Page 96 of The Sound of Him

He curls right into me, settling heavy and close in my lap, hand clenching even tighter on my shirt. I tuck his head under my chin and gently rub his back as he quietly cries - the only indication of him doing so being the dampening of my cotton shirt.

“Messy?” I ask, gently running one hand over his hair that smells like the coconut oil I had put in his bag when he first arrived. “Is your head messy?”

He nods rapidly, the tiniest of sounds coming from his throat.

“Okay. That’s okay.” I turn the chair just enough to be able to reach my free hand out to my computer mouse. “You know, I have a very specific type of music I listen to when my head gets too messy. The kind of music a lot of people say can cure a soul, even if just for a little while. You wanna hear some?”

He nods again.

“Yeah? Good. That’s good. I think that’s just what we need.” I go to a playlist I’ve been ignoring since the survivors arrived here. A playlist I think I’ve been too afraid to open.Because what if even these songs couldn’t fix things? What if even this list couldn’t dig me out of the darkness that’s been creeping up on me?

But I have faith. I have enough faith, at the very least, to know it’ll work for Matt. This kind of music would never dare fail Matt. “Let me introduce you to a little thing called the blues.”

I sit back, curling my arm around him again. He goes boneless there as a tinny opening rift begins to fill the air around us. I close my eyes and let myself breathe. Let myself just hold him. Let the blues work their magic.

Chapter Seventeen

Matt

I’m home. I’m at the compound. I’m in a safehouse. I’m in a detention center.

There is a house in New Orleans,

I’m in mamá’s garden. I’m in hell.

You call the Rising Sun

I’m in a cramped office. The immigration agent has on a clunky vest. It digs into my back as he fucks into me.

It hurts. It hurts. Everything hurts.

It’s been the ruin of many a poor soul,

This is America.

I was born here.

But this is not where I belong.

And me, oh God, I’m one,

They say my name is Matt.

I got the blues so bad,

They say I don’t have a name at all.

Until it hurts my tongue to talk.

I am a slave.

I am 11.

I woke up this morning,

I’m Matt, I’m a slave, I’m 11.

I’m not anything.