As I turned to walk away from Mrs. Carter's porch, my mind drifted to the night she brought me into her home. It was the first time I felt warmth after the cold, endless fear I had been drowning in—but it was also the first time I realized just how broken I had become.
"You're safe now, Han," Mrs. Carter had said, leading me into her modest house. The walls were lined with faded photos of her family—smiling faces of children, grandchildren, and a husband long gone—he looked in his early 60's. "Ain't much, but it's home. You hungry?"
I shook my head, though my stomach growled in betrayal.
"Come on now, don't be shy." She gestured toward the kitchen. "A growing boy like you needs food. Sit."
I sat, stiff and silent, watching as she bustled about, pulling ingredients from her pantry. She talked as she worked, her voice soothing and rhythmic, like the hum of a lullaby.
"I got a roast left over from Sunday dinner. Some mashed potatoes, greens, and cornbread. That sound good to you?"
My hands trembled in my lap. "I—I'm fine. Really."
"You don't look fine." She gave me a knowing look. "How 'bout you tell me where you came from, hmm? Why were you out there all alone?"
I opened my mouth to answer but froze. The words clawed at my throat, desperate to escape, but they wouldn't come out. The memories flooded in instead—flashes of blood, glowing eyes, the wet sound of flesh tearing. My chest tightened, and I couldn't breathe.
"Han?" Mrs. Carter's tone shifted to concern. "Baby, you alright? Breathe, child."
I shook my head violently, gasping for air.
"Alright, alright, come here." She knelt beside me, her hands firm but gentle on my shoulders. "Breathe with me now, in through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it. Slow, slow. You're safe."
It took minutes, but eventually, my breath evened out. She didn't ask any more questions after that.
Dinner was… an experience.
Mrs. Carter placed a plate in front of me, heaped with food that should've made my mouth water. Instead, all I could see was the roast. The browned, glistening meat glared up at me like it was alive, and I froze.
"Eat up," she said cheerfully, cutting into her own portion.
I poked at the food with my fork, hesitant. "What… what kind of meat is this?"
"It's beef. Don't worry, baby, it's not gonna bite you."
My fork clattered against the plate. "How do you know?"
Mrs. Carter raised an eyebrow. "What you mean, how do I know? It's a roast, Han."
"Are you sure it's not… someone?"
The laugh that burst out of her was so loud it made me jump. "Someone? Boy, who you think I am, Hannibal Lecter?"
I stared at her, unblinking. She sobered quickly.
"Oh, Lord. You're serious." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "Alright, I'm gonna say this once: I do not, under any circumstances, eat people. You hear me?"
I nodded, my fork trembling in my hand. "But… how can you be sure?"
"Because I bought it from the grocery store down the street!" she exclaimed, exasperated. "If you don't want the roast, fine, but you better eat those greens. You don't trust vegetables too, or do they look suspicious, too?"
Her words were lighthearted, but the panic in my chest wasn't. The smell, the texture, the very sight of the roast—it all dragged me back to him. To the blood dripping from his mouth, the sound of his teeth tearing into my mother's flesh.
I pushed the plate away and buried my face in my hands.
Mrs. Carter sighed, her tone softening. "Alright, baby. You don't have to eat it. I didn't realize… well, I didn't realize you were carrying all that."
That night, she led me to a small bedroom at the end of the hall. It was cozy, with a quilted bed and a wooden dresser covered in old baseball trophies.
"This used to be my son's room," she said, smoothing the blankets. "It's yours now. You don't have to worry about nothing here, Han. I'll take care of you."
I nodded, clutching the duffel bag she'd given me for my clothes.
"Alright, then. You get some sleep." She hesitated at the door, glancing back. "If you need anything—anything—just knock on my door, alright?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She left, and the room fell into silence. But it didn't feel silent to me. The house creaked and groaned, shadows danced across the walls, and in the quiet, my mind betrayed me.
I could see my father's pale, glowing eyes staring back at me. Smell the metallic tang of blood. Hear the wet, horrible sound of his feasting. My chest tightened again, and I bolted upright.
Grabbing my bag, I crept to the door, moving as quietly as I could. I didn't trust this place—didn't trust her.What if she was like him? What if she was just waiting for me to fall asleep?
I slipped out into the cool night, my heart racing. I didn't have a plan, just a desperate need to get away.
"Han!"
Her voice stopped me in my tracks. I turned to see her standing on the porch, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
I ran.
"Boy, stop!" she called after me. "I ain't chasing you!"
But her footsteps followed, quick and determined. I darted down the street, but she caught up easily—faster than I expected for someone her age.
"Stop!" she shouted again, grabbing my arm.
I thrashed, panic overtaking me. "Let me go!"
"No!" she said firmly, pulling me into a tight hug. "No, I ain't letting you go. You hear me? I'm not gonna let you go, Han."
Her voice softened, trembling. "I know you're scared. I know you've been through. But you ain't alone no more. You don't have to run, baby."
I stopped struggling, her words cutting through the fog of fear. For the first time, I felt the weight of her kindness, her determination.
"I know what I need to do for you," she said, holding me close. "We're gonna figure this out. Together."
And for the first time, I let myself believe her.