Page 14 of Hush, Little Baby

“I wanna go home,” I say one last time, but it comes out as a whimper.

He just shakes his head, almost fondly. “You are going home.”

I sob, “No! My home!” but it’s already too late. His thumb catches a tear as it slides down my cheek, wipes it away like he has every right to touch my face.

“You’re going to your new home, sweetheart,” he says, and the tenderness in his voice is so at odds with the horror that it makes me dizzy.

I start to fight in earnest now. I try to twist, to kick, to scramble off his lap, but he’s so strong, and I’m so weak that I end up just flailing, legs useless and arms pinned. The big part of my brain wants to bite, to scream, to go wild, but the little part is telling me it’s pointless, that he’ll just hurt me if I make it harder.

He doesn’t hurt me. He just holds me tighter and looks up, over my head, toward the glass wall that separates the playroom from the rest of the club.

“Constantine.”

The door opens, and a second man enters. He’s even taller than my captor, lean and sharp-faced, with a look that says he’s already sized up every exit in the room. He’s wearing a suit, like a bodyguard or an undertaker, and when his eyes land on me, there’s a flicker of something—maybe pity, maybe just calculation.

My blood runs electric.

“N-no,” I gasp, trying to shrink into my captor’s chest, but the new man just steps closer, his presence making the already-small room feel like a closet.

“P-please,” I whisper, looking from one to the other. “I don’t want to—please—”

My captor’s lips brush the shell of my ear, so close I can feel the words. “Charlie. Listen to me.”

I shake my head so hard my vision doubles. The tears are streaming now, a steady leak I can’t control.

“I don’t wanna go!” I sob, louder than before. “I don’t wanna! Please let me go!”

The new man, Constantine, says nothing. He just stands by the door, hands folded, eyes solemn.

“You need to decide,” the first man says, and his calmness is terrifying. “Will you come with me like a good boy, or will my friend need to make you take a little nap?”

My legs go completely numb. My vision pops and flickers at the edges. There’s a high ringing in my ears, and my body starts to shake violently.

He waits for my answer.

“I—I—I—no—” My tongue is thick, useless. “Please,” I beg, “please don’t, I’ll—I’ll be good, I’ll listen, I’ll—”

He nods, like he was expecting that all along. “That’s my good boy,” he says, and the words settle over my shoulders like a weighted blanket.

But it doesn’t help. It just makes everything worse.

Everything feels wrong.

Too loud.

Too close.

Too scary.

The big part of me is screaming to run.

The little part of me is crying because he called me a good boy.

And the fear—the fear makes everything smaller.

It makes my thoughts slower and makes me want to suck my thumb and hide from the world in the man’s nice coat, even though I’m scared of him.

“I don’t know,” I sob helplessly. “I don’t know what to do…”