Page 89 of Trapped: Until The Darkest Of Night

Lou is not there. Instead, I spot Grey chewing on something.

It is so silent. So quiet.

A part of me is suddenly terrified, like a child left alone in a foreign country. Waves of adrenaline rush through me as my brain puts two and two together.

The lighter that runs on gas… She could have set off the alarm with that.

No, she didn’t, she’s not that clever. No way!

The innocent questions about the propane tank and its location when she told me the story about Delsin…

“What would you have done then?”

“I would have turned off the gas bottle while you ran for safety.”

But no! She couldn’t have planned this!

Yet I don’t see her. I move stiffly around the RV without hearing anything. She’s gone, swallowed up by the earth.

Nausea fills my stomach. She is gone! Lou is gone!

An invisible noose wraps around my throat and tightens.

“Louisa?” I manage to croak out. “Lou?”

The graveled lot, the spruce trees, and the sky begin to flicker and a part of me emerges. At least that’s how it feels. I see black flashes for several seconds before falling into an abyss with a scream that bursts out of me.

“LOUISA! COME BACK!”

Chapter

Twenty-Three

Istumble, fall to my knees, and hear myself gasp. The gravel on the ground blurs.

“Louisa! Come! Back! Immediately!” My screams flutter about me like a flock of sinister crows. I understand them and I don’t understand them. It’s like I exist twice. One Brendan out there and one trapped inside me.

When I sit up and look around, I peer straight into the little boy’s timeless eyes. As before, I hear him count.

One, two, three, four, I’m not here anymore… You have to stay out.

For a moment, it’s only him, me, and the darkness. “Why?” I whisper hoarsely.

“Grief. Too heavy for you. You’ll fall apart.”

With that, he walks away in his grubby pants, leaving me behind, paralyzed. I stare at his back, but he fades…

The boy runs. He’s never been this fast before. He doesn’t look left or right and he doesn’t look back. Behind him, the monster roars as if it has escaped from the doomed place. The boy’s bare feet kick up dust on Thorson Ave. and he breathes it directly into his lungs. The grains scratch his throat, making it difficult to breathe, but this is his chance. Maybe the last one he’ll ever get. He doesn’t know how close behind him the man is, but he has a head start. The Santa Ana blows across his face and smells of salt and oil. Of so many things the boy doesn’t know.

On the wide street, the boy dares to glance over his shoulder. The strong, iron-featured man dashes down Thorson Ave, fist raised. His forehead is bleeding, exactly where the boy hit him with the sawn-off wooden slat. That was for Blacky—otherwise, the boy would never have dared to attack him. But he suddenly saw this long piece of scrap wood in the workshop and the key for the back door was still in it. He doesn’t remember how he did it, only that there was an ugly crack. It sounded like victory.

Now he stands on the road, watching the monster charge him. In this colorful, hectic environment, he seems more human again.

The boy’s knees weaken. All of a sudden everything is too loud. The voices around him, the hum of the cars, the honking. A woman laughs next to him. She is as blonde as his Little Miss Sunshine.

Help me! he wants to shout, but his voice fails. Nobody would help him anyway. Not even the police. They’d just bring him back even though they see the pathetic state he is in. The man would lie and put a few bills in the police men’s hands. That’s how it works.

He ducks into a crowd of people crossing the street at the same time. With his arms stretched out in front, he squeezes between the bodies as if swimming.

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