Three days I have been to school, and three days I have been without Henry. I had thought that I would see him again—that he would be waiting for me at the schoolhouse—as always, but I was wrong.  

As I stare at Henry’s empty desk, the relative monotony of the teacher’s voice seems to fade away from my immediate attention, turning into no more than a hum in my subconscious mind. Nothing interests me more than my concerns for Henry’s whereabouts. I had thought that I would see him again. 

After what happened on Tuesday, I had to listen to my parents fight until late in the night, when they both grew too exhausted to continue. (How Gunther hears this and carries on with his optimism is unknown to me.) I retreated to my room before they could finish as I already knew the outcome of it all; I already knew what defenses and offenses they would resort to. Their fights are as predictable as their personalities. I’ll admit, though, that I was partially surprised that my mother was the one to give me—and Henry—up to Connor. Somewhere in it all, I had assumed that Connor would find out on his own. I did not expect that Ma would be the one to ruin things. But this seems to be a pattern, knowing what I know now.  

Anyway, after I retreated to my room and as I laid there, moping about what I would no longer have, I came to a realization. Henry still very much had to go to school, right? Connor wouldn’t take his sons valuable education away, would he? So, I held on to this thought until today, three days later, but I haven’t seen Henry once, not even a glimpse of his presence.  

From this, I can only conclude that the only possible solution is that I should seek him out. If Connor won’t let him come to me, I will go to him. I will find him, wherever he may be. But not today. Maybe tomorrow. I promised Pa that I’d help him cook dinner today; Ma is held up at the hospital.  

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:- 

I prod with a stick at the dirt in front of me as I walk, creating little indentions on the surface of the soil. They look almost like tiny footsteps trailing behind me or maybe like Hansel-and-Gretel-esque breadcrumbs. If I followed them back, I would be back at my house. Yes, apparently this is what I do with my time now that I don’t have Henry: I wander through the woods, hopelessly searching for him, while reenacting childhood fairytales.  

You know, I did look for him; I really did, but I couldn’t find him. The truth is that I’d never been to his house before, so I was relying primarily on bumping into him somewhere. I visited all the places that we went to most often, and I looked into all of the places I had heard him mention before. I never did find him, never even found a strand of that shocking red hair. As far as I could tell, he completely disappeared, so I stopped looking. Because I’m just a kid. Because I have absolutely no means of finding him except by chance. So what was the point? 

But by God, marvelous chance never misses.  

I look up and have to do a double-take because, there, standing in the shallow distributary of the Mississippi, is an unnaturally tall boy with unmissable fiery red hair, deep brown eyes, and glistening pale skin. It’s a sight that brings a rush of adrenaline into my bloodstream and has me immediately rushing over to meet him, stick forgotten behind. 

“Henry!” I call out for his attention, and he abruptly stands up straight and turns to me, almost in disbelief. Then he twists around, scanning the woods around him before whirling back around to me.  

“James, what are you doing here? You need to leave, now,” he whispers … loudly? If that’s possible. 

I don’t bother taking off my shoes before running into the water to grab onto Henry’s waist. He returns the touch by placing his hands on my face. The look in his eyes is unmistakably fear, but I can’t understand why; we’re alone. 

“Why weren’t you at school?” I ask desperately, concerned. 

“Because, James, I—” 

“I missed you.” 

Henry rolls his eyes impatiently. “I know; I know. I missed you too. Now, James, listen to—” 

“Kiss me,” I interrupt him again. Because I just need it. I don’t think I could live another moment without it. 

Henry gives an exasperated huff and kisses me quickly. I try to keep him close to me, but he’s stronger and pulls away despite my whine. 

“Now, leave,” he demands in a low voice, and it scares me. “You have to go. Now.” 

I don’t say anything and don’t make any move to go. I just stare at him—at the terror etched into his expression. 

“Please,” he adds softly. 

“Why?” 

Then I hear it.  

“HENRY,” a deep voice booms through the dense forest, sending a bolt of cold lightning through my nerves.  

That’s why, I can practically hear Henry silently whimper when he looks at me. 

The pain in his eyes breaks apart every piece of my heart. He’s so delicate. So breakable. And here he is crumbling in front of me.  

All he can manage is one thing, and, even then, his voice cracks miserably.  

“Go.” 

“No,” I cry. “I don’t want to.” 

“Go!” he yells, pushing me away, but I shake my head and hold on firmly to his forearms.  

Over Henry’s shoulder, I see Connor, furious and violent, looking right at us. Henry doesn’t have to look; he already knows. And I suddenly understand everything. Because Henry never grew up like me.  

Henry was never sheltered. He never had love to protect him from wrath. He never had the other, more emotional parent to run to and be comforted by. He could only depend on himself and his father’s steady hand of judgment. It’s all he’s ever known, and he’s come to expect it. The question is no longer of ‘if’ but a statement of ‘when’. 

That's why I don’t try to fight him when he grabs the sides of my face, looks down on me with those glassy eyes, and tells me ever so gently, “James, listen to me. You have to leave. And never come back. Forget me. I’m not worth it.” 

“I love you,” I whisper. 

A single tear rushes down his cheek, and he begs, “I love you too, and that’s why you need to go. Run. Please run. I love you so much, so please run.” 

I let my arms drop from around his body and heed his warnings, but I back away slowly as if he might change his mind, even though I know he won’t.  

I tell him one last time, “I love you.” 

And he replies, “Run, James.” 

So, I do. As fast as I can. Away from what I know will happen. Because I don’t want to hear it. But it’s to no avail in the end.   

The sound of an unforgivable palm hitting bare skin echoes between trees and so does Henry’s scream. His pain drives stakes through my heart, but I don’t listen. Because if I listen, I might turn around; I might do something stupid and make things worse.  

I understand now. I have to leave because I’m the reason he’s in pain. I’m the reason for his father’s punishment. I brought this upon Henry, and for it, I’ll never forgive myself. I’m what’s wrong with his life. 

I’m what’s wrong with everyone’s lives.