Suddenly, I’m self conscious about the bruise on my eye. I look away, preventing the man from seeing my face. Mother doesn’t like to see the bruises. She thinks the marks make me feel bad for myself, when I’m the one to blame.
The man stands again, and the padlock bangs against the u-bar on the crate.
“You’re keeping a boy locked in a box?” the man asks, his voice deep and angry.
“It’s none of your business,” Mother says. “What I do with my life is—”
“Get the fucking key,” the man growls.
Through the hole, I watch Mother’s knees quake. I reach out to touch her, but the hole is too small.
The keys jingle as they go from her palm to his.
The man unlocks the box as Mother screams, hitting him. The lock crashes to the floor. I don’t move. Cool air hits my skin, light flooding into my vision as the box opens. I stay crouched in position, letting the sides of the box protect me. I want to do the right thing. I want to stay where I belong.
Something clicks in the air. At that noise, I can’t help it; I watch. The man slashes a switchblade across Mother’s throat. Blood streams down her body, coating her in red. She falls to her knees.
He cuts her again and again, until finally, he squats down and digs his fingers into her skull, prying each eyeball from her sockets. Red strings dangle from his hand.
I close my eyes. I need courage.I need strength.The will to do anything at all right now.
Fear paralyzes me.
She’s my mother. Shouldn’t I be saving her?
Why can’t I get up?
The man kneels down, resting beside me. He lifts an eyeball, showing it to me.
“You know why I did that?” he asks. I lower my gaze to my bare feet. “Because she never saw you. But I see you.”
There’s crust and blood on my big toe. Mother promised she would help me clean it up if I was good tonight.
She won’t now. She can’t. She’s—
“What’s your name?” the man asks.
He sets the eyeball down on the floor. I crouch down even more, hoping the box will protect me even without the lid.
“I asked you a question,” the man repeats, and though he seems nice—to me,notMother—my heart races. I don’t know what he’s going to do to me.
“Dice,” I finally say.
“Is that short for Daisuke?” the man asks. It is, though I don’t answer. “We’ll find your birth certificate. Your name has to be around here somewhere.”
He holds out his hand, and for a few seconds, I stare at his palm. It’s rough and manly, not like Mother’s soft hands.
He killed Mother.
I stayed in the box.
Why didn’t I help her?
Did he kill her because he was mad that I was in the box?
He should’ve killedme.Not her.
A look crosses the man’s face, then it melts into something else. Is it frustration? Is he angry with me too?
