Thomas was alone.
At the foster home, he was just another kid. With
Louise missing, everything was missing. Laughter and conversation had been
taken by the dark hand. Even arguing and slamming doors were missed. The house
was one long dreary day.
He missed his Mom and Dad; it was more the memory
of them, a life distant and vague. The Hand took more than Louise.
School was worse. From day one, the other kids
avoided him. He was known as “Delusional Tom.” Some called him “Crazy Tom.” It
was almost amusing how the different groups could not decide on what to call
him: DT, CT or that kid. Almost amusing.
The girl, Mason, who sat next to him in English,
was the only one that bothered to give him a smile, every day for the first
five days of school. It’s a polite smile, courteous, hiding her fear, but a
smile nonetheless.
All week, teachers and counselors were all “Hey,
Tom,” and “How’s it going?” and “We should try to take some steps.” They were
concerned, but distant. “It’s a tragedy what happened.” Yet, he knew that, like
the kids, they had heard his story of the door, the shadow world and the hand.
They had that look in their eye of concern and of suspicion. He’s heard them
whisper too, and he caught words like “therapy,” “mental trauma,” “blocking out
reality,” and “Could it be drugs?”
Williams, however, was just clueless. He talked to
Tom as if nothing had ever happened. “Hey, Tom,” he would say. “Your journal
mentioned a hand grabbing and hitting. I like the metaphor. You should work
with that more.” What the hell is that all about?
It came down to one thing. No one believed him.
He was alone.
And that’s what he was writing in his journal, “I
am alone.” He had written it over and over, and without realizing it, the words
became a hand, dark and mighty, grabbing Louise. He had drawn the picture
again.
Tom looked out from the corner of his eye. Her face
was afraid. Yet, he also recalled how she had been defiant too. She had not
gone “quietly into that good night” as Williams said the other day. But, that was
about someone dying. She was fighting. She had not given up.
Nor would he. But, what could he do? He felt
hopeless.
Tom looked at his drawing of the hand below the
words, “I am alone.”
Where did it come from? Where did it go?
He felt anger rising up into him. Heat flushed into
his head. He felt it prickle down into his neck and shoulders. It was burning.
He felt it, but he knew it was not real. The sensation of heat moved down his
arms. They throbbed. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The surge of heat moved into
his hands, then to his fingers. His fingertips itched with pinpricks of heat.
Fire flashed where his fingers held his paper. He
heard a shriek, but his eyes remained on the flame incinerating the drawing.
“Tom,” said a voice.
He did not move. All he could see was some wisps of
smoke and ash.
