Paint it Black

Chapter 15: Window to the Right

Shawn hadn't moved from the couch in hours, no reason to, being alone and without anyone to impress. He may not have been consulting anymore but Chief Vick hadn't seen the need to can his father, yet. Fewer hours than the initial agreement, his dad put in about three days a week, most of them half days or less. What he did at the station... well, Shawn had no clue. His guess leaned towards glorified secretary, too easy to imagine his father inducing tears from hardcore detectives over spelling errors on their reports.

The television was on, cycling through news, game shows, sitcoms, and back to news. His fingers slid along the slick cover of a magazine. Sports Illustrated, Home & Garden... he had no way of knowing. He'd never read again. He'd never imagined how much he'd miss that. His touch moved to the bottom of the stiff cover, felt the edge of the mailing sticker affixed there. He dug his nail beneath the edge, peeling it away until he heard the soft tear. He sighed and pushed the publication away. It slipped from the cushion and struck the floor, pages fluttering crisply until it settled.

With nothing else to pluck at, his fingers moved next to the nearly healed wound below his throat. He couldn't help himself, two fingers rubbing along the rough scab. He could still feel the trailing end of one stitch poking from the left side. He'd been told his body would absorb them. He still struggled to believe that. They felt like fishing line; how perfect was that? No doubt gave dad yet another boasting point about the validity of his favorite sport. Figures the old man would be into maiming innocent creatures for fun.

He wanted to turn the sound down on the TV again but an earlier toss of the remote towards the table had been a little too much like a baseball pitch ending in a foul to left field. Where it was, even his father probably wouldn't be able to figure out.

Suddenly, desperately, he wanted out of the house. Wanted to be anywhere else. His free hand spasmed on the arm of the couch before squeezing tight. And where, exactly, would he go anyhow? He breathed through the adrenaline surge, shaky and anxious as it very slowly ebbed.

He was controlling his panic, mostly, but it still sat close against his chest. He fought the twitchy aftermath by searching for an item to clutch. Anything. He didn't want to move from his corner – didn't want to admit to the security he took from keeping the couch arm and back pressed against him.

Tap tapping fingertips felt along the soft beads of nubbed material coating the aged blanket stuffed between his thigh and the cushion. Chewed fingernails dragged over the rougher fabric of the couch towards the table. Wood, cool and gritty with toast crumbs leftover from breakfast. Smooth plastic of his juice cup. He curled his fingers back and slid his hand back to rest on his leg.

News had gone to sports highlights. Dad would be home soon. He could wait. Sure, he'd just wait.

0o0o0

Henry sighed as he locked the door at his back. His toss of the keys was more habit than aim but the clank meant they'd reached the counter without incident. Black as a cave, again. Not unusual when he'd been living alone, there was an eeriness to entering a dark house knowing someone else was wandering inside. Someone with no clue he was in the dark because the dark was all he knew.