Lineage(11)

Getting up from his desk, he listened, and heard no more sounds from outside his room. His father and mother must have gone to bed some time ago, and the house was silent but for the cool wind outside that shifted its joints from time to time.

Lance made his way to his small bed and undressed, wincing at times as his body reminded him of its injuries. When his small frame was tucked beneath the thin blanket his mother had sewn herself, he finally let himself relax. All of the day’s tension, along with the worry that accompanied him every day like a sack of lead in his stomach, began to flow away. His breathing slowed, and he envisioned himself someday free of this life, traveling to other places that held beauty he had yet to learn, understanding the world without the fear of looking over his shoulder in a constant vigil.

With a final flutter of his eyelids, Lance sunk into a restless sleep, and dreamed of endless hallways and heavy footsteps echoing down them.



“Lance, wake up.”

The whisper trailed down through a whirlwind of sleep and distorted thoughts, and for a moment Lance slept on, thinking that the voice was part of his dream. When he was shaken roughly on his shoulder, he came awake at once, his eyes opening wide and staring into the white face of his mother. She kneeled beside his bed, her hair tied back in a tight ponytail, her lips pushed together so tightly they were just a thin line on her pale face. A bruise so dark and livid that it seemed to pulse in the low light extended from the circle of her eye and stretched down onto her cheek. Moonlight filtered in through his bedroom window, highlighting her hair with its pale beams.

“What’s wrong, Mama?” His voice came out in a hoarse whisper, coated with sleep.

“Nothing, we’re going on a trip, right now. Get up and get dressed as quiet as you can.” She tilted her head forward to impress her words upon him, to see if he understood.

Lance nodded and threw back his covers, the cool air chilling him. His mother stood back and hovered by his door, which was open several inches. No light shone from the hallway, and the house was without sound but for the slight rustle as Lance pulled on his jeans and thrust a worn sweatshirt over his head. Once he was dressed, his mother turned back to him and motioned with her hand for him to follow her. He took two careful steps, avoiding loosened nails in the floorboards, and then stopped. Without thinking, he turned and picked up his notebook from his desk. In a small part of his mind, he realized what this moment was—a bridge of sorts, a crossing from one life to the next. It was what he had dreamed about and wished for since he had the capacity to imagine what could be. He looked around his small room, cataloging each object that he was about to leave forever. He wasn’t surprised in the least when he felt no remorse at the thought of departing.

“Lance, we have to go.” Urgency flooded his mother’s voice now, and it quickened his heartbeat. He turned and followed her out of his room, into the dark hallway. They walked carefully, his mother in the lead, holding his hand behind her back. Her breath was short and fast, and sweat like oil coated her palm. Lance watched the door to his parents’ room approach on the left. It was shut and no light came from the space beneath it. Lance felt as if he were Bilbo Baggins, sneaking past the sleeping Smaug in The Hobbit. Instead of a simple cup, he carried his words on paper; instead of a sword, he held his mother’s hand. But the monster behind the door that was now directly opposite them was no less deadly than the beast in the story. Lance felt sure that if the door suddenly swung open, pulled violently by the skinny arm of his father, there would be no escape except death. He did not doubt for an instant that Anthony Metzger would think twice about killing his wife and child where they stood if he caught them trying to flee the reach of his anger.

A sudden snap echoed down the hallway, and his mother’s hand clenched painfully down on his own. Lance stared at the door straight across from them, knowing that the sound had been the latch disengaging. He knew his father would step out and grab them both, his bony hands latching around their arms like miniature vices, as they did whenever a beating was imminent.

A soft whoosh of air started flowing out of the grates in the floor at the end of the hallway, and a similar rush of air left his mother’s lungs. The furnace had kicked on, its thermostat sending a signal to the igniter, which caused the sound they had heard.

Without another pause, Molly led her son down the hallway, across the kitchen, and into the cramped entryway, where two small suitcases and Lance’s light jacket were waiting. She knelt down before him, her hands on his shoulders, steadying him and herself. He could feel her hands trembling as they gripped him.