The Lost Boy

their parents. I stared into every one of their faces. Some eyes were hollow, some full of worry, others full of confusion. I had no idea there were other unwanted children, too; for years I had felt I was all alone. At first I acted shy, but after a few questions from the other children, I opened up. “What are you in for?” they asked. “What happened to you?”
    I bent my head down before replying that my mother didn’t like me because I was always in trouble. I felt ashamed. I didn’t want to tell them the secret about Mother and me. But none of that mattered to any of them, for I was just another face in the crowd. I was instantly accepted. I felt a surge of energy erupt from inside. From that moment on I became a wild child. I blitzed through the home as if my pants were on fire. I joked, laughed and screamed with joy, releasing years of solitude and silence.
    I was uncontrollable. I ran from room to room, jumping on every mattress in the home. I bounced so high my head banged again and again against the ceiling. I didn’t stop until I saw stars. I didn’t care. The other children clapped their hands, egging me on. Their laughs were not cold, like the snide remarks reserved for me back at school, but were full of delight and approval.
    My frolicking ended suddenly when I ran through the living room, nearly knocking over a lamp. By reflex, Aunt Mary grabbed my arm. She was about to scold me until she looked down at me. I covered my face, and my knees began to shake. Aunt Mary was a strict, elderly woman who stood her ground, but she didn’t yell as she was known to do. For that evening my hyperactivity ended as quickly as air could escape a balloon. Aunt Mary released her grip and knelt down, asking, “What did she do to you?”
    “I’m sorry, ” I stuttered in a low voice. I was still unsure of Aunt Mary’s intentions. I retreated into my protective position. “I was a bad boy, and I deserved what I got!”
    Later that evening Aunt Mary tucked me into bed. I began to cry, explaining to her that I was afraid Mother would come and take me away. She assured me I was safe and stayed with me until I felt secure. I stared up at the dark cedar ceiling. It reminded me of the old cabin in Guerneville. I fell asleep knowing that Mother was out there, somewhere, waiting to get me.
    Alone in my dreams I found myself standing at the end of a long, dark hallway. A shadowy figure emerged at the opposite end. The figure transformed into
The Mother.
She began to march toward me. For some reason, I stood still. I couldn’t move; I didn’t even try. The closer The Mother came, the more her red face, filled with hatred, came into focus. The Mother held a shiny knife above her, poised and ready to strike me down. I turned and ran down the endless hallway. With all my strength I pumped my legs as fast as I could, searching for a light. I ran forever. The hallway twisted and turned as I hunted for an escape. I could feel The Mother’s rancid breath on my neck and hear her cold voice chanting that there was no escape and that she would never let me go.
    I snapped put of my dream. My face and chest were covered with a cold, sticky sweat. Not knowing if I was still dreaming, I covered my face. After my breathing began to slow down, I frantically looked all around. I was still in the cedar room. I still had on a pair of pajamas that Aunt Mary had loaned me. I patted myself, feeling for any wounds.
A dream,
I told myself.
A bad dream, that’s all.
I tried to control my breathing but couldn’t shake the vision. The Mother’s words echoed in my mind:
“I will never let you go. Never!”
    I jumped out of bed and scrambled around in the darkness to throw on my clothes. I returned to the head of the bed and held my knees close to my chest. I couldn’t go back to sleep. That’s where The Mother now lived – in my dreams. I felt it was a mistake that I was taken away, and I knew I would soon be returned to her. That night, and those to follow, while everyone slept, I held on to my knees as I rocked backed and forth, humming to myself. I would stare through the window and listen to the trees sway in the evening breeze. I told myself that I would never fall into the nightmare again.
    My first encounter with the county’s Child Protective Service agency came in the form of an angel named Ms Gold. Her long, shiny blond hair and bright face matched her name. “Hi, ” she smiled. “I’m your social worker.” And so began