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Little Boy Lost By C. N. Pitts
She’d been following them for a week; the bastards that had her baby. Even though it had been two years since little Brandon was taken, Joan had recognized him the instant she saw the couple pushing him in his stroller through the park. They had dyed his blonde hair to match the woman’s shade of chestnut, but they couldn’t disguise his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that might have been lifted directly from Joan’s own baby pictures. Two years gone, and she’d known in a heartbeat that he was her missing child. A mother always knows. It had hit her like a hammer, just seeing him again. All of the pain and doubt and heartache that had been eating her like a cancer for two years had been lifted in an instant, washed away by a flood of joyous relief that had left her breathless. Joan’s first instinct had been to grab him, run, and never let go, but she managed to rein herself in. She knew that if she failed to escape with him they would simply take him away again, this time to somewhere she would never be able to find him. No, it was a miracle this chance she had found herself with, and she couldn’t afford to blow it. She could not, would not, lose him again. It had taken everything she had, but she’d remained patient – following them, learning their routines, watching from afar through tear-soaked eyes as they took Brandon to day-care. A week of living in her car, barely sleeping, and she knew their names, where they lived, where they worked, what they ate, and even what types of movies they preferred. A week, and Joan’s determination to rescue her son grew with every passing hour. As did her desire to make the bastards pay. When the opportunity finally presented itself, Joan leapt on it. Over the course of her surveillance she had noticed that the woman, Kay, had a habit of leaving the garage door open when popping down to the corner market. It had meant a night shivering in the hedges outside, and a half a day of staying hidden in them while waiting, but in the end it had gotten her into the house. And now, twelve hours of cramped hiding in the attic later, it had gotten her the chance to save her son. Hang on honey, she thought, as she slid a butcher-knife free from a rack in the kidnapper’s kitchen. Mommy’s coming for you, promise. Blade in hand, she crept off towards the master bedroom. The husband’s name was Todd, and she let that name play over her lips as she jerked the knife across his throat. Hot blood spewed from the ragged hole Joan had made in his neck, covering the bed, her, and Kay’s sleeping form like a wet blanket. His body was still convulsing as Kay lurched into a sitting position and turned to him. “Are you okay honey?” she asked. Joan slammed a fist into her head, knocking the woman back. She raised the dripping blade and, with an animalistic hiss, hammered it down into Kay’s chest again and again and again. She was dead long before the knife broke against a rib, leaving Joan to beat her with nothing but the wooden handle. Crying and spent, she finally gave up. The bastards had paid, just as they deserved to. They had taken her life, they had taken her child. Now she had claimed their lives in return, and in a moment would reclaim her son. She bawled freely as she staggered on adrenaline-drunk legs to her son’s room. He was there, still asleep, having not so much as stirred during his mother’s extracting revenge against his kidnappers. Joan smiled down at his sleeping form, feeling complete at last. Two years of hope, refusing to give up even after the police and everyone else had. She had been right, damn it, and here was the proof. Her son, her baby, alive and well and ready to go home. She had finally saved him. So beautiful, she thought, running fingers through his fine hair. That hair, it’s grown so. And his eyes are even more like mine than ever. That cute little nose, those perfect angel lips. That adorable chin. Wait… the chin was cleft. Brandon’s chin had been smooth and square, just like his father’s. NOT cleft. “No, no, no…” Joan whispered. “It’s not possible. Trickster! Changeling!” The sleeping boy had just started to stir at the racket Joan was making when she raised her arms, hands together, and brought them down on the imposter with all of her strength. “No! No!” she chanted, punctuating each exclamation with the meaty smack of her fists against the traitorous little form. “No! No! No!” Eventually, she felt something snap inside her hand, mirroring whatever it was that had snapped in her soul when she learned of the trick that had been played on her. Sobbing, arms shaking from exertion, she staggered out of the house and to her car without so much as a backwards look. Joan collapsed behind the wheel, despair tearing at her. How could they have been so cruel as to do that to her? Her gritty eyes stared through the windshield into the infinite darkness beyond. He was out there, somewhere. Her real baby. Her Brandon. Tomorrow, for sure, she’d find him. She believed it heart and soul. It was the only thing keeping her going.
-fin-
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