The doctor sighs deeply. It’s supposed to be in sympathy. Instead, it stokes the burning anger in my gut. Anger that thisman tries to pretend to know what I’m feeling. The only person who gave a shit is dead, and the only family I ever had is gone.
That anger—the one I inherited from my father—grows until it’s a tarry black mess on my tongue, and my fists shake at my sides. My mother was always worried I’d be like him—maybe I am. Sins of the father and all that crap.
That incessant beeping doesn’tstop. Wincing, I dig my nails into my hands. “Turn it off.”
“What?”
“Turn it off!” I shout and grab the back of the metal chair. Something snaps—or maybe the fog breaks, and everything clears. Whatever happens, I can finally think through the grief.
Swinging at the screen, I hit it. Over and over again. My muscles strain, my chest heaves, but I don’t stop smashing the damn thing until the beep stops and the room isblessedlysilent.
Panting, I look into the wide, terrifiedeyes of the doctor. Not a shred of guilt strikes me. Gone is the fog and the anxiety of what is coming for me. Strangely, everything is in focus and bright with contrast.
The doctor gulps and stares at me. It’s like he’s looking at a monster, and I grin.
“I need to go.”
He steps in front of me, a shred of bravery making him foolish. “Son, listen, you’ve experienced a significant loss. The death of a parent for someone at your age can be devastating?—”
“Move,” I command, eyes narrowed. My hand brushes the blade at my hip. It’s a rusted, old box cutter I found in the trash, but it works in a pinch.
He glances at the nurse at the side. She’s pale, mouth parted. Fear wafts off of her like the stink of the sewer. She’d never make it where I thrive.
“Call social services?—”
No.
Lashing out, I notch the blade into his elbow. Not the best spot, but he drops, crying out, and the nurse runs to him. It’s not deep—he’ll live—but it gives me the opening I need.
With one more fleeting look, I memorize my mother’s face—the laugh lines that grew after we escaped, the wrinkles in her forehead from age, and the gold chain around her neck. I don’t think—just grab, pull until it comes free, and shove it into my pocket.
I love you, Mom.
The nurse yells for security, and the doctor pleads with me as I step around them. I’m not stopping—he must see it. I can’t be here. I can’t let security take me back to that house. Pushing through the door, I hastily walk through the crowded halls, head down, blending in like I do on the street.
People don’t notice you if you don’t want to be seen.
Thudding boots behind me echo in the rush, and I groan.Apparently not well enough.Security guards, in their thick black boots and leather belts, run after me. Rolling my eyes, I skid to the left, taking the side entrance. It’s only a few steps to the stairs, and I fly down, flights ahead of the heavy guards.
If they really want to catch people, they need to get in better shape.
I emerge from the parking garage, not bothering to watch the road as I cut across three lanes of traffic. A horn honks, and another car slams on its brakes, the piercing squeal sounding into the late afternoon. A few people call out to me, “Can we help you?”
“Where are you coming from?”
“Is someone after you?”
But I keep going. I fling myself over the guardrail, sliding down the embankment, my old sneakers catching every branch and rock on the way down.
Pain slices into my heel and another on my right toe. Stones cut through the flimsy material, the sharp ends catching my forearms and hands as I try to slow my descent. Slamming into the side, I grip a root and swing around blindly. I dart into the underpass, listening as I press against the slimy cement wall.
Only my panting hits my ears, but I force myself to wait. I may harbor every evil my father ever committed, but I’m also patient. It’s a gift from Death himself, he used to say. After all, when you have a child brought back from death, they must have been touched by the Reaper himself to survive.
I don’t know how long I wait. Minutes turn into hours, and my body is stiff against the wall. I don’t move. I barely twitch at every sound. When the sun finally sets, I leave the underpass and head left. It's a short walk to the camp—the one my mother and I have been staying at for the last few weeks, which is fine with me. I don’t want time to think.
To think about how alone I am now. How I’m going to survive. What I’m going to do next.
I swallow the lump in my throat.