85
Bang.
The man slammed his fist against the glass again, harder this time. The impact sent a tremor through the car, and a thin web of cracks spread from where his bloodied knuckles met the window.
“No!” I cried out, my voice hoarse and weak, but it was all I could manage. My limbs felt like they were weighed down, heavy and useless. My head swam, and the dizziness made it hard to focus on anything but the growing cracks in the glass.
Adam’s cries grew louder in the backseat, no longer soft whimpers but full, terrified sobs. His small hands clutched at the edges of his seat, his little body trembling violently. “Mommy, what’s happening?” he cried, his voice breaking.
“I’m here, baby,” I choked out, though my own terror made the words feel hollow. I reached out for him, my hand shaking uncontrollably, but my movements were slow, too slow. My arm screamed in pain as I stretched toward him, blood dripping down my fingertips and staining the seat.
The man outside roared, his fist colliding with the window again and again. The glass held for a moment longer, but each strike weakened it, the cracks spreading further. His knuckles were raw now, split open and bleeding, the red smearing across the window with every punch. He didn’t flinch, didn’t stop.
“Stop!” I shouted, my voice cracking, but he didn’t even pause.
Another figure emerged from behind him—a second man, just as large but carrying a rifle slung over his shoulder. He shoved the first man aside with a grunt, his expression cold and methodical. Without hesitation, he swung the butt of the gun against the window.
The sound was deafening. The first hit sent a ripple through the already fractured glass, the cracks splintering outward like jagged spiderwebs. Adam screamed, his voice piercing, and I twisted in my seat, desperate to shield him. My body screamed in protest, every muscle and bone aching, but I pushed through the pain.
“Please!” I begged, tears streaming down my face. My voice was barely a whisper, drowned out by the chaos. “Please don’t hurt him!”
The second man brought the gun down again. This time, the glass gave way.
It shattered inward, the shards exploding into the car like a rain of jagged knives. Tiny pieces bit into my skin, slicing shallow cuts across my cheeks and arms. Adam screamed again, curling into a ball as shards peppered his hair and clothes.
“Get away from him!” I shrieked, my voice raw with panic. But I could hardly move, my body too weak, too drained.
The man reached into the car, his hand grabbing the inside handle. He yanked the door open with a sharp, metallic groan.
“No!” I screamed, my voice breaking.
The first man stepped forward, his massive hands reaching for Adam. My baby thrashed and kicked, his cries turning to desperate wails as they dragged him out of the car.
“Mommy!” he screamed, his tiny hands reaching for me, his face twisted in terror.
“Adam!” I cried, my heart shattering as I lunged for him, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. My fingers barely grazed his outstretched hand before they ripped him away.
I barely registered the cold metal pressed against my forehead until I saw the gun. The barrel was black and unyielding, its presence freezing me in place. My breath hitched, and the world around me seemed to close in.
Time slowed.
I saw everything—the blood smeared on the glass, the shards glittering like broken stars, the look in Adam’s eyes as he screamed for me, the gun pressing against my skin. My heart banged against my ribcage like a trapped animal. My chest heaved, every breath shallow and wheezing.
And then—
I jolted awake with a scream, my body flailing against the sheets. My heart pounded so violently it felt like it might tear through my chest. My throat burned, raw from the cries that still echoed in my ears.
I gasped for air, my fingers clawing at the damp sheets tangled around me. My skin was slick with sweat, my hair plastered to my face. The room was dark, but it wasn’t the darkness that terrified me.
I was shaking, my entire body trembling as the echoes of the dream clung to me. I could still feel the phantom pain in my shoulder, the sting of the glass against my skin, the weight of the gun against my forehead.
It wasn’t real.
But it felt real.
“My baby,” I whispered, my voice shaking. Tears ran down my face, warm and sticky, as I buried my head in my hands. The images wouldn’t leave me. The screams. The gun. The way they dragged him away. It was all still there, playing in my head like some horrible movie I couldn’t shut off.
I reached out beside me, desperate to feel something, someone. But all I found was the cool emptiness of the sheets. My heart pounded harder, my chest tight. It was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real. But the silence around me didn’t help. The quiet felt too heavy, pressing down like it wanted to smother me.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold against my bare feet, and I sat there for a moment, trying to calm the shaking in my hands. My stomach churned, and my head throbbed like I’d been hit. Taking a shaky breath, I pushed the twisted, sweaty sheet off my legs. Slowly, I stood up, my body weak and wobbly, like I’d been running for hours.
The room was pitch black, darker than it should’ve been. No light filtered in from anywhere, I couldn’t even tell if there was a window or it was hidden away. My hands stretched out in front of me, fingers trembling, touching the air like they were searching for a way out. Each step was careful, my toes brushing the ground first before committing to the next move. I didn’t trust the floor, didn’t trust anything around me.
My fingers found something solid—a table. It was smooth and cold under my touch, and I gripped it tightly, needing the support. A few more steps forward, and my hand hit the rough edge of a chair. The ridges scraped against my palm as I ran my fingers over them. Every small sound seemed so loud in the silence. My breathing. My feet shuffling. Even the light creak of the chair.
My heart pounded harder. Why was it so dark? This wasn’t normal. It felt like the world had swallowed me whole. My head was spinning, and my chest tightened again. The nightmare lingered, like it was chasing me even now.
Is he okay? The question hit me out of nowhere, and my stomach dropped. Was he happy? Were his foster parents treating him right? It had been two years since I’d last seen my son. I tried not to think about it, but the memories crept back. Did they still care for him as much as they did the last few times I’d seen him? My chest ached. I hoped they did. I hoped he felt safe. Hoped he was happy.
My fingers finally hit something cool and hard. A doorknob. I grabbed it, my hand sticky with sweat, and twisted it open without thinking. The door creaked as it swung wide, and my heart stopped at what I saw.
The hallway stretched out forever in front of me. It wasn’t just a hallway—it felt massive, way too big to be part of any house. The walls were plain, painted in a dull gray that made everything feel cold. Faint lights flickered overhead, buzzing faintly like they were about to die out. The whole place smelled strange—like chemicals and metal.
I stepped out slowly, my bare feet brushing against the cold floor. I felt so small in that space, like I didn’t belong here. My chest tightened again as I looked around. The corridor stretched endlessly, like something out of a nightmare. It reminded me of one of those scenes from a movie where people get lost in a giant maze.
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