Page 5 of Stabby Little

His fingers on my ouchie were a divine touch. I stared into his eyes as he worked, squirting ointment onto my knee, wrapping it in a bandage, and took deep breaths to calm myself. My insides felt funny, and I wanted to press myself into his firm hand, to see what it felt like on other parts of my body.

It was such a crazy fucking thing. I just wanted to go back outside and scrape my hip this time, perhaps even deliberately. Then I'd tell Miles I hurt myself and have him rush me into his home so his father could patch me up all over again.

But Grant lied to me.

He didn't search for me when the evil men took me.

He didn't protect me and keep me safe like he swore.

I waited for that motherfucker and he never showed up.

2

GRANT

I takea sip of scotch and settle into the darkness. The liquor burns my throat, wreaking havoc on my esophagus. Dusty light seeps under the blinds I installed in my blacked-out living room, painting a picture of my internal rage on the hardwood floors.

I check the calendar. It takes everything in me not to drain the rest of my fucking scotch and pass out on my couch.

Again.

After picking up his picture, I cradle the frame in my hands and fight back the emotion welling up inside me.

“Seven years.”

My breath fogs the glass as I rub it with my dirty shirtsleeve. Seven fucking years. Seven years of searching for my son's best friend.

I touch his face, then tear my hand away from the glass. “Where did you go, Ollie?”

My voice is hollow. Depleted. Empty.

I've overturned every clue, followed every fucking lead. I've interviewed witness after witness who claimed they saw the men who took him that day.

They lied—for what? Because they watched too many true crime shows and wanted to help. Because they wanted to feel like they were part of the story.

The trail went cold.

He just…vanished.

The poor, innocent boy who his father emotionally abused for years leading up to his disappearance faded like the tail end of a shooting star blazing across the sky.

No matter who I spoke to, no matter what federal alphabet agency I contacted, no one assisted me.

I was Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill, putting all my fucking muscle into my labor, but it didn't matter. Each agency and private detective I spoke to aided me less than the last.

I set Ollie's picture back on the coffee table and pour myself another drink. The scotch lights up my throat, triggering my acid reflux that began when he disappeared.

I let this boy down.

I promised to protect him.

I swore an oath to keep him safe from harm.

I let him slip out of my fingers.

The alcohol is going to my head when my phone buzzes. I swipe it open and see it's my son.

“Hey, Dad.” Miles's voice cuts through the darkness of my living room. Any other time, it'd be a welcome distraction from my malaise. But now, it's like the gray light creeping through my blinds.

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