Page 174 of Sins of the Hidden

She jumped and clapped as she watched me struggle. Bending over, she pinched my nose together.

Dark. Blinding. Can't breathe.

My body buckled under her as she took air away from me. Need air. Burning lungs. Chest on fire.

My vision closed in. Blackness coming. Heart hammering. Animal sounds trapped in my throat.

Dying. I'm dying.

No air.

No air.

No. Air.

When she finally let go, I sucked air through my nose. She was laughing. Blowing me a kiss, she left me in the basement.

Maybe if I stayed very still now, she would see I was being good. Maybe if I didn't cry, she would stop being angry. I thought if I was very still, if I didn't scream, maybe she would finally see I was good. Maybe she would love me again if I was quiet enough. Maybe this was just another test.

Time broke down in the dark. Hunger was the only thing left that had a voice. It became my home for the next six years.

The leaks in the pipes became my comfort. The ground became my friend. Sometimes I'd fingerpaint with my blood on the walls just so I would have someone to talk to.

Then one night, everything changed. Footsteps echoed down the stairs to the basement. My mother's shrill voice begged him to stop. A loud crack came as he slapped her. "I told you to shut the fuck up."

A large hand grabbed my shaggy hair, pulling my face to his. "The fuck happened to your mouth, boy?" The man looked away back to my mother. "Did you do this, you crazy bitch?" Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a knife, cutting the stitches open one by one. Air flooded into me. I coughed as it hurt to take a breath in. Before I got the chance to do anything, the man was gripping my hair again.

"Use me!" She begged, sounding crazed, voice raw, breaking with pathetic desperation. "Not him. He doesn't deserve you—he doesn't deserve anything!"

He tsked. "Your son is better than you."

I scrambled around for anything close to me. My fingers closed around the bat like it had been waiting for me.

Too busy unzipping himself while screaming at my mother to leave, he didn't see it coming. I stood as quickly as my tired body would let me and swung my bat in his direction. Using all my strength, I aimed for his knee. He buckled as he cried out in pain. "You little fucking shit!"

Moving to the other side, I did the same thing to his other knee. As he stopped, he lunged forward for me. Once again, I raised the bat and brought it down on his head. I swung again. Bones cracked. Blood spattered. He fell. I struck harder, faster, fury consuming every part of me. My hands slick with his blood, the bat slipping in my grip, but I wouldn't stop. Couldn't stop. My body took over while my mind screamed for more. Until his head was gone.

After, I just stood there. Shaking. Waiting for something. Punishment? Relief? I glanced toward the stairs, thinking maybe she'd be proud. Maybe now I'd finally hear "good boy." Afterward, I stood there panting, eyes wide, blood dripping from the bat, waiting—pathetically waiting—for Mother to say she was proud.

Silence. Nothing. Empty. Dead.

I thought maybe I'd feel good, but I just felt hollow. Dirty. Something was wrong with me. Maybe this was why Mother hated me—she knew what lived inside me all along. Part of me expected to hear her clapping, like she had when she sewed my mouth. Part of me thought maybe now, finally, I'd done something right in her eyes.

When the silence returned, it wasn't victory I felt—it was emptiness. I thought I'd hear her clapping again. Instead, I only heard myself breathing—and even that felt like a mistake. I stared at my blood-covered hands, realizing I'd finally become what she saw from the start: a monster.

I waited. Breathing hard. Blood in my mouth. Would Mrs. Wilson still think I was good? Would she still let me lick the spoon?

Footsteps. "My turn—" Another man came down the stairs, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw me bloodied with a body in front of me. He tried to escape, but I caught up to him. Bat breaking his ankles, before his ribs, then his skull.

Two men were dead. Would Mommy think I was brave now? Would she finally protect me?

I waited for her voice. For her footsteps. For anything.

When the silence returned, it wasn't victory I felt—it was emptiness. No applause. No smile. No arms to hold me. Just silence so loud it filled the room like smoke, choking everything it touched.

My eyes went to the stairs, expecting to see Mother there. Waiting for her to praise me.

The stairs were empty.

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