Page 2 of Little Liar

I cuddle into him and cry. Because I know I crushed the spider. I know it’s dead because of me. My body shakes uncontrollably until I fall asleep in my daddy’s arms while he carries us out of the playground.

“You’re such a good kid, Malachi.”

I like it when it’s quiet. My ears don’t hurt, and the bad butterflies don’t appear, waiting for someone to yell at me.

The house is never quiet.

When Mommy leaves me in the house all alone, I can play with the boxes she’s left sitting around. Sometimes they’re big enough for me to climb in and close the lid, then I can hide until Mommy comes home again and takes me to my bedroom.

I’m too scared to look for the boxes now. Did Mommy come home? Daddy? I haven’t seen my daddy in so long.

I slide off my bed, nearly falling over the bag of dirty clothes as I make my way to my bedroom door. I tug at the handle, and my bottom lip curls.

Why won’t it open?

“Mommy?” I call out, hitting my little fist on the door. I cough into my hand and hit the door again. “Daddy?”

Like every night, nothing. It makes me sad that Mommy doesn’t give me cuddles anymore. Daddy used to hug me until I cried and laughed.

Music is playing really loud—Mommy won’t hear me again. Tears form in my eyes, and I lower my head as I go back to bed. I trip up on the way—I can’t see where I’m going because Mommy took my night light out when I asked when Daddy would come home from work and read a bedtime story to me.

Mommy had said I was being a bad boy by not sleeping, but I wasn’t tired. My tummy was sore, and my cheek hurt from Mommy slapping me because I was crying for her to read me the book instead.

I wipe the back of my hands against my wet cheeks and hug myself with my blankie to try to heat up. It’s always cold now. Rain leaks into my window and soaks my floor—I tried to clean up the puddle soaking my toys with my teddy bear, and now he’s ruined too.

When I fall asleep, I wake to my mommy cuddling me. She smells weird, and the bed is wet. Maybe Mommy needs to wear a diaper like I do. It itches sometimes, especially when I keep it on for days.

I smile as I look up at her face. Her eyes are closed, and she’s snoring, so I bury my head into her chest and fall back to sleep.

I’m happy again.

The following night is the exact same.

The next week is the same. It rolls into more weeks. Months.

Am I five now?

Mommy said I’m weird. She doesn’t like it when I’m weird. How do I stop being weird? I don’t want to be weird. She blames me for Daddy running away.

After school, Mommy holds my hand all the way to the bus. She tells me that my daddy sent me a birthday present, and it’s waiting for me at home. I grin with excitement, skipping the rest of the way and having to pull Mommy along because she’s barely walking straight and smells like beer.

“Slow down, Malachi,” she snaps, yanking my arm hard enough to hurt, making my smile drop.

She has bright red lipstick on today. Some of it is smudged at the corner, and it’s smeared across her teeth. I won’t tell her—she yelled at me the last time I told her.

“Sorry,” I reply quietly and walk slowly all the way home with an ache in my arm—I think she scratched me, but I don’t say anything.

There’s a box on the table with little holes, and a glass tank beside it. A birthday card with a big number five is on the front, and Mommy goes to lie on the couch while I open the card, trying to read the writing. Although Mommy thinks I’m dumb, my teacher always tells me how great I am with words, so even though the handwriting is messy, I can read the note.

Malachi,

I’m sorry I can’t be there for you anymore, son. I hope you can one day forgive me for leaving. You see, Daddy’s head isn’t a nice place, and he’s not good for you and your mother. I tried so hard, but you both deserve better.

I wish I could choose you and fight the poison in my brain, but I can’t. I’ll see you again one day, but hopefully not anytime soon.

Your new eight-legged friend will protect you, just like I know you’ll protect him. I suggest the name Rex or Spikey. Don’t be afraid of him.

After all, you’re an arachnophile, just like me.