Meating Dalton (Daniels Duet #2)
Prologue
PROLOGUE
DALTON
“O ne, two, three,” I count out loud, hands clasped to my eyes and face pressed into the wall of a pitch dark closet. I’m scared, but I didn’t tell Mom that. She never wanted to play with me before.
We’re playing hide and seek. She’s hiding while I count. I don’t know why I had to be in the closet. I don’t like it.
“Done!” I shout, dropping my hands. My chest hurts, like when I run outside during playtime. I shuffle in the dark toward the door. I’m scared, really scared.
“Mom!” I cry, pulling on the doorknob. It won’t turn. Why won’t it turn? Did she lock it?
“Mom!” Tears spill down my face. Dad says big boys don’t cry, but it’s dark in here. I don’t like the dark. It feels like someone’s in here with me, breathing down my neck. Dad says there’s no such thing as monsters, but it feels like a fib, like when Johnny pushed me down while we were playing and told the teacher I fell.
“Mom, please!” My forehead thumps into the door and something moves behind me.
“No, no. Not real. Dad says you’re not real.” My fist bang on the door, hoping the noise will drown out the monster in the closet with me.
“Mommy!” I know she hates it when I call her that. Her lips would turn down and she’d pretend she didn’t hear me, even though I sometimes see her glance at me when I say it.
When I hear footsteps outside the door, I stop crying, and wipe my face in case it’s Dad. When they stop at the door, I curl my hands, waiting for one of my parents to open the door. Maybe Mom’s punishing me. But I don’t know what I did wrong.
“Mom?” What if the monster slid beneath the door to the other side? That can't happen. Or at least I think it can’t, but Santa finds a way in.
The footsteps start to move away. No, no. I shake my head and bang my fist on the door again.
“Mom!” Snot and tears drip down my face. I don’t care about being a big boy. I want out. Out. Out. Out.
“Please let me out! I’ll be good!” I promise, hoping she’s listening. She doesn’t answer me and I slide to the floor with my cheek pressed to the door. She’s not coming. I don’t know what I did wrong.
Maybe if I can’t see the monster, then it’s not there. Wrapping my arms around my knees, I bury my face in them. I stay like that, whispering over and over, “It’s not real. I’m alone. It’s not real.”
I don’t know how long I stay like that, but it feels like a long time before Dad pulls open the closet and carries me to bed. He doesn’t say anything about the dried tears and snot. I’m glad. I really tried to be a big boy.