Page 69 of Nightshades
“If he didn’t have a slut of a mother, maybe he’d end up being a real man. There’s no way that runt of a kid is mine.” He takes another long swallow from the bottle. Sweat glistens off his forehead which has his hair sticking to the moisture. “I regret marrying you,” he sneers. “I only married you because you were pregnant, but if I had known he wasn’t mine, I wouldn’t have wasted my time with you.”
“He is yours! How many times do I have to tell you! He is yours!” she cries.
A small boy is crouched in the next room, knees tucked to his chest, and his arms wrapped around his thighs. His face is half hidden behind his knees, but I’m able to see the dark, wet lashes that frame his eyes.
He only has a pair of shorts on, and I’m able to see all the bruises left on his body. He’s a little underweight too. My heart breaks for the unknown child. No kid should experience fear within their own home.
I sit down, huffing hot air into my hands as the temperature drops.
“Where is he? Where’s that waste of fucking space?” his father slurs, stomping out of the room to find the boy.
Standing in alarm, I step forward. “Don’t you dare! He didn’t do anything to you!”
The drunken, sorry excuse of a man has a stained white tank top on that looks like it hasn’t seen the washer in days. He stands in his underwear that has me curling my lip in disgust with the holes around the waistband and the grimy yellow dimming the material.
He notices his son curled up in the corner of the room, then slams the door, locking it so no one can enter.
“No!” I scream, sprinting across the floor.“Open the door!”I try the handle, jiggling it with all my strength. The whimpers leak out from under the door every time his fists make contact.
Patting my hip for my gun, I groan in frustration when I notice I’m not wearing my holster. I have no weapon in this dream, which only irritates me further.
I bang on the door again, pounding it with all my weight. “Open the fucking door!” I yell just as my surroundings change.
The door is gone.
The floor vanishes from under my feet, and I fall, screaming at the top of my lungs since everything is still so dark. Snow continues to fall, and I’m still able to hear and feel the screams of pain.
But these types of wails aren’t just from physical pain. These are brutal, soul-wrenching cries, the ones that steal breathfrom your lungs. It brings tears to my eyes. All I want to do is soothe the poor soul they belong to.
I land, the snow-covered ground breaking my fall. I groan, pushing myself up until I’m standing. This time, I’m in what looks like a backyard. Beyond the property line is all black, reminding me that this is a dream.
“I said to fucking stay out here until I’m ready to let you in.” That hateful yet familiar voice has me turn my head, seeing the man who calls himself a father open the sliding glass doors and toss his child outside. “Maybe you’ll think twice before interrupting me while I’m talking to your mother. She needs to learn her lesson just like you do.”
The child in question is a little older in this dream than the last. I’m not sure who he is or what this dream is supposed to tell me.
He cries, banging on the glass door. “Daddy! Let me in,” he begs. “It’s so cold. Let me in! Daddy!” He presses his forehead against the glass, the warmth of his body fogging it. “Mommy!” He tries for her next, but from the slaps coming from the other room, this poor kid is stuck outside.
“Hey! Hey, you aren’t alone!” I run to him, wanting him to know he is safe.
Before I can get to him, the dream changes again.
I take another ride, another fall through the endless pit. This time, when I land on the ground, the snow has only just kissed the ground, lying directly on top of the dead grass in a thin sheet.
The trees are shadows in the night, the stars twinkling above to remind me that there’s beauty, and the moon is full, casting a bright glow onto the same house.
I duck behind a nearby tree, rolling my eyes at myself when I remember no one can see me. Leaning against the trunk, I smile to myself when I see the boy, who is clearly older now, sitat the living room table with his mom. The blinds are open, and I’m able to see through the glass of the sliding door.
My heart warms knowing that, despite everything he had been through, he was able to find happiness. I cross my arms to watch them, smiling when the teenage boy tosses his head to laugh.
His head is shaved this time, and he is clearly older. He has a defined jaw now, broader shoulders, and, sitting down, he is taller than his mom. His smile, as quick as it arrived, disappears when the loud shake of the front door slams.
His mother’s hand reaches for her son’s arm, clenching it.
I gasp, stepping forward, wishing I could help, but I’m forced to be here. I’m forced to watch the scene unfold before me, and there’s nothing I can do. I hate feeling hopeless. I became a cop for a reason—to be there for others when no one else can be.
When people find themselves alone and in a situation they can’t escape from. Being in a dream where my hands are tied is now considered one of my worst nightmares.
“Who the fuck do you think you are having dinner before I get home?” the abuser yells.