Page 1 of Run to Me

Jace

Eleven years old

I open my eyes to a dark room smelling of Clorox and metal. Silence surrounds me and there’s not so much as a creaking floorboard. No loud breathing from anyone but me either. Does that mean he’s dead? I’m not usually this sloppy, but I lost focus after looking up at my mom and seeing pictures of her new family. She was in one of her sun dresses, standing between who I assume to be her husband and his son. My dad was right, her intentions were always to replace us. Not only didn’t she want him anymore, but she didn’t want me either. So many days I would lie in bed, wishing she’d fought harder to take me with her. That was seven years ago. I have to learn to forget her. If only it was that easy.

My head aches and I sway a little trying to get to my feet. I feel around me, guiding myself toward the steps. I forgot to lock the door behind me and my father’s new guest got out while I was dozing on the couch. I wouldn’t have heard him if he hadn’t crashed into the standing lamp nearby. Scared and shaking, he’d tried to run but I was faster.

He put up quite the fight too, when I finally caught up to him. He kicked and screamed, his arms flailing everywhere. “Please,” he begged, sounding weak and tired.

“I’m sorry but you have to go back to the basement or we’ll both be in trouble.” An impending fear crept up my back, feeling like a million ants were crawling on my skin. Last time I made a mistake I paid big time for it, and was locked up in the basement shelter room for days without food and only a dog bowl filled with water. I can’t go back there again so soon. So I did everything I could to get the guy back in the basement, ignoring the dread tugging at my insides.

He can’t be older than twenty, with blond hair and a dusting of freckles over his nose. Skinny and frail, he was stronger than he looked, but so was I. Many people call me big for my age, assuming I’m at least four years older than I am. “I’m sorry,” I kept saying as I dragged him down the steps. His nails clawed at the walls, and he managed to latch on so well that I lost balance and we both fell down the steps. He was so heavy. Maybe he’s only passed out like I was.

The throbbing in my head continues, and when I rub my temple my fingers come in contact with something wet and sticky. Either way, my dad’s going to know something went wrong. I’m getting punished for this, but it’s my fault for not following the rules. For letting my guard down. It’s my fault we’re both hurt and going to suffer more than we already have. It’s all my fault.

Hiding under my bed or in the closet won’t help me. He always finds me no matter where I go. I like to pretend I’m safe when I bury myself under the sea of clothes in the back anyway, and it does give me extra time to disappear into my own head before the pain comes.

Eyes watering, my hands shake as I flip on the light switch, and I hold on to the railing when a dizzy spell comes over me. I make my way slowly up the stairs and stop on the second step, and when I turn around my heart squeezes. A body lies on the floor of the basement in a fetal position, not moving. Fuck. Fuck. The difference between me and my dad is, I don’t hurt them, but I fear the day he finally trains me to take over doing what needs to be done to protect our home. To protect us. Instead, I help him keep them fed and clean, and I treat their wounds. I also watch over them while he’s at work, making sure they remain in the basement and don’t hurt themselves.

“Don’t worry, son,” he’d say. “This is only to help prepare them for their new homes. Life will be better for them once they’re there. You should be proud to have helped them get there.”

Chills run up and down my body. “Hey,” I whisper, tapping the guy’s leg with my foot when I’m close enough. He’s in nothing but a pair of gray sweats my dad keeps for all our visitors, half of his blond strands covered in blood. “Hey,” I say again, my voice shaking. “I need you to wake up. Please wake up.” I drop to my knees, checking for a pulse, and sigh in relief when I finally get one. Sweat gathers on my forehead as I flip him over onto his back.

His eyes slowly blink and then quickly widen when they land on me. “No,” he screams, glancing around the room frantically. “I can’t be down here again. Please don’t make me. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t leave me here.” Turning toward me, he clings to my leg, and I push him away. He tries to sit up and immediately crashes to his knees.

“I have to. I wish I didn’t. I really wish there was another way,” I say, and my throat tightens around each word. My phone buzzes in my pocket and it’s my dad saying he’ll be home late. Another message quickly follows, leaving me more tense than before.

Dad : There better not be a mess for me to clean up when I get home.

Swallowing hard, I exit the message and my fingers linger over the keys, struggling to press down on the right numbers.

“I think I need a hospital,” the guy grits out. “I hit my head pretty bad and I feel sick.”

“I got the first aid kit and some water.” My words rush out as I back up against the steps. I shouldn’t have to tie him up again with the state he’s in.

“That’s not good enough. I need a fucking doctor. Are you a doctor?”

I shake my head, words trapped in my throat.

“Why are you doing this?” His face twists.

“My dad said we have to.”

“You don’t, though. You can still help me, you know. You can still do the right thing,” he croaks.

“But this is the right thing.” I wasn’t so sure anymore. My head has been such a messed up place lately and I’ve been constantly at war with myself. Why would my dad do this if he really didn’t have to?

His eyes blink hard and his face pales. “Oh my God. You’re just a child. Why didn’t I notice before? How old are you?”

“I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

“You don’t like doing this, do you? Does he hurt you too?” He crawls toward me, his eyes struggling to stay open.

“I have to get you cleaned up. I’ll be right back.”

“No,” he shouts and I run up the steps as fast as I can. His screams are muffled when I close the door and I press my back to it, taking deep breaths. I eye the burn scars on my arms and remind myself to keep doing what I’ve been instructed to do. Dad will be home soon and I won’t have to deal with it anymore. Not until he leaves again. I squeeze my eyes shut, tears hitting my cheeks. The guy downstairs was right. I don’t want to do this. I never did.

After locking the door, I go to the bathroom to get towels, the first aid kit, and medical tape. I grab Tylenol from my dad’s room on the way back to the basement, and find the man flipped onto his back with his body convulsing. Shit . That can’t be good. None of this is good. Dropping everything to the ground, I leave the basement and rush out the front door, needing air. I can’t breathe. My knees crash to the ground, pants soaking from the wet grass as I tug at the collar of my shirt.

“What’s wrong, son?” A deep voice comes from beside me but my world is spinning too fast to know from where. I fall forward, wrapping my hands around myself, rocking, and the tears fall faster than before as I hyperventilate. A large weight lands on my back and voices grow louder around me.

Someone says something about calling for help, and that’s when a deep panic rests heavily on my chest. “No,” I scream, curling into a ball on the grass.

“It’s okay, son. We’re calling for help. They’ll be here soon.”

“Fuck. His head is bleeding. Who did that to you, kid?” another voice says.

“Tell my dad I can’t do it anymore.” I rasp out a breath, my head feeling light and heavy all at once. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ll take my punishment in the storm room for however long I have to. Just tell him not to make me do it anymore.”

“Do what?” A man looks down at me with furrowed brows.

“Be like him,” I say before my whole world goes black.