But I Need You - W. Winters Page 0,30

ours open. The shorter one who’s heavier tosses the bag into the cell and a vicious crack sounds out followed by a shriek of pain.

Hot tears leak down my face, but I don’t look away. I have to make sure they stay over there, in that cell and not ours. And they do. The gate closes, locking with a click that will haunt me forever, and I watch because someone has to and the boy can’t.

The screams don’t stop for hours.

Delilah

My mother killed my father. The statement is fit for a tragedy, maybe one of Shakespeare’s plays. I hated English Lit in college. I only took the class because I had to. All the while I remember tapping my pencil against the textbook as I did the assigned readings, thinking how unrealistic it was. How outdated and far too dramatic the stories were as they unfolded.

As my mother lies on the edge of the queen bed, I can’t help but to be brought back to that moment, and suddenly I feel foolish. How did this happen?

With trembling hands, I close my eyes and pretend like it’s only a story. I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline that kept me from thinking about the reality … but my mother killed my father.

And I’m helping her get away with it.

Knock, knock, knock knock knock … The pattern of five faint knocks on the door to the hotel room draws my eye to the dull white door. A shadow is vaguely seen creeping from under the locked door.

My heart slams against my rib cage as a slip of paper slides under the crack.

Even from where I sit, huddled with my knees pulled into my chest and my eyes burning from lack of sleep and the prick of former tears, I can see the dark scribbles of handwriting.

The second the paper lands on the worn, thin carpet, the shadow disappears and it’s quiet again with the exception of heavy footsteps outside, followed by the creak of the next room’s door opening. I sit there, very much aware that it has to be Marcus who’s next door. It must be him. And more importantly … he must know what happened or that something has happened. How else would he have found me?

How much does he know? The question lingers as my body stays frozen.

Knock, knock. The last two taps of the game I remember from my childhood come through the wall only feet from me.

A shudder runs through me and I can only look back at my mother, still sleeping. Unaware of the fear that keeps me crippled in this chair.

A second passes and then another before the realization sinks in that I’d rather go to him than have him come here. I don’t know how I’m able to move my horrified limbs, but I do, bending down to read the slip of paper with the simple command on it.

Come over.

With a deep breath in I slip on my flats, once again staring at my mother’s sleeping form. Even in her rest, there’s a crease etched in the center of her forehead and her brow is pinched. Even in her sleep, she’s plagued by what’s happened. There’s no escape from it.

As I creep out of the room, all I can think is that she really did it. This is happening and I’m caught in the middle of it all.

Hesitation overwhelms me as I stand on the outdoor walkway in front of the room next door. The small peephole is a black pupil that stares back at me as the chill of the fall night air wraps itself around my shoulders.

With the back of my hand, I barely form a fist and rap: Knock, knock. Knock knock knock … I don’t have to finish. On the last knock, and with an eerie creak, the door opens. Not enough for me to go through, but enough to see the bathroom light is on inside. No other light, just the one and it barely bathes the room in the dim yellow glow.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice raspy and not at all sounding like myself. Clearing my throat, I gently push the door open wider. My heart races until I hear his voice.

“Come in. I’ve been waiting.”

Thump, thump, it all slows when I hear how calm and expectant he is. The deep baritone comes from the far left of the room. His room’s the same as mine, only mirrored. So his bed touches the wall where mine is