I turn my head at the last second, but she sighs like I’m an unruly child and then grabs my jaw, pressing the cloth over my mouth.
Her eyes glimmer with a sadistic gleam as I hold my breath, refusing to inhale the sweet scent. “It’ll be easier if you stop struggling. We’re on the same side,” she says.
My eyes widen in fear, and I try to shake her off with the bit of energy I have left, but my lungs burn.
Soon, my survival instincts kick in, and I inhale a greedy breath, struggling in vain as my vision begins to blacken at the corners.
I feel myself growing weak, held up by the man behind me, whose hot breath fans my ear. Lauren’s voice swims in my head, sounding distant. “I’ll see you soon.”
Why do mosquito bites itch? And why do mosquitoes only come out in the summer? Mommy says insect bites and scraped knees are a part of childhood, but I don’t like that.I don’t like the itching. Winter is better because I don’t get bitten, and Santa Claus comes to gift me presents. Daddy doesn’t like Santa. “Stop putting silly ideas into his head,” he always says to Mommy, but she smiles that pretty smile, and he shakes his head and grumbles something under his breath, then softens when she kisses his cheek.
“Are you listening?” he says now, frowning as I scratch the latest bite on my arm. We’re in the backyard, enjoying the late summer sun. Mom is inside, preparing food, the mouthwatering scent of bacon drifting through the open patio door. “Stop that. It’ll get infected.” He tips his stubbly chin toward the soda can he put on the tree stump at the edge of our yard. “That’s your target, Son. Think you can knock it off? If you do, I’ll give you the latest video game you were asking for.”
My eyes go as wide as saucers. Daddy wouldn’t let me buy it before because Mommy said it was too grown up. “Really?”
This is better than the gifts Santa brings me.
“Really!” he says, then ruffles my hair with an affectionate smile before glancing toward the house. Mommy is still inside. Turning back, he slides his gun out from the back of his pants and hands it to me. “Remember what I taught you the other week? How to load it?”
“Yes,” I reply, making ‘pew, pew’ noises as I aim the gun at the soda can, pretending I’m a cowboy in a Western.
Mommy likes that movie with the old man who chews on a cigar and says—according to Mommy—smart things like, “When a man’s got money in his pocket, he begins to appreciate peace.”
Mommy, seated cross-legged on the couch, once mouthed the words, and Daddy snorted, saying, “What a load of bollocks. If anything, the more money a man has in his pocket, the more he appreciates war,” before rising from the couch and leaving the room.
I don’t know what “bollocks” means. Mommy said it’s a British word, because that’s where Daddy grew up before his family moved here.
“Cyrus Delacroix,” Mommy’s stern voice says from the patio door, and Daddy groans tiredly under his breath, then winks at me as he straightens up. Mommy strides across the grass, still dressed in her pinafore, her hair messy atop her head. She’s always pretty,my mommy. “I’ve repeatedly asked you not to teach him this stuff yet. He’s too young.”
Daddy puts his hands on his hips, his head slightly tilted down as he peers at Mommy through his dark lashes. “He needs to learn how to defend himself in case something happens. The Reckoning is coming up and?—”
“No.” Mom’s firm voice stiffens my spine. “It’s out of the question. He’s only a child, Cyrus.”
Daddy stares off into the distance, sweat beading on his brow, and then he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Go back inside, Son. Mommy and Daddy need to have a grown-up conversation.”
I don’t like their grown-up conversations. They rarely fight, but Daddy sometimes upsets Mommy when he says he has to be the man of the house and put his foot down. Sometimes, Mommy doesn’t like those decisions and gives Daddy the silent treatment for days while stirring the pan or washing the dishes aggressively like they upset her too.
I glance at Mommy, but she’s not looking at me. She is standing with her arms crossed and eyes narrowed on Daddy. After handing Daddy the gun, I walk back to the house. My arm itches, so I dig my dirty nails into the skin as I enter through the patio door.
“We live in a dangerous world,” Daddy says to Mommy as I hide just inside the entrance to avoid detection.
Mommy’s voice drifts on the summer breeze, a tired plea for my Daddy to listen for once. “I’m aware, Cyrus, but don’t you want him to have a childhood?”
“What I want is for him to be safe. Unlike you, I don’t pretend everything is fine.”
“Unlike me?”
“Forget it.” Daddy turns to walk away, but Mommy grabs him by the arm.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me! We’re talking.”
Daddy’s chest inflates with a heavy sigh, and he reluctantly turns around, crossing his arms over his muscular chest, the T-shirt straining at the seams.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I refuse to baby him like you.”
“Baby him? Uh-huh. That so? I baby him?” Mom sucks on her teeth, almost trembling with anger.
