What would happen if everyone knew your secret?
It’s a beautiful, crisp, warm day to go for a long walk down the trail. I do this quite often; it gives me a good place to think, and it’s always good to exercise. I walk for about a mile when I look up and notice people staring at me. Were they looking at me, my clothes, or did I have a certain look on my face? I get home and look in the mirror. My hair is brushed and neatly placed. I have on my sun yellow T-shirt and dull blue jeans with my high top Converse, left shoe on my left foot, right shoe on my right, both are tied tight. What was wrong? Why was everyone staring at me?
My phone rings…Oh it’s just Jaxsyn. I answer, confident, believing nothing will go wrong.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Haylie…”
“What’s wrong, Jax?”
“I just wish you would have told me, so I could have tried to help you. I could have gotten you out of trouble.”
“Wait, what should I have told you?”
“Don’t play dumb; you know what you did.”
“Seriously, Jaxsyn, what do you know?”
“You were the one who kidnapped Westley. How could you do that, Haylie?  He’s only six-years-old. Six!
Click.
He hung up.
How did he know? Better yet, how did he find out? He couldn’t read my mind, could he? What am I thinking? No one can read minds. Is that the reason people were staring at me?
I walk through the hall to the third to last door and put my hand on the brilliant glass knob and turn it. One small motion after the next, descending down the stairs, I stand at the bottom of the steps and look around as if I’m looking for a car to make sure it’s safe to cross the street. Right, then left, then right again. It’s too dark to see anything; the only light source is the small opening in the wall. I waltz around the room with my arms out in front of me to try and find the piece of string that turns on the light. I grab, pull and then I see it. A dog cage, the size for a Great Dane. It’s a wooden crate that has slots, so it’s easy to look into.  It’s a got a lock on the dead bolt, which needs a key to unlock it. I glance over to one of the slots, and there he is. He is curled in the fetal position and seems to be mumbling. He has tear marks on his cheeks, and his eyes are closed tight.
“He cried himself to sleep…what have I done?” I whisper.
As I stare at him, I notice his clothes are filthy, torn, and barely hanging onto his skinny emaciated body. His size 2 shoes are kicked off and pushed into a corner exposing his stained socks. His shaggy brown hair is pushed in many directions, tied up in knots. He has plum-colored spots on his arms and legs. The bruises remind me of what happened 7 years ago.
He beat me…again. He said the last time was the last time, but it wasn’t. The only reason I stick around is because of Connar. If I left I couldn’t take my little one with me or he would track us down, kill me, and take him. I couldn’t leave the only good thing in my life to be with this son of a b****. He needs me. If I wasn’t here, Connar would get beaten even more then he already does. I have to protect him.
“WHERE IS HE?!”
“Where’s who, Blake?”
“YOU KNOW WHO! WHERE IS CONNAR?”
“I’LL NEVER TELL YOU WHERE HE IS. HE IS SAFE. AWAY FROM YOU. CONNAR, GO TO YOUR SPECIAL PLACE!”
I hear the little feet run across the floor as he sprinted to his place. I’m slammed against the wall as Blake pushes through me. I hear doors opening and slamming shut as he searches every nook and cranny looking for Connar. I hear a quick, blood curdling, scream that shatters my heart. I run up the stairs as fast as my legs can carry me, knowing he’s badly hurt. I kneel down and he’s not breathing. I pick him up and hold him to my chest, praying it’s all just a horrible nightmare, but my little boy is gone.
I look up at the little boy and he’s awake. His eyes are jungle green, just like Connar’s. I realize why I took Wes. I was making up for my child’s death. I have to find some way out of this. I know what I must do. I glance over to my right at the matte black gun sitting on the table right in my line of vision. I walk over quietly and grab the gun, feeling the cold metal along my fingers. I check to see if there is any ammo. Two bullets. Perfect. I slowly lift the gun to my eye, staring at the young six-year-old. I pull. He falls. I watch him as he takes his final breath. My turn. I raise the gun to my temple.
“Goodbye.”