The boots were thunder in the hall. He had known it would be one of those nights when he saw the bottle. The boy was small. He was both short and thin and that was his advantage. He climbed the door frame and set himself on the closet shelf, behind a pair of boxes. When the boy slept inside he often slept up there in the dark and confined space. There was a safety in the dark. There was comfort in it.

He pulled the door to a point of near closure and curled up as best he could. He could still see into the room, but was certain no-one would see him upon first glance. He was tired, but he would not be sleeping tonight. His room was clean, no toy or book was out of place. He would not allow anything to be out of place. He hadn’t been assigned chores yet, due to his age but he was responsible for the room and he would not willingly give the man an excuse.

It had been two years since he had pulled the glass from his chest, two years since he had given up being a child, given up false hope of rescue. The large stuffed dog lay in the center of his bed, an avatar to fool the man should he look in. It wasn’t perfect. The blanket over the head looked awkward and he hadn’t come up with a way to mimic breath yet. A close inspection and the deceit would be seen through, but from five paces at the bedroom door, from a lit room into a darkened one it might pass muster. He had tested it. He had stared for hours, trying to see if it would work, but since he knew he could only see the flaws. Even if the first barrier failed, he was near invisible on the closet shelf. He hoped he could not be seen.

He waited and listened. The cedar’s smell invaded his mind. The footsteps echoed through the house and he shivered a little as the man reached the top of the stairs. He held his breath and counted as he waited for the man to decide which way to turn. The man turned right. The footsteps grew more distant. He heard the door slam open into the wall. He heard the screaming. It was her turn. The woman had never learned. She always let him have his excuse. The boy didn’t know if the man would still give the beatings if there was no excuse, but you were less likely to inflict his wrath if you didn’t let him have one. The scream was ear piercing. The police would likely be called again. It didn’t change anything. It never changed anything. They would show up, pretend to care, once in a while the man would spend the night in jail and all would be the same the next day. It was her turn. If he were normal the boy would have felt bad for her, instead he only felt relief. He was relieved that tonight it wasn’t him. Tonight, he was safe. Years later, he would feel guilty for that. Years later he would hate her for feeling the same way he did right then.

He crawled from his nest, shimmying down the closet door and over to the window. He moved over to the window. He would not sleep tonight. Tomorrow maybe, in the safety of a bus or the train in town would grant him sleep. He was safe, but the damage was done. The night called him. He opened the window and felt the cool air rush in. Outside his window was a plum tree. It was the only one on the lane. In the spring the children loved to steal its blossoms and later the fruit. It was his escape.

He leaped from the window to the highest branch. He moved downwards. It had been almost a year since he realized he didn’t have to stay in the house and he practiced the routine almost every night. He climbed down. The night awaited him, the cool air kissed his skin. The streetlights interrupted his valuable dim. He was safe out here. He was safe in the night loving embrace. Above him the moon shown an ever-present crescent; an earring for the sky. It loved him, even if nothing else did. He moved down the path between the rows of houses. The city was alive even now, though the streets were near empty. Tonight, he was safe, tonight he was free.