Chapter Eleven Hell

“I’m frightened, will you stay in the bed with me?”

Roach nodded, forgetting that Precious might not be able to see him now that his sight was failing. He laid down, grimacing as he settled onto the uncomfortable mattress and laid his head on the sweat dampened, hair covered pillow. “You won’t let them get me, will you, Roach?”

“No,” He replied shakily as he heard the thumping of wood against wood. “I promise. I’ll not let them hurt you. Just sleep, Precious. I’m here.” Tears sprang to his eyes and he draped his arms about the boy’s emaciated frame.

Someone had thrown their torch. It bounced off of the wall of the building and fell back into the grass.

The days since the burning of the field had blurred together into an unending night. Roach had run until he could not hear the shouts of the Exterminators anymore. Only then, when the only sound was the twittering of birds and the rustling of leaves and the sound of his and Precious’ heavy breathing, only then did Roach slow to a walk, but he did not stop.

On their fourth day of walking, Roach found the shack.

It had one room into which was crammed a decrepit cot with old, dirty sheets and pillows. The walls were decorated with cabinets that were filled with nothing but spider webs and, ironically, a colony of slick, brown roaches. There had been a few bottles of lukewarm water sprawled beneath the cot, and it was these that Roach used to bathe Precious’ sores and to ease the younger boy’s thirst during their short time there. The water had disappeared quickly, and Precious’ time was pouring out just as the last drops of water did- far, far too soon.

Roach stared at the swaying curtains, catching glimpses of the mob of people that were marching closer to the shack. At one time, Roach recalled, he had had a gun of his own. Vaguely, he wondered what had happened to it, but before a wish could form on his lips, he resigned himself to his fate, knowing that one gun with a few bullets would not have made any difference.

Precious was whimpering in his arms, whispering unintelligible concerns and fears into Roach’s chest. Precious had begun hallucinating shortly after he and Roach had arrived at the shack. The disease seemed unwilling to let Precious simply be shot by the Exterminators; it seemed to want to tear the poor boy’s body and mind to shreds while it still held him captive, and Precious had stopped fighting.

Roach ran his fingers through the younger boy’s hair as another torch crashed through the window, lighting the curtains on its way to the floor. He was not startled when his hands came away with clumps of hair clinging to his fingers. He merely took his hand away from Precious and dumped the hair onto the flames that were coming ever closer to the cot.

Fire appeared on the roof then, its yellow and orange tongues lapping the ceiling as they ate away the rotting wood. Gunshots were fired through the opening made when the curtains fell from the window. The bullets struck the wall, sending splinters of wood onto the sheets of the bed.

It was then that Roach slid his hand beneath the pillow and withdrew two syringes.

Earlier that night, there had come a knock at the door. Roach had leapt from the bed and had thrown himself against the door, putting all of his weight against it for fear of someone pushing their way through and taking Precious from him.

“Roach?”

The voice was not what Roach had been expecting; it was kind and pained and it was followed by a soft sigh. Roach clamped a hand over his mouth as tears poured down his face and he slid down to the floor, his back pressed against the door as the voice from the other side whispered his name twice more. After the third time, there had been a rustling and retreating footsteps.

Roach had moved away from the door and pushed back the curtains of the window, peering into the darkness to watch Lovely’s familiar form disappear into the shadows of the trees. When Roach opened the door, there had been two syringes laying in front of the shack among the dead leaves.

Roach had never been terribly close to Lovely, but in that moment, he could not have loved anyone more. Lovely could not have given him anything more wonderful; he had given him mercy, a way to relieve Precious of his pain, a way for Roach to quietly fade away to join his Son.

Now, Roach pulled the syringes from beneath the pillow where he had hidden them and rose into a sitting position. He gathered Precious into his lap and laid the boy’s head against his chest, stroking back what remained of Precious’ once beautiful hair. Roach leaned his head against Precious’ and straightened the younger boy’s thin arm, pressing the needle into the boy’s wrist.
Precious released a soft sigh. “What are you doing, Roach?”


Roach dropped the other syringe into the fire as a ragged cry tore through his chest. He pulled the empty syringe away from Precious and threw it to the burning floor of the shack. His body was racked with his sobs as he rocked the boy in his arms, his dark, tear stained face buried in the small patches of Precious’ blonde hair.

“Go to sleep, Precious…”

~

The next morning, the sun’s rays cut through the canopy of leaves and peered down at the charred and broken remains of the shack as a tiny brown roach skittered among the wreckage. It paused a moment, its antennae flicking impatiently as it hesitated. In front of it, buried beneath piles of burnt and smoking wood were two dark forms. The creature recognized the feel of them against the edges of its antennae, but when they did not stir, the roach crawled over their laced fingers and climbed over the face of one before edging its way to the surface.

It sat atop the pile of destruction wearily, hissing to itself in disapproval as it surveyed the vast, open forest surrounding it. Instead of venturing into the unknown, the roach turned and slid back down into the debris, nestling itself comfortably between the palms of the dead boys’ hands.