Page 73 of Shrapnel

He needed something to eat. Sugar would help. But Elijah thought sleep might be better. They crawled into bed together, the lights off so Noah couldn’t see the board full of evidence. Elijah held him close, wishing more than anything he could somehow absorb the pain from Noah. Take it from him so that his smile would return, that small snarky smile full of mischief that Elijah loved so much.

Elijah was going to find whoever did this. He was going to find them and put a blade through them so many times not even dental records would be able to identify the body.

The loveseat was a monstrous thing. All dark wood and satin, it was a statement piece. An expensive reminder to anyone who walked in that they were inferior in every way. This couch was not meant to be rested on. It sat sentinel, staring judgmentally at any who dared assumed its damask fabric was for sitting. The two rolled arms spread out like wings, curling cruelly.

Noah liked to sit under the arms. He felt protected by the massive wooden framed couch. The silky fabric felt good against the back of his head, and from where he sat Luther couldn’t see him.

His uncle worked at his desk in total silence. Only the sound of drawers opening and pens on paper punctuated the silence of White Sand Mesa. That was his first lesson upon arriving at the grand home—children were not to be heard. They weren’t to be seen, either. Children were living, breathing chess pieces. A show pony to be brought out of its stable when its master needed to impress someone.

Noah was about as important to his uncle as this ugly couch.

He counted the swirls in the satin fabric for the hundredth time. Noah wasn’t allowed toys. Toys were ugly eye sores. Bright spots of vulnerability in the pristine environment of preeminence Luther had cultivated.

Watching his uncle work wasn’t his idea of a good time, but he thought maybe he could understand him. In the early days, Noah still thought he could wheedle some affection from the man. A smile, a nod. Anything.

Peeking around the couch, he watched as the cherubic-faced man quietly made notes. The dimples were gone now, replaced by an unreadable mask of indifference. Later, Noah would learn that this was a safe face. One that indicated his uncle was between moods. His angry face was scary. His smiling face was worse.

Behind his uncle was his wall of death. Bottles of poison, desiccated fingers, and whatever other macabre thing he could seal in a glass jar. All carefully labeled in his neat script, they leered down at Noah every time he was called to stand in front of his uncle’s desk.

This ugly couch he knelt beneath was as close to Luther’s office as Noah liked to get. He stared across the hallway at his open doors, ready to sprint away at so much as an eyebrow twitch.

Noah was so focused on his uncle that he didn’t notice the shadow falling over him.

“Spying, little one?”

He jumped, instinctively holding out an arm to shield his face. When nothing hit him, he lowered his arm.

The man seemed impossibly tall. His face was shrouded by the bright afternoon sunlight framing him. A dark smudge against the impossibly bright desert sun.

“I uh…” he stuttered, unsure what to say to this stranger who was no doubt here to see his uncle. Another one of his uncle’s inner circle.

“Kids like you should be out playing,” the man said again, his voice strangely distorted. Perhaps time had taken away the specifics, but every time Noah tried to picture his face or remember his voice, it warbled and changed, growing less distinct.

“Here,” the man pulled a handful of something from his pocket. Plastic rustled and clattered as he dropped it to the tile in front of Noah. “Build something.”

Tentatively Noah reached forward. Plastic-wrapped candies and Lego bricks were piled on top of each other. Noah remembered playing Legos with his mom aunt, and uncle. Kurt always built a big castle while his mom and Willow liked to build cars.

“Th-thank you…” Noah stammered.

“Just don’t tell Lulu.”

Then the man was gone, whistling as he sauntered across the hall. He closed Luther’s office doors behind him.

Noah sat up quickly. The covers fell off his sweaty skin and his throat ached. His hands shook as he rubbed his eyes.

“You ok?” Elijah asked groggily, laying a hand on Noah’s back.

Blinking in the darkness, Noah tried to remember his not dream He had been almost asleep, that twilight-like precipice between wakefulness and sleep.

“I-I had a dream. No. It wasn’t a dream, I wasn’t asleep. It was a memory. From when I was a kid.”

Shaking the strange feeling off he moved to lean over Elijah, reaching for his nightstand. “Phone, need my phone.”

Noah swore when it wasn’t there. He couldn’t remember where he set it after he called 911. It might still be in the church for all he knew.

“Need your phone.”

He lunged over the bed, almost falling except for Elijah catching him by the thighs. Ignoring the pain, and Elijah’s protests, Noah pulled at the pants Elijah had dropped on the floor. Fumbling, he unlocked the phone with his birthday and pulled up contacts.