The Boy (boyxboy)

Lost Chapter 》Jay

The man woke, his head throbbing, though the only light was brought by the last rays of sun filtering through the flimsy curtains. He groaned as he picked himself off the couch, last night's booze still rich on his tongue. The man couldn't remember, but it must have been a bad night - his body ached more than usual. He needed another drink.

As he stumbled to the kitchen, he paid no mind to the glass crunching beneath his boots - it was a good thing he forgot to take them off.

The man only stopped when he saw the boy slumped by the counter, unconscious. "Hey, boy.. Get up!"

He must have been making trouble, and maybe the man had been a little too rough. This wouldn't be the first time he found the boy like this.

But he didn't rise, even when the man repeated his order. Sometimes it took a good kick to wake him.

The man stepped forward in the dim light, finally taking notice of the blood. Damn kid was always making a mess.

"Wake up!" A sharp kick caught the boy's side. "Get up and clean this shit you got everywhere!"

But he only fell to the side, his body limp. The man knelt and took a fistful of the boy's hair, "Hey -!"

His words fell short when he saw the boy's face. His eyes were open - blank and glassy, his jaw was slack, his face was blue.

He wasn't unconscious. He was dead.

All at once the fog cleared from the man's mind. Suddenly the boy looked so small.

He took the boy's fragile frame in his arms, cradling his head though it was wet with blood. It didn't real feel real.

"Jay.." It finally occurred to the man - this was his boy. This was his blood on the floor, and it was the man who had spilled it. As he held him, the man wondered when the last time was he'd really looked at him. He had his mother's face.

The boy's mother, his wife -

What would she say if she could see them now? Would she cry?

The man had never even taught their son how to ride a bike, he couldn't even remember the last time he gave him a hug.

As the man held the boy - for the first time in years - he wondered, when was the last time he'd seen the boy smile, or laugh?

He brushed a bit of hair out of the boy's face - suddenly the weight of the man's cruelty fell heavy on his chest.

Had he really beaten the boy, so small in his arms, for all these years? Had the man really allowed himself to stoop so low?

His dead son was enough to answer his questions.

The man didn't know, however, what came next. There was his son, lifeless in his arms, and he had killed him.

The man hadn't just murdered his son, he'd damned himself as well.

He had nothing else to do but call the police and turn himself in. Sure as hell he couldn't try and cover it up, and even if he could, did he really want to? Could he live with the guilt?

Decidedly not.

He couldn't call the cops just yet though, he didn't want them to see his boy like this. He'd have to clean him up first, wipe the blood from his chin.

The man hoisted the boy in his arms, with little effort, and carried him to the kitchen sink. Dampening a hand towel, he cleaned the blood from the boy's face, trying to avoid looking into those stagnant eyes.

It hurt the man's heart to hold his son's broken body, to touch his cold cheek. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so gentle with the boy. Had the man really become so cruel that he could only manage kindness when his son was dead?

It wasn't something he often thought, and certainly not ever said, but the man did love his son at his heart's core.

But he would never tell him, the boy would never know.

He took in a sharp breath and set the towel down, stepping towards the phone. He hadn't felt this sober in years.

The man dialed the number, his heart caught in his throat. What was he supposed to say?

He'd never known his voice to shake, but as the operator picked up, the man couldn't help the tremble of his words.

And when the man heard the approaching sirens, with the boy in his arms, he didn't notice the tears rolling down his cheeks.