“Shhh.” I hush him as his whimpers get louder. They’re almost here. The two men I know in my nightmares. There’s oil on their hands. I think it’s oil; it’s all I can smell when they come. They smell like the garage used to when my father’s car broke down.

The one on the right, the tall one and older one heaves the cell gate opposite 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 How outdated and far too dramatic the stories were as they unfolded.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.