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Chapter 8
Addie
What words could you possibly say to comfort a little boy that was forced to kill his own mother?
What could anyone possibly do to make this very wrong situation right?
Tommy’s hands were trembling; the knife clattered, slick with blood.
“I killed her,” he muttered. “I killed her. I killed her.”
He held his shaking hands out in front of him as if he didn’t recognize them. As if they belonged to someone entirely different, someone capable of stabbing his mother in the head. My heart ached for this boy, for the innocence that was so brutally taken from him.
I knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he would never be able to forget this day. This wasn’t merely an obstacle that he could grow from. No, this was something much darker.
Angrier.
“Tommy - your name is Tommy, right?” I asked, scrambling to my feet. My head hurt furiously, and blood burned my eyes. I swiped the red, thick liquid away in annoyance.
“I killed her,” Tommy repeated numbly. Only his lips moved. His eyes stared vacantly at the fallen body of his mother. His hands were still held out in front of him.
“Tommy, we have to go.” I leaned down to pick up the knife he had dropped. I tried my hardest not to look at the blood smearing the shiny blade. I told myself that if I didn’t see it, it wasn’t real. I repeated this mantra until the words became meaningless. Even I - the Queen of Shitty Childhoods - knew that this was something neither of us could ever come back from. I just had to hope that Tommy was strong enough, stronger than I had ever been, to face the storm raging on ahead.
“Tommy.” Without waiting for him to respond, I grabbed his hand and began walking in the direction of the car. I stopped in mid-stride when I saw the Ragers surrounding the van’s tinted windows.
“Shit,” I cursed, immediately changing direction. There were bodies everywhere, and gunfire ricocheted through the air. I much preferred the gunfire over the screams.
It allowed me to pretend that we, humanity, were winning.
“I killed her,” Tommy muttered shakily.
I didn’t know what to say or how to comfort him. I had never been the greatest with children, especially ones that had gone through so much tragedy. In a sense, I could relate to Tommy on an almost spiritual level. I didn’t know if that connection made it harder to talk to him or easier.
Sidestepping a snarling Rager, I tightened my grip on Tommy’s hand. We had reached the edge of the road, towards the decline that was only separated from us by a metal fence expanding the length of the highway. Behind us, the Ragers tore apart people as if they were nothing more than discarded dolls.
Vaguely, my mind brought up an image of my childhood doll, smartly named Dolly. Dad had destroyed her, ripping her arm clean from her body.
These people, these humans, reminded me of her.
My stomach twisted as I scanned the sea of dead bodies. There were still people fighting, but the growing darkness made it hard to discern who was friend and who was foe. I didn’t see any of the guys, and I tried not to panic.
They were resourceful and obviously skilled in weaponry. I had to believe that they would be safe.
For my own sanity.
“Okay, Tommy, we’re gonna have to jump.”
He didn’t even glance my way, his face a pale sheet.
I read in a psychology book that it helped if you repeatedly used your patient’s name. Apparently, it allowed the person to feel a sense of security and familiarity. Or some bullshit along those lines.
I really hoped it was working now.
“Tommy,” I said again, squeezing his fingers. His wide, terrified eyes landed on my face as he turned towards me. I hated the anguish in his expression. When he spoke, his words were almost mechanical.
“Yes. Jump. Yes.”
Pleased with the response, I released his hand. He immediately let out a cry at the loss of contact.
