u/Short-Procedure1853

“How much longer?”

Pat lies in his bed, the single question floating around in his head. He stares at the clock, it’s too dark to see the hands tick, but not dark enough to see the pictures surrounding it. There’s picture of him, pictures of him with his mom, pictures of him with his dad, and only one with all of them together. It hangs right below the clock with both hands intact, and right above his desk.

He can still hear his parents from downstairs. It’s hard not to. They're blaming each other, yelling at each other, hurting each other. And they think he's stupid enough to not notice it.

The kid stares up at the ceiling, tired. He spent every night before trying to drown out the noise. Whether he tried locking his door or covering his ears with pillows, nothing he did worked. They were loud. Too loud.

Groggy, Pat turns to his sides, still staring at the door. It’s shut close. He can still hear his parents from downstairs, but he’d like to pretend it does something.

Through the gap between the door and the wall, a tiny bit of line seeps through. Shining on his guitar. Something that was once his pride and joy before losing his right arm.

Back then, they’d all sit together as a family and listen to him play. For once, everyone smiled. But now those days are long gone ever since that trip. He was left unwatched for way too long and got himself into trouble.

His mom says it’s because his father is never present.

His father says it’s because his mother is always stuck inside her own head.

He saw old photos of them together, they always looked so happy. What went wrong?

They make excuses for his mistake and never listen to his apologies. He’s the reason he lost his arm, and he’s the reason for their fights. And yet they’re only blaming each other.

Pat sits up straight at the edge of his bed, still staring at the door.

Do they have just as much trouble sleeping as him when they have to go to bed?

Do they toss and turn and talk to themselves about the things the other has said? Keeping themselves awake?

Thinking to himself, Pat finally stands up and steps towards his door, hovering the hand he has left over the doorknob. Maybe, just maybe, he can fix things. He’ll confront them! He’ll be honest! They might be mad at him, but they’ll finally ignore each other. And the nights can be quiet again.

He watches the doorknob, his hand shaking.

He can solve it all.

Can he solve it all?

He can’t.

Pat raises his hand away from the door and steps back, looking down at the floor. He can’t do it. He knows they won’t listen. And he knows it wouldn’t help him sleep.

Defeated, Pat steps back, turning back to his bed. He slouches, sitting on the very edge, holding his head in his hand, knowing there is nothing to say or do. Why couldn’t they speak? Why wouldn’t they listen?

“Because they don’t want too.”

Alerted, Pat darts back up, looking around his room. Someone heard him. Looking at his bedside table, there lies his old baseball bat. He grabs it, pointing it ahead of him. He can’t see anyone in the closet, he can’t see anyone near his desk, and he can’t find the light switch.

What he does see, is the dark.

Right behind his guitar, lies a shadow, a patch of darkness too dark, an area perfectly pitch black. And that area, has started to crawl. A hand emerges, pushing the shadow up, forming a figure.

It was amorphous, yet familiar. It was just a silhouette of a person. It was the silhouette of two, stitched as one. The shadow of both his mother and father together as one.

“Do you want someone to listen?” She spoke, her voice as soft as his mother’s, and as slow as his father’s, almost like they are overlapping. She should have been horrifying him, causing him to run away, but for some reason, Pat does not.

The boy looks back down at the floor, almost completely still, thinking to himself. Does he really want to speak? How long can he stay quiet for? Will they hear them talk? Pat looks at his door. “… I want to talk to them,” He says softly “they talk to each other a lot. And they say a lot of...” Pat hesitates for a moment. “A lot of bad things. I don’t think they’re going to listen to me though.” He sighs, already given up.

The figure does not move, she keeps her distance, watching from afar. “Do you know why?” She breaks her silence, doing nothing else but stare. Pat shakes his head. “I do. Do you want me to tell you?” She seemingly clasps her hands together, tilting her head to the side.

Whenever Pat’s father had to ask him a question, he’d clasp his own hands together, also tilting his head to the side. The only difference here, is that his father would have stepped closer. The shadow did not. It’s a small thing, but Pat always noticed it.

For a while, it was comforting. Pat looks back at the ‘Parent’ and nods.

She takes a moment to reply, but when she does, she says it clearly. “They are stuck in their own mind, their own wants.” She looks, and then down, and then back at Pat. “They care about you Pat, but they care more about themselves. They always did.” The figure says flatly, completely straightforward. She steps forward. “And they always will.” Her eyes finally open. Almond shaped, like his father’s.

Pat backs away on his bed, almost scurrying into a corner. “You’re scared. I understand.” She closes her eyes again. “I understand... All you want is someone to listen. But they never do, your mom and dad.” She turns to stare at the door. “But maybe... I could make them care.” Pat eyes widen, surprised.

He keeps his distance, but his curiosity gets to him. Pat tilts his head, taking a moment to respond. “How?” He says, his voice still quiet.

The Shadow walks to the other side of the room. “Well, I’ll need you to do something.” She says, opening the door. “They don’t know me. They won’t listen to me alone. Let’s go down and talk to them. Okay?” She offers.

The hallway is eclipsed by the door itself. Pat can’t see what’s beyond it, so he stays still, pondering. “Take your time. Maybe now is not right.” The shadow interrupts his thinking. “We will talk to your parents some other time. I’m sure you can wait as well. Can you?” She asks again.

Pat leaves his bed. Still hesitant, he walks to the door, standing beside the Shadow. To his surprise, she does nothing. Her only response is to point outside the door.

Pat looks forward, what’s in front of him is nothing but the dark. No pictures of his parents being forced to be with him, none of his mother’s vases or his father’s old medals. Just the dark. “I know it looks scary,” The Shadow speaks. “But they will care again. All you have to do, is step outside, and find them. Do you want me to help you?” She asks, her tone almost forcibly soft.

The boy steps away.

She grabs onto his wrist.

“I will help you.”

Pat tries to struggle out of it, but she doesn’t let go. She drags him into the dark. None could hear him scream, not his mother, or father.

 

 

 

A week past by.

A man stands beside a lamppost; a paper hung on it. He holds onto it, and cries. None is around to hear him, yet he still tries to remain quiet. “I’m so sorry.” He says, whispering to himself. “I’m so, so so sorry.” His phone starts to ring, he ignores it. “Pat…” He says, “My boy…” He can hardly finish a sentence without crying.

He lets go of the paper, still in tears.

On the paper are bold red posters. 8 year old Pat has gone missing.

“How much longer?”

Pat lies in his bed, the single question floating around in his head. He stares at the clock, it’s too dark to see the hands tick, but not dark enough to see the pictures surrounding it. There’s picture of him, pictures of him with his mom, pictures of him with his dad, and only one with all of them together. It hangs right below the clock with both hands intact, and right above his desk.

He can still hear his parents from downstairs. It’s hard not to. They're blaming each other, yelling at each other, hurting each other. And they think he's stupid enough to not notice it.

The kid stares up at the ceiling, tired. He spent every night before trying to drown out the noise. Whether he tried locking his door or covering his ears with pillows, nothing he did worked. They were loud. Too loud.

Groggy, Pat turns to his sides, still staring at the door. It’s shut close. He can still hear his parents from downstairs, but he’d like to pretend it does something.

Through the gap between the door and the wall, a tiny bit of line seeps through. Shining on his guitar. Something that was once his pride and joy before losing his right arm.

Back then, they’d all sit together as a family and listen to him play. For once, everyone smiled. But now those days are long gone ever since that trip. He was left unwatched for way too long and got himself into trouble.

His mom says it’s because his father is never present.

His father says it’s because his mother is always stuck inside her own head.

He saw old photos of them together, they always looked so happy. What went wrong?

They make excuses for his mistake and never listen to his apologies. He’s the reason he lost his arm, and he’s the reason for their fights. And yet they’re only blaming each other.

Pat sits up straight at the edge of his bed, still staring at the door.

Do they have just as much trouble sleeping as him when they have to go to bed?

Do they toss and turn and talk to themselves about the things the other has said? Keeping themselves awake?

Thinking to himself, Pat finally stands up and steps towards his door, hovering the hand he has left over the doorknob. Maybe, just maybe, he can fix things. He’ll confront them! He’ll be honest! They might be mad at him, but they’ll finally ignore each other. And the nights can be quiet again.

He watches the doorknob, his hand shaking.

He can solve it all.

Can he solve it all?

He can’t.

Pat raises his hand away from the door and steps back, looking down at the floor. He can’t do it. He knows they won’t listen. And he knows it wouldn’t help him sleep.

Defeated, Pat steps back, turning back to his bed. He slouches, sitting on the very edge, holding his head in his hand, knowing there is nothing to say or do. Why couldn’t they speak? Why wouldn’t they listen?

“Because they don’t want too.”

Alerted, Pat darts back up, looking around his room. Someone heard him. Looking at his bedside table, there lies his old baseball bat. He grabs it, pointing it ahead of him. He can’t see anyone in the closet, he can’t see anyone near his desk, and he can’t find the light switch.

What he does see, is the dark.

Right behind his guitar, lies a shadow, a patch of darkness too dark, an area perfectly pitch black. And that area, has started to crawl. A hand emerges, pushing the shadow up, forming a figure.

It was amorphous, yet familiar. It was just a silhouette of a person. It was the silhouette of two, stitched as one. The shadow of both his mother and father together as one.

“Do you want someone to listen?” She spoke, her voice as soft as his mother’s, and as slow as his father’s, almost like they are overlapping. She should have been horrifying him, causing him to run away, but for some reason, Pat does not.

The boy looks back down at the floor, almost completely still, thinking to himself. Does he really want to speak? How long can he stay quiet for? Will they hear them talk? Pat looks at his door. “… I want to talk to them,” He says softly “they talk to each other a lot. And they say a lot of...” Pat hesitates for a moment. “A lot of bad things. I don’t think they’re going to listen to me though.” He sighs, already given up.

The figure does not move, she keeps her distance, watching from afar. “Do you know why?” She breaks her silence, doing nothing else but stare. Pat shakes his head. “I do. Do you want me to tell you?” She seemingly clasps her hands together, tilting her head to the side.

Whenever Pat’s father had to ask him a question, he’d clasp his own hands together, also tilting his head to the side. The only difference here, is that his father would have stepped closer. The shadow did not. It’s a small thing, but Pat always noticed it.

For a while, it was comforting. Pat looks back at the ‘Parent’ and nods.

She takes a moment to reply, but when she does, she says it clearly. “They are stuck in their own mind, their own wants.” She looks, and then down, and then back at Pat. “They care about you Pat, but they care more about themselves. They always did.” The figure says flatly, completely straightforward. She steps forward. “And they always will.” Her eyes finally open. Almond shaped, like his father’s.

Pat backs away on his bed, almost scurrying into a corner. “You’re scared. I understand.” She closes her eyes again. “I understand... All you want is someone to listen. But they never do, your mom and dad.” She turns to stare at the door. “But maybe... I could make them care.” Pat eyes widen, surprised.

He keeps his distance, but his curiosity gets to him. Pat tilts his head, taking a moment to respond. “How?” He says, his voice still quiet.

The Shadow walks to the other side of the room. “Well, I’ll need you to do something.” She says, opening the door. “They don’t know me. They won’t listen to me alone. Let’s go down and talk to them. Okay?” She offers.

The hallway is eclipsed by the door itself. Pat can’t see what’s beyond it, so he stays still, pondering. “Take your time. Maybe now is not right.” The shadow interrupts his thinking. “We will talk to your parents some other time. I’m sure you can wait as well. Can you?” She asks again.

Pat leaves his bed. Still hesitant, he walks to the door, standing beside the Shadow. To his surprise, she does nothing. Her only response is to point outside the door.

Pat looks forward, what’s in front of him is nothing but the dark. No pictures of his parents being forced to be with him, none of his mother’s vases or his father’s old medals. Just the dark. “I know it looks scary,” The Shadow speaks. “But they will care again. All you have to do, is step outside, and find them. Do you want me to help you?” She asks, her tone almost forcibly soft.

The boy steps away.

She grabs onto his wrist.

“I will help you.”

Pat tries to struggle out of it, but she doesn’t let go. She drags him into the dark. None could hear him scream, not his mother, or father.

 

 

 

A week past by.

A man stands beside a lamppost; a paper hung on it. He holds onto it, and cries. None is around to hear him, yet he still tries to remain quiet. “I’m so sorry.” He says, whispering to himself. “I’m so, so so sorry.” His phone starts to ring, he ignores it. “Pat…” He says, “My boy…” He can hardly finish a sentence without crying.

He lets go of the paper, still in tears.

On the paper are bold red posters. 8 year old Pat has gone missing.

 

Title explains it.

Finsished writing a short story. So I'm hoping for some criticism on it!