Chapter 6

word count 767

His heart picked up in rhythm the closer he got. He'd walked the first two blocks from school, and now he was in the home stretch. The usual dread weighed down like a lump in the chest while his pulse quickened, just like it always did when he turned the corner onto Hamilton Avenue. He could see it from here and the dread increased the closer he got.

The red brick house was in need of repair, not that anyone intended to do anything about that. The bricks were chipping, and whatever wood was left screamed for mercy as its paint wore off and deterioration loomed. What a dump, as they say! And hey, it was home.

“Lucky me!” Elliot Taggart murmured as he started up the walk to 641 Hamilton. He paused. He knew. The child of a drunk always knew. Instincts became finely tuned by daily experience. They could tell when someone inside was passed out. The difference was evident—the difference between a safe house or one with stale alcohol vapors and delirium itself sprawled on the furniture.

His breath caught in his throat. Yes, it was her. She was in there, drunk. He knew it. If she was asleep, so to speak, that was good. He could slip past her on the couch and make it to the sanctity of his room. But if she caught him, the barrage of worthless shit would start.

Every day it was the same thing. Coming home and wondering what he would find.

Suddenly something changed. Was it in a flicker of light, or a shift in the breeze? No. Something else. His pulse took off in a foot race. His senses told him. She was up. Had she realized he was out here and stirred herself out of a stupor to confront him? This wasn't good.

He stood, debating. He wanted peace, quiet. Today had been a bitch. That laughter from Jack Bowen and his shits. Screaming, pounding, smashing him down to nothing. Nothing.

A scarecrow appeared in the doorway. A scarecrow wearing a black lace house coat.

“Elliot, get the hell in here! I wanna talk to you!” That voice, like a siren, zooming out in sonic waves, waking up all of Upper Albany. Everyone knew she was calling him. Seeing no other option, he started in. He hadn't even made it through the door before she started.

“I got a call today from some teacher at your school! What the hell you been doing, Elli?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“His name was Rogers or Roberts or something. He said something about you. I don't know. What the hell did you do?”

The words came out in an excitable rush, knocking her off balance. She grabbed hold of a chair to keep from falling.

“I didn't do anything!” It was a canned response, used for just about everything. Then he realized what she said. Mr. Roberts had called her. What the heck was going on? He didn't do anything, really.

“I'm gonna tell John. He'll tell you a thing or two!”

Oh, she was playing the John card again. Elliot knew John was leery of him. His was the more calm, reasoned approach, sitting down to talk, as opposed to his mother's raucous thunder. The guy wasn't his dad. He didn't want to get involved, really. An empty threat.

“I DON'T GIVE A FUCK WHAT YOU DO!” he shot back. He yelled as loud as his vocal cords would allow.

She was pissed, no doubt unappreciative of his language. Good. She deserved it.

“AH, DAMMIT! GO TO YOUR ROOM!” It turned out she could yell louder than him. But that was okay. It was what he wanted anyway. His room. He took off without looking back, slamming his door enough to shake the hinges.

Throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face in the pillows. Grief finally made it to the surface. Muffled sobs had their day, and he didn't try to stop them. He couldn't. Then he sat up, reaching in his pocket. He pulled out his knife and ran his middle finger along the blade. He'd sharpened it in the kitchen last night after everyone was in bed. It was like a razor. Rolling up his sleeve, he poised the blade and took a deep breath before slowing gliding it along his arm. His breath caught in his throat as he took joy in watching the blood ooze out. Rich, red, flowing to the music, the cacophony of pain...the cut, that fluid dance, the release from all that mattered...