, ma’am?” an officer asks as I’m helped to my feet by multiple hands.

“Fine…” I squeak out, brushing down my clothes and ducking my head.

It’s as if the horrors of my dreams have spilled free onto the street before me. “Hide and don’t come out.”

My heart hammers, seeking freedom, peace—something I’ll never get. After my dream, that woman mentioning Hollywell feels too surreal. That fear is an entity that accompanies me through life. “Are you sure you’re okay?” the officer asks again. I hate the attention.

“I’m fine,” I snap, louder, more confident, yet I can’t gasp air quick enough.

Dipping my head, I move away from the scene and slip into an alleyway. I lean against the wall, a hand to my chest, gasping for breath.

I’ve seen enough. Too much. I need to get away from here.

Three

My mother always used to say even in the darkest of places, flowers still grow. When I’m on the cusp of being swallowed by the darkness taunting my mind, I cling to her words, praying there’s a seed somewhere inside me that will flourish in the shadows, a beacon of hope. I replay her words, allowing the calm to wash over me. Air fills my lungs, and the pounding of my heart slows.

The winter rain pounds me with her punishing fist, the air making my lungs frigid with each inhale of breath. A nervous hum vibrates at the back of my eyes, causing a nauseating pulse through my head.

There’s been death in our town before, but nothing like this, nothing so brutal.

I take off walking, picking up my pace as my muscles uncoil. Blowing on my hands, I rub them together to alleviate the burning. I hear the patter of Bruno’s paws as I approach the crossing. Like clockwork, his owner appears around the bend, lead in hand. Smoke pours from her lips as she huddles beneath a heavy raincoat, puffing on a vape. “Morning,” she grunts, barely lifting her head.

Three days a week, we pass each other, and that’s as far as our conversation has gone, but seeing her walking her overweight dog offers me a semblance of comfort.

Normalcy.

She has no idea what awaits her further down the road.

Will she stop? Want to see? Curiosity is wired in our DNA.

I pull my jacket sleeve over my hand to press the button at the crossing, cringing at the thought of how many dirty fingers have been all over it.

There’s zero traffic on this road this time in the morning, but I wait for the lights to change anyway. A news article comes to mind. A woman who wasn’t paying attention at a train crossing—she imploded like a water balloon being dropped from a skyscraper when it hit her.

Splat!

I wonder if she felt the impact. Did her life have time to flash before her eyes before she became mulch? Probably not.

Did people stop to witness the aftermath of her error? More than likely, yes.

The lights signal for me to cross, and the noise makes me jump despite me expecting it. I want to run home, curl up in my bed, and let my secrets soak onto the pillow, giving me some peace. My mind feels like a disease at times, slowly killing me from within.

The heavens mock me as the skies crackle and boom, the rain turning to icy pebbles. I race across campus, ignoring the cold seeping into my skin.

Pushing through the main entrance, I shake off the frost balls clinging to my hair. The halls aren’t vibrating with their usual bustle. It’s eerily quiet. The clinking of the hail hitting the windows amplifies the chilling energy. People group into clusters, their hushed whispers bringing a sullen density. It’s like looking at a haunted painting.

“What’s going on?” I ask the closest person to me. Our campus-like, our town