Violence + Sex = Love Prologue (Part 2)

His mommy had that look on her face again, that sad look. He didn’t like that look. That look meant that his mommy was going to cry, and it was probably because of him. It made his insides hurt, even more than his arm did. His daddy had gotten mad again, ‘cause he had left one of his toys out and his daddy had stepped on it, so he had grabbed his arm and twisted it really hard. But it was ok, it hadn’t broken this time. So why was his mommy’s pretty blue eyes all teary? He loved his mommy. Her hair was gold, like his was, but it was all wavy and ended around her cheeks, not cut close to her head like his was. She was nice and he liked it when she smiled at him. She never raised her voice or got mad like Daddy did. She played games with him and didn’t mind when he forgot to put his things away. He loved her more than his Daddy, but he would NEVER say that out loud.

         He loved his Daddy, too. When he wasn’t mad, Daddy was like Mommy. When he was mad, Daddy wasn’t Daddy and Ian hated that Daddy. He knew he wasn’t supposed to. You could hate people, he guessed, but you weren’t supposed to hate your Mommy or Daddy.

         “Oh, Ian…” his mother said sadly, on the verge of tears.

         Her fingers lightly touched the dark bruises on his arm, but it didn’t hurt like when his father had touched there. He grabbed at her sleeveless dress, liking the way the cloth felt. It was a light blue, just like her eyes, but the bottom bit was white and lacy. She looked pretty in it and Ian thought with some pride that his mommy was the prettiest in the whole world. She was even prettier than the lady the next door with the big chest and the long, black hair. And that lady was younger than his mommy, too. But her smile was stupid and not nice like his mommy’s, and Ian didn’t think she liked kids very much, though she did like Mr. Abbot from further down the street and he had three girls. Ian’s mommy said that the black haired lady was a… a ‘home-wrecker’, but he didn’t know what that meant.

         “Does it hurt, honey?” she asked him, touching his cheek as lightly as she had his arm.

         Ian gave a little shrug, not wanting his mommy to know that his arm actually did hurt a lot. It was going all ‘throbby throbby’ and it was worse when he tried to pick things up.

         “A little,” he admitted, looking up at her, the blue of her eyes his favorite kind, “Mommy… why does Daddy do that?”

         He had wondered stuff like that for a long time, but he hadn’t wanted to ask it. He didn’t know why, but when he had always thought about asking his mommy why his daddy liked to hit, he got scared. His mommy’s look got even sadder and it made Ian feel bad. His cheeks got red as she leaned down to kiss his forehead.

         “Your father… he’s like a hose,” she tried to explain.

         Ian stared up at her in complete confusion. People were not like hoses, he couldn’t think of a single way that they were!

         “With a hose, when it’s off, there isn’t a single drip of water. When it’s on, the water comes out as strongly as it ever will. Your father’s feelings are like that. When he’s happy, he makes us happy, too, with his love. But when he’s mad, he has no control over himself. He hurts himself, and us, when he’s like that,” his mother said.

         Ian didn’t understand, but he nodded. He got some of what she was saying. His daddy just hurt them because he was mad and he didn’t really mean it. He didn’t want them to really be hurt. But if that was really true… then why didn’t his daddy ever say that he was sorry? His mother smiled at him and put her hands on his shoulders.

         “Ian, how would you like to take a little trip?” she asked.

         The six year old tilted his head to the side.

         “A trip?” he questioned.

         They never went on trips. Mr. Abbot and his daughters went on trips during the summer and sometimes at Christmas, but Ian and his parents never went anywhere.

         “Yes,” his mother said with a nod, “On a plane.”

         Ian’s blue-violet eyes widened. He had never been on a plane before. He had played with the little, plastic ones, but he hadn’t even seen a real one in the sky. They lived too far away from the airport. He nodded excitedly.

         “Just you and me, ok, Ian?” she said, smoothing his blonde hair.

         Ian felt confused again. Just the two of them?

         “What about Daddy?”

         His mommy’s smile was still kind, but looked bitter.

         “I think your Daddy needs some alone time,” she said.

         Ian looked away, feeling weird about all of this. Daddy wasn’t going to come with them? But… they were a family. They were always supposed to be together! It wasn’t right that his daddy wasn’t going to be with them.

         “But… why can’t Daddy come, too?” Ian asked.

         “Ian,” his mother sighed, “How Daddy is when he’s mad… when he hurts us… it isn’t right. Daddy needs to decide what’s most important, his anger or his love. We need to give him some space to make that decision. And I think we need some space from him, as well,” she pulled Ian into a tight hug, “I promise, baby, I won’t let him hurt you anymore. I’ll make it all better. You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

         His mommy’s hug hurt his arm, but that was ok. She sounded angry, but kind of like how she usually did, full of love. He believed his mommy would make his daddy stop hitting. She let go of him and he was alarmed by the tears pouring down her fair cheeks. She cupped his own cheeks in her hands.

         “We’ll leave tonight, ok? We’ll pack right now and leave before your Daddy comes home from work,” she told him.

         “Can I say goodbye to Daddy?” Ian asked.

         His mother’s expression darkened and Ian didn’t like it at all. He didn’t know what she was thinking, but it couldn’t be something very nice.

         “No, honey, I don’t think you should. But we’ll call him when we get to the airport, ok?” she suggested.

         Ian chewed on his lip, not liking that, but he nodded. His mother stood up and tapped his shoulder.

         “Let’s get your things, ok?”

         Ian nodded and watched his mother leave his room, then shortly returned with two suitcases, a little one and a bigger one that was already packed. Had his mother been wanting to go on this trip for awhile? He sat on his bed and watched as his mother gathered his clothes and the toys he liked the best into the little suitcase. She appeared to be taking her time in folding his clothes, ‘cause it took her awhile to do it, but at the same time, she looked almost frantic. Ian grabbed the stuffed bear that was sitting on his bed. It was a dark blue color, with little black dots for eyes, looking more like a fish than a bear.

         “Mommy, don’t forget Teddy!” he demanded.

         His mother smiled widely at him, taking the stuffed bear from him. Teddy was his favorite. He always slept with the worn, blue bear.

         “Of course I won’t forget Teddy,” she said and put the bear on top of the clothes.

         “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a harsh, deep voice came from the open doorway of Ian’s bedroom.

         Ian looked up and his mother whirled to glare at Ian’s father, who was looking at the two of them with the hardened, cold expression he usually wore when he was furious. The look that he had when he was about to hit one of them, maybe even both. Inside him, Ian felt cold. Really, really cold. Like he had just eaten a popsicle, but the cold wasn’t in his tummy. He hunched on his bed. He wasn’t supposed to feel scared of his daddy, but he suddenly realized what his mommy had been trying to say. Suddenly, he didn’t think that this trip without his father was a bad thing.

         “Marshall,” his mother hissed.

         Ian’s father took a step into the room and Ian could clearly feel the temperature drop. He wasn’t even sure why, but something inside of him was telling him to run.

         “What are you trying to do, Natalie?” his father repeated, then his gaze fell on Ian, like a rabid dog, “Ian, come here,” he snapped.

         Ian knew he should listen to his Dad, but in that moment, he was frozen on the bed. His mother dashed in front of him, sheltering him from his father’s furious gaze.

         “Don’t you dare touch him!” she screamed at him.

         Ian cried out as his father slapped his mother, splitting her lip. Blood slowly dripped down the corner of her mouth, but she didn’t cry out like Ian did. She just kept glaring at him and wiped the blood from her lips. She didn’t look like his mommy at all. She looked like one of those women on the television, wearing the weird, metal hats with feathers coming out of them riding huge horses with swords like knights had. They’d face these huge monsters with the same look that his mommy had right now.

         “Watch your tongue, cow,” his father insulted coldly.

         His father’s light brown hair fell tousled over his green eyes, which narrowed harshly at Ian’s suitcase. With a hard kick, he toppled the suitcase over, clothes and toys falling to the floor. He snorted at Ian’s mother.

         “You’re pathetic,” he accused, turning on his heel and leaving the room.

         His mother stormed out, running after his father. Ian hesitantly followed her. His father walked into the kitchen, taking out one of his bottles of beer and a package of deli turkey from the fridge. He grabbed a butcher’s knife from the knife block and  slammed the beer and turkey onto the kitchen counter, tossing the knife down, and turned to glare at Ian’s mother.

         “Did you really think that you could leave? That you could just take Ian from me and I would never figure it out?! Did you think that you were being so cunning, looking over your shoulder for the last week?!” his father gritted his teeth at her, picking up the knife and gripping it’s handle tightly.

         From behind his mother, Ian felt a chill go down his spine as his mother strode forward.

         “I might be pathetic,” she snapped, “But at least I don’t take my failings out on my family!”

         Ian’s father grabbed her by the neck, squeezing enough to make her choke, but not enough to make her stop breathing entirely.

         “You’re the one trying to tear this family apart! I’m the one keeping us together!” he screamed back at her.

         Ian looked back and forth between his father and mother. He had seen such fights and violence before, but it still terrified him and he couldn’t move. His mother still glared at his father, even as his hand tightened around her throat. Ian didn’t think he could ever be that brave. But his daddy wouldn’t hurt her. He might hit her, but they would stop fighting… eventually. They always did. He felt tears gather in his eyes as his father suddenly pressed the knife to her throat.          

         “I’ll never let you take my son away from me! If you try… I’ll kill you!” he pressed the blade deeper, until a tiny trail of blood dripped down her fair skin.

         His mother continued to glare at him, but even Ian could tell that she was shocked and scared. His daddy had never done stuff like this before. He hit and yelled a lot, but this just felt wrong.

         “You really are a bastard,” his mother sneered, “I don’t care what you do! All I want is for Ian to be safe! To protect him!”

         With an irritated noise, his father shoved her away. She stumbled back, but quickly regained her footing. If anything, she became even more angry. She approached him again, her blue eyes on fire.

         “I will do anything to protect him from you! I’m taking Ian away from you, Marshall, where you can never hurt him again! You destroyed this family, not me! Long, long ago! We should have left you years ago, but I was too much of a coward! Do you hear me?! You will never see him again!” she screamed.

         Ian’s father grabbed the front of her dress and pulled her forward. Ian watched in horror as his father buried the large knife into his mother’s stomach. Her cerulean eyes widened in shock and Ian knew that, like himself, she hadn’t really believed he would use the knife. She looked up at his dad in utter terror.

         “You…” she choked out, in obvious pain.

         “I warned you,” he hissed cruelly.

         The knife made a wet, nasty sound as his dad pulled it out, only to stab his mom rapidly and brutally over and over in her stomach and chest. His mommy didn’t scream, just kind of gasped, but the sound of the knife moving in and out of her was terrible. His father’s face was contorted in rage and he nearly grunted as he continued to stab her. Blood turned her light blue dress a dark red, pouring down her legs and pulling under her bare feet. Ian felt sick and numb all at the same time. His mommy was going to be ok… she was going to be ok… tears dripped down his cheeks and he shook as he stood there, just watching and whimpering. He didn’t like the smell. It smelled like your hand did after you’d been holding pennies for a long time. His mommy didn’t look his mommy anymore. Her skin was all torn and red, things dripping out of her that weren’t liquidy.

         That image of the knife burying in and out of her thin, frail body seemed to go on forever. Then, all of a sudden, his daddy let go of her dress. She stumbled back, her body like a clump of clothes with no structure. His father slashed her across her face and she finally fell, blood spraying over him, but he didn’t seem to care. His mommy lay on the floor and didn’t move. But her eyes were still open, that meant she was ok, right? Blood from the slash on her face dripped into her eye, turning it red like her dress, but she didn’t try to wipe it away. She didn’t even blink. Her fingers twitched twice, then stopped.

         “Mommy!” Ian screamed, finally unfrozen.

         He ran to her, past his father. He had to help her. She was still alive and his daddy had hurt her really, really badly. More than he had ever had before. He had to save her! Pain flared at the back of his neck and Ian fell to his knees in shock. He cried at the stinging pain and felt something hot drip down his back. It hurt… it hurt… more than his arm could. He looked up at his father and realized that his dad had cut him, just like his mommy.

         “Dad…” he murmured, suddenly feeling weak and faint.

         “Family is the most important thing, Ian,” his father said, his voice cold and the knife dripping more blood on the floor, “You and I… we’re family, and I’ll do anything to keep us together… Without family, a man will shrivel up and die. Your mother didn’t understand that. It’s your fault, though. If you hadn’t tried to go with her, she’d be alive. You do realize that right? But that’s ok. We’re still together. As long as this family is whole, nothing bad will every happen. Do you understand that, Ian? A man has to protect his family.”

         Ian opened his mouth to say something, to say that he was sorry, to say that he didn’t have to do that to Mommy, to say anything at all, but the faintness overwhelmed him and he forcibly fell asleep.













         His neck burned like when Daddy had thrown him into the mirror that one time. The room was darker than before, but Ian could tell he was still in the front room, right before where the counter separated the room from the kitchen. His daddy wasn't here anymore. There was a bad, nasty smell and it made him feel sick. He could see his mommy on the floor where she had fallen, he could see her familiar outline from the light coming from his parents' room. She hadn't moved at all. Then, Ian remembered why his neck hurt. Where was his daddy? Was he still mad at him? Was he going to hurt him like he had hurt Mommy? Was Mommy ok? His heart pounded as he looked around the dim room, wondering, if he tried to help his mommy, where his dad would come from. The bedroom? But maybe that was a trap. Sometimes his dad did that, hurt one of them and when the other tried to help, he would hurt them, too. He said that they had to take their punishment, if they did that, it would be fine, but someone helping them was a big no no. He didn't care so much about that as his mommy hurting. He tried to get up, though he felt kind of tired, not like he had been staying up all night tired, but like he didn't have the strength to move. He felt a hand touch his back and almost screamed, thinking it was his daddy, going to hurt his neck again.

         “Ssh,” a familiar voice said.

         Ian struggled to see who it was through the dim lighting, but a familiar face came to him. It was Matty! Matt never came inside his house. He always waited outside. Ian was excited and relieved to see his only friend. Matt always knew what to do, and he had never done bad things to him like Ian's daddy did. He wrapped his arms around the older boy's neck, hugging him as tightly as he could. Matt would help his mom. He almost yelled out Matt's name, but remembered his warning and his own fear of his father, and kept quiet. He didn't like being scared of his own daddy, but he kept remembering the way his mommy had looked at him, how the knife had sunk into her pale skin, that smell... how his daddy looked like he didn't care that his mommy was bleeding everywhere. He felt Matt hug him back with one arm. Ian looked down and saw that Matt was holding his baseball bat with his other hand. He didn't mind. He couldn't play baseball until he older anyway. He couldn't even pick the bat up, but his mommy had bought it for him for his birthday because it had been on sale.

         “It's ok, Teddy,” Matt said and Ian felt comforted by the sound of his voice, “I'm going to get you out of here, alright?”

         Ian felt himself nodding. It was what his mommy would have said right now, if she had been awake. Matt took off his jacket, glancing at the bedroom door every now and then, and put the jacket around Ian. Ian suddenly realized that he had been shivering, though he couldn't feel the cold. He tugged on Matt's shirt.

         “We have to help Mommy. She won't get up,” he pointed to her.

         Matt looked pained and Ian wondered if maybe his daddy had hit him, too.

         “Ian...” the older boy said hesitantly, “Your mom... she's... she's dead, Teddy,” he said mournfully.

         Ian shook his head. His mommy had told him what dead was once, when their neighbor's cat had gotten run over by his daddy's car. She had said that dead was when you went to Heaven. You had to leave your family and the people you loved, but you got to see God and all the other people who died. It was really peaceful, but you could never wake up again.

         “Dead is...” Matt struggled to explain, “Dead is when someone doesn't get up no more. They can't talk to you or see you. Their body might be here, where we can see it, but the parts that matter are gone. Your mom isn't going to wake up. She's gone.”

         Ian continued to shake his head.

         “No...” he protested weakly, unwilling to believe what Matt was saying.

         His mommy wasn't dead. She was going to wake up. She was just sleeping because Daddy had hurt her. Matt was wrong. Mommy was going to be fine...

         “Your friend is right.”

         Ian and Matt looked at the bedroom in fear. Ian's dad was standing in the doorway, wearing the same, blood-drenched clothes. The knife was gone, but he was holding a gun in his hand. It didn't look like the ones on TV, Ian thought, the silver ones with the black handles with that round bit. It was bigger and black, mean looking. His father regarded Matt with anger and almost disgust.

         “I killed her for trying to take my boy away from me,” he said coldly, “I suggest you think real hard on that and leave as fast as you can scamper, rat. If not...”

         He lifted up the gun and pointed it, not at Matt, but at Ian. Matt's eyes widened, realizing that the man was threatening to call his own son, rather than have someone take him away from him. Matt's hand tightened on the baseball bat. Leave, leave, leave, Ian thought in a desperate prayer. He didn't want his daddy to hurt Matt like he had hurt Mommy... he didn't want his dad to kill him. Matt suddenly shoved him hard, away from him. A shot rang out, but missed Matt by less than an inch, hitting the floor, which splintered at the impact. Ian watched in shock as Matt swung the bat as hard as he could, the hard wood striking his father's knee. With a howl of pain, the man fell down. Matt raised the bat again, rage in his eyes. Ian saw his father raise his gun again.

         “Matt!” he screamed in warning, even though there was no way that Matt could move fast enough to avoid the shot.

         Matt stumbled backwards, the bat almost dropping from his hands as the bullet pierced his shoulder. Blood and flesh exploded from the wound, flying everywhere, like a mini explosion had gone off in his shoulder. The arm on his wounded side fell down, weak and useless, but his other hand kept a strong grip on the bat, not willing to stop his assault. He struck Ian's father again, this time in the face. The man's head slammed against the wall and he slumped, the blow making blackness appear in his vision on that side. Something in Ian screamed out to help his father, but the sight of Matt's wounded shoulder kept him paralyzed. Matt regarded the man before him, his eyes darting back towards Ian and his dead mother. There was a calculating look in his eyes. If he kept hitting Ian's father with the bat, he could kill him, bash his head in. He took in Ian's wide, violet eyes, and the blood on his neck. He dropped the bat and ran, scooping Ian up.

         “Hold on,” he managed to grit out, “I'll get you someplace safe, someplace where he won't find you.”

         One part of Ian felt relief. His daddy wouldn't be able to hurt him anymore. Another part felt panic. His daddy wouldn't be able to find him. He would be disobeying him... He clutched at Matt's shirt, letting it all fade away. He didn't want to think anymore, he wanted to sleep. Another shot rang out, this one as loud as a clap of thunder and Matt faltered. Ian worried that Matt might be really, really hurt, but his friend kept walking and there were no more sounds of gunfire. He couldn't be hurt that badly, he reasoned, but Matt was walking stiffly and slowly and as Ian looked over his shoulder, he saw a thick trail of blood, the sound of his friend's heavy breathing in his ear. Outside, the icy rain beat down on them, but Matt didn't shiver or stop. He kept walking, muttering to Ian over and over again that he would be safe. Matt would protect him.







         This wasn't his room, Ian thought as he opened his eyes to a water marked ceiling. It was similar to his mommy's room, smelling of cheap perfume or make-up, a feminine smell that he didn't really know what it was, exactly. There was a hairbrush on a simple dresser that had red hair on it. Besides that, the room was very bare, not having a television or paintings in it. The bed was bigger than his own, but just as lumpy. He clutched the little starfish the nice lady had given him and sat up. His neck stung him and he winced. He hunched in on himself, pulling his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees. It was quiet here. Usually, no matter how late at night it was, he could hear one of his neighbor's dogs barking loudly and the sound of people arguing. Sometimes it was the house next to theirs or people in the street. A lot of the times it was his parents. He couldn't hear much of anything now. He didn't like it. Lately, his mommy would sleep in his bed with him, holding him close. This bed felt cold and uncomfortable in comparison. Though the room smelled kind of like his mom's, it wasn't the same. He looked around, hoping to see someone, but thee was no one. It was lonely. He hoped that, if he listened really well, he would hear his father moving in their kitchen or maybe his loud snoring, but he knew that he wouldn't. Matt hit him really hard and he was far away.

         Did his daddy miss him? Was he sad right now, waking up without Mommy and him? He had just... left him there. That was bad. If Daddy was sad, then it was all his fault. It was his fault that Mommy was dead, too. He should have told her no, that going away was a bad idea. What if Daddy was really hurt? What if he needed help? What if he was like Mommy? Even if his daddy had hurt him, he was still his daddy. And now... he was the only family that Ian had. He should go back, see if he was ok. Even if they couldn't live together anymore, he wanted to see him. Because... because Daddy didn't hit all the time. He hated him for killing Mommy, but he didn't hate him for hitting. He wanted his mommy... tears welled in his eyes and he sniffed. He wanted her back, but Matt and Daddy said she wouldn't be coming back ever. Daddy was the only one who still loved him. He had killed Matt and Mommy because he loved him and didn't want to be alone... It was evil, that he had hurt them, but what if Daddy hurt himself, too? He knew... he couldn't live with him anymore. It hurt and after what he had done to Mommy... but his need to see him, to see if he was ok, was powerful.

         Ian kicked the covers off him. He could just run over there and be back. No one would know. He would see his daddy and tell him that he still loved him. His daddy needed to know that. Even if he had hurt him and Mommy and Matt, he still loved him and he wished that he wasn't so angry and sad anymore. He was wearing pajamas that weren't his and he didn't know what the nice lady and the old man had done with his shoes and clothes, but that was ok. He knew how to get back home.











         Abigail spent the night in the spare bedroom they kept for the orphans who had trouble sleeping with the other children. They didn't have any right now and Kevin had his own room. The room was sparse, identical to her own except for the more personal touches. She knew that Kevin's and Father's was the same. She slept in bursts of a minutes instead of hours, her dreams filled with bloody bodies covered with curtains, and the sound of a child crying, his words about his dead mother forever burned into her memory. She gave up on the premise of sleep around five in the morning. The children wouldn't be awake until six, the ones who went to school, anyway. The youngest ones wouldn't be up until eight, but she felt restless. She would make them a big breakfast, she thought, to keep herself busy and the thoughts at bay. She wondered if you could get shock just from hearing about someone else's trauma, because that was what this felt like to her. Her heart felt cold and the rest of her just felt wrong. Abigail pulled on her robe and left the room. She walked towards her own room, wanting to check on Ian. He was such a small, sad boy. She wondered how well he would do here.

         The other children could be rambunctious at times and Ian seemed so quiet, so unsociable... he was adoptable, though, if it came to that. He was cute and very well-behaved. His shyness might turn some parents away, but others would find it endearing. It was the trauma and shock that she was the most worried about. With his blonde hair, fair skin, and eerie violet eyes, Ian looked like an angel, or perhaps a faerie from some old, Irish myth. It made him stand out against their other boys, who had the habit of putting holes in their clothes and getting their faces dirty right before adoption. She opened the door as quietly as she could, not wanting to wake him. She knew very little about shock, but she thought that the little boy would sleep a long while this morning. Her heart froze in her chest as she took in the bed, the covers thrown aside, but no child.

         “Ian?” she called out and couldn't help the panic that was in her voice.

         There was no answer. She knelt to look under the bed, a favorite hiding place for the other orphans, then in the closet. There was nothing. Even the little, plush starfish was gone. He couldn't have gone far. He had no clothes or shoes, so he had to still be in the church. But Ian hadn't struck her as the sort of boy who would go exploring without asking. She walked to the large room where the other boys were sleeping, forcing herself not to run. She peeked in, but saw no little blonde hiding with the other boys. The only other blondes that were sleeping, were too old and she recognized them easily. If Ian had crept in during the night, Tom, one of their street children, who had the instincts of a cat and the hearing of a hound, would have woken. He peered at her curiously as she poked her head through the door now, but just smiled at him and he closed his eyes again. Tom wouldn't have let Ian into the room without some sort of fuss, most of the boys were territorial.

         Abigail looked in every room upstairs, but there was no Ian. She was starting to panic. Either Ian had run away or... the worst thing she could imagine was that Ian's father had kidnapped him in the night. She wanted to think that Ian would have screamed or the sound of someone entering the church would have woken her, but she couldn't take any chances. As she ran down the steps, she almost collided into Father Taylor, who grabbed her shoulders to steady her.

         “Sister Abigail, what's wrong?” he urged, not liking how pale she looked.

         “Ian's gone,” she whispered, nearly wailing.

         Taylor's eyes widened and he gave her a stern look.

         “Call the police,” he ordered.

         “He might be hiding,” Abigail said, clinging to hope.

         Taylor shook his head.

         “Call then anyway,” he insisted, “You might be right. I should have seen him by now, but you might be right... Still, better safe then sorry.”

         She nodded, already moving past him and grabbing the phone in the front hall, dialing Brennen's number. His gruff voice as he answered the phone was a relief to her and she quickly told him what had happened, her voice shaking. They had lost Ian… she had told him that everything would be better now, and she had lost him.

         “Sister, did Ian tell you anything else?” Brennen urged, sounding just as desperate as Abigail felt, “Where he lived, his last name, either of his parents’ names?”

         “No,” she confessed, “I put him to bed right after you left us.”

         Over the phone, she heard a heavy sigh.

         “Haven’t you found out anything yet?” she demanded, almost an accusation, “It’s been hours… you said that there were some things you could check up on!”

         She knew that she was blaming the wrong person for this and really, she blamed herself more than him, but couldn’t keep the harshness out of her voice. She was responsible for Ian and if anything happened to him, it would be her fault. God would never forgive her for letting that poor little boy get hurt.

         “We do have some leads,” Brennen told her, not upset by her harsh tone, “There’s a nurse at the local hospital who remembers a little boy matching Ian’s description who was brought in by a woman who looked a lot like him with a broken arm. Considering Ian’s eye color, we can assume it was him. That gives us a description of his mother as well. 5’7, blonde hair, blue eyes, approximately twenty-five to thirty years old, maybe a little bit younger. Unfortunately, Ian wasn’t this nurse’s patient, so it’s taking awhile to find the doctor who cared for him and his home address.”

         “Isn’t there anything I can do?” Abigail pleaded.

         “I’m sorry, Sister,” Brennen said, “But you’ll have to leave it to us. Just be patient and we’ll call you as soon as we find him. We will find him.”

         “Thank you, Officer,” she murmured, hanging up the phone.          

         Be patient… how could she when it was looking more and more likely that Ian had either been kidnapped by his father or had tried to go home to him? Where else would a small child go in pajamas and no shoes? She had no doubt in her mind that Brennen would find Ian. But would he still be alive when he did?



*****

         

         Hours passed. Sister Abigail and Father Taylor, with Kevin’s help, searched every last inch of the church. No Ian. Abigail got dressed, made the children their breakfast, and watched them as they walked the road to school, which was only two miles away, but she felt as though her spirit had left her body. She sat by the phone and didn’t leave it, Kevin standing next to her, holding her hand every now and then. Father Taylor made calls to other churches, synagogues, temples, and loyal parishioners in the area, asking if they had seen a little blonde boy with blue-violet eyes, but no luck. It was just a little after ten when the phone finally rang. Abigail picked it up, her hand like a rattlesnake and the phone, a timid mouse.

         “Hello?” she said into it, her voice shaking.

         “Sister,” it was Brennen, “You and Father Taylor need to come to the hospital right away.”

         That was the only thing Abigail needed to hear. She slammed the phone down on the cradle as fast as she had picked it up.

         “Hospital,” she said to Father Taylor, who nodded, the both of them going to the closet by the front door for their coats.

         Kevin stayed behind, a silent agreement between him and Father Taylor to watch the younger children. The beat up, silver Toyota that Taylor had owned for over fifteen years sped out of the tiny, church parking lot and down the road.



*****



         It was embarrassing and painful, running into the hospital, up to reception, and asking about Ian. When the woman there asked if she was his mother, Abigail had no response, except to shake her head. She wasn’t Ian’s mother, wasn’t anything at all to him except the woman who had given him a bath and a toy on the worse night of his life. But, she should be his mother. There was no other woman left in this world to care for him. That thought immediately sent her into a deep sadness. Just as the woman at reception started to realize that the two of them weren’t even related to the patient and question, and was looking at them suspiciously, Officer Brennen seemed to come out of nowhere with his partner in tow, the both of them looking very tired.

         “Father, Sister,” he greeted.

         He took his uniform hat off and held it in his hands, reminding Abigail of the officer who had knocked on her door as a little girl to tell her that her father had had an accident. She immediately feared the worst.

         “What did he do to him?” Abigail demanded.

         Brennen shook his head.

         “We should talk in private,” he urged.

         The nun and the priest followed the two cops through a set of double doors and up an elevator to pediatrics, where they stopped in a silent and empty hallway.

         “Is it true?” Taylor asked, “Did Ian’s father break into the church last night?”

         Brennen shared a look with his partner, seeming pensive.

         “We were able to find Ian through his medical records here,” he explained, “It seems that Ian has been admitted almost fifty times in the last three years for various physical injuries. Broken bones, concussions, things like that. His doctor should have alerted us, it’s procedure,” he said angrily, “There will be a strict investigation into why we were never contacted.”

         Abigail felt relief that some doctor in this place was going to be punished. Maybe there wasn’t much justice in the world, but there was some.

         “Everything that we tell you about this is confidential,” Brennen’s partner warned.

         “If you’re telling anything at all,” Taylor sighed sadly, “Then that means that Ian’s mother really is dead, and that his father was responsible, which makes us his only option.”

         Brennen nodded in a depressed manner.

         “We went to his home,” he told them, “We found his mother. It… it took us a few minutes to identify her. She was pretty bad.”

         His partner whispered something under his breath. It sounded like ‘she didn’t look human’, but Abigail couldn’t be sure. Still, she felt sick to her stomach.

         “Ian was there,” Brennen said.

         “But I don’t understand,” Taylor protested, “How could his father have gotten into the church and taken him? The church is old, the floorboards creak… if any of the children leave their room, we can hear it, but nothing woke us up last night. If a man had gone upstairs, we would have been wide awake.”

         Brennen and his partner shared another look.

         “He didn’t,” he informed them, “Marshall Jordan… Ian’s father is dead. He died some time last night. There hasn’t been an autopsy performed yet, but it looks like he died a little while after Ian and his friend ran away from the house.”

         Abigail felt a tremor go through her heart.

         “I… I don’t understand,” she stammered, “Are you saying that Ian left the church on his own?”

         “Did Matt kill Ian’s father?” Taylor interrupted.

         Brennen shook his head.

         “It looks like the kid hit him with a bat pretty good a couple of times, but that it isn’t what killed him. He hung himself in the kid’s room.”

         Abigail rubbed at her forward, trying to mask the horror that she felt inside.

         “He killed himself… because he couldn’t live without Ian? Was he sorry for killing his wife?” she murmured to herself.

         “Doubt it,” Brennen’s partner said, “He hung himself in his kid’s room with no suicide note. That’s not really an indication that he was sorry or remorseful. Given the abuse, it’s more likely he did it to punish his son for running away. It’s like a case we had awhile back. This girl broke up with her boyfriend, real messy. He broke into her apartment and killed himself there, just to get back at her.”

         Brennen gave him a sharp look, not wanting to scare the priest and nun.

         “It doesn’t matter anymore why he killed himself,” he pointed out, “Ian… we found the kid there.”

         “He saw his father, didn’t he?” Taylor asked, already knowing the answer and it filled him with dread.

         Bad enough that the boy had to have watched his father kill his mother, but this…

         “Yes,” Brennen said regretfully, “One of his neighbors has a dog, a German Sheppard. According to the neighbor, that dog only barks when it sees people walking around on their street. It was silent all night except for at eight o’clock, nine o’clock, and lastly at one in the morning. The neighbor saw Mr. Jordan come home at eight, so it’s safe to say that Ian and Matt got out at nine. We found Ian at nine thirty this morning, just sitting in his room… looking. As far as we know, he spent the whole eight hours that way, not even moving a muscle. There‘s no sign that he went anywhere else in the house and with all that blood on the kitchen floor… we would have seen something.”

         Abigail hid her face in both her hands, feeling as though she would start to scream if she didn’t. She felt Father Taylor put a hand on her shoulder, but it was no comfort. All she could think about was Ian, sweet, innocent little Ian, sitting on the floor of his room and watching his father hang there for eight long hours. What could that kind of prolonged, visual image do to a child?

         “How is he?” she heard Taylor ask.

         “Physically? He walked four miles from the church to his home in the pouring rain with only pajamas on. He has a fever from exposure, a dry cough, and some minor cuts on his feet. Nothing that some bed rest, hot soup, and band-aids won’t cure. Mentally… he hasn’t said a single word to anyone since we found him. We’re hoping one of you might get him to start talking. Until he does, the doctors can’t get a read on his mental state and until they do, he can’t leave,” Brennen confessed, “He’s pale and seems confused. The boy just looks off.”

         Who wouldn’t be? Abigail thought bitterly. Who could watch someone they had love hanging from the ceiling of their own bedroom for all those hours and not be messed up inside?

         “I want to see him,” she demanded.

         The cops nodded to her and led them down the hall.

         “Have you found anyone who can take Ian in, yet?” Taylor asked as they walked.

         “No,” Brennen’s partner responded, “Both of his parents were only children and his grandparents died before he was born. He doesn’t have any family left.”

         Abigail didn’t know why, but that fact, though it saddened her, brought her no shock. It wasn’t almost as though she had been expecting it when Brennen had told them to come here. They stopped at a door and the other cop handed Father Taylor a folder filled with papers.

         “That’s everything, birth certificate, medical records, anything any adoptive parents will need. I suggest you put them someplace safe. Once he’s released, he’s all yours,” the man said.

         The words seemed faint and unreal to Abigail, all of her focus on the door in front of her. A male nurse walked the halls, but wasn’t pushing anything, nor did he seem to be going anywhere. He gave them a suspicious look, but kept walking when Brennen nodded to him. Abigail realized that there were probably such nurses and hospital staff walking every corridor in pediatrics, on the lookout for anyone trying to take a sick child, and felt another chill.

         “He’s six,” Taylor murmured, looking at Ian’s birth certificate.

         Abigail couldn’t take the tension anymore and opened the door. Father Taylor loitered in the doorway, but no one else walked in. She felt something tight and strong release her heart as she saw the boy in the hospital bed. His eyes were open and he was staring at nothing, not seeming to care that he had an IV in his arm. Most children his age would be picking at it or whining about needles, but his face was blank, like a doll’s. Just like Brennen had said, he looked sick, like he had cancer, his face even paler than it had been the night before. The little plush starfish she had given him was sitting on the nightstand next to his bed and she was grateful that someone, Brennen or the other cop, probably, had thought to bring it.

         There were dark shadows and creases under Ian’s eyes, as though he had watched TV for twelve hours straight or hadn’t slept in days. It was the look of tired eyes, but Abigail knew that it was really the mark of a tired soul, of someone who had seen too much too quickly. The heart monitor that he was hooked up to was the only indication that she had that he was alive, those eyes not blinking, his body not moving an inch as she approached him. The temperature read 101 degrees, but his face was, oddly, not flushed. She sat at the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping with her weight.

         “Ian?” she said gently, placing her hand on his much smaller one.

         His hand was cold, like ice, and as pale as death. He didn’t look at her or respond in any way. It was as though he was in a waking coma and that frightened her. What if he stayed like this? She picked up the little starfish with her other hand, rubbing her fingers against the worn fur. It looked even worse than when she had handed it to Ian last night and she easily imagined him sitting in his room, squeezing and worrying at the plush. She turned his hand over and placed the starfish on his palm. As though he had just woken up from a deep sleep, Ian blinked and his fingers curled around the starfish lightly. Abigail breathed in relief as those violet eyes moved, looking around the room in confusion.

         “Ian?” she tried again and this time, his head turned and his eyes met hers, “Do you remember me? It’s Sister Abigail.”

         “Sis…ter,” he murmured with recognition, then looked down at the starfish.

         He moved his hand to his chest, gripping the plushie there.

         “You’re in the hospital,” she said cautiously, not wanting to frighten him back into that strange, almost catatonic state, “Do you remember them bringing you here?”

         Ian gave a slow nodded.

         “Mr. Brennen said… he said he would take me someplace warm,” he murmured.

         Abigail smiled at him.

         “That’s right, Officer Brennen is the one who found you,” she said.

         Ian had a far off look in his eyes, like he was lost in memory, but instead of that flat, dead look returning, he just looked sad. She touched his hand again, hoping that a bit of her warmth might sink into him.

         “Why did you run away, Ian?” she asked in a pleading tone, “We wouldn’t have let anything bad happen to you.”

         “I just wanted to see Daddy,” he murmured, looking at the starfish and not her, “I… I wanted to tell him how sorry I was for making him sad. That’s why he hurt Mommy, because he didn’t want us to be apart, it made him sad. I… still love him… even if he hurts me sometimes… and even though he killed Mommy… I didn’t want him to be so sad…”

         Tears streamed down his face and Abigail pulled him into a hug, careful of the IV in his other arm. He curled against her, crying harshly, almost violently.

         “Ian,” she said painfully, tears in her own eyes, and she stroked his blonde hair.

         “But… but he left me all alone…” Ian sobbed, his tone one of betrayal, “He abandoned me! Because… because I abandoned him! He thought I didn’t love him enough, that’s why he hurt himself!”

         “No, sweetheart,” Abigail soothed, tightening her grip around him, a tear of her own trailing down her face, “Your daddy was very sick. When people are sick like that… they hurt themselves. It wasn’t because of you, it was his fault, not yours.”

         Ian shook his head in protest, but didn’t refute her words. His face was pinched, as though he were feeling some kind of excruciating pain, and she was sure that he was, but not any kind physical agony. It was a pain deep inside, where no medicine could reach. She shared a sad look with Father Taylor. There was nothing that they could do for him. The world was cruel. Ian needed help, someone who knew the right things to say for a little boy who had, literally, lost everything, but they didn’t have the money for that kind of care. All they could do was take him home, wait, and hope that Ian would be fine. It seemed wrong, but they just couldn’t help him beyond that.