Little Things

He slammed the door and threw his weight against it, the wood rattling in the frame. His lungs burned as he dragged in air, each breath thick and uneven, like drowning on dry land. One hand clenched a heavy, silver-gilt candlestick so hard his fingers ached; the other clutched the key he’d found under the doormat. The left side of his face was slick with red, blood trickling in slow, lazy drops to the floor.

He wiped his sleeve across his forehead, smearing sweat and grime, and tried to slow his breathing.

What the hell did you just do? a voice whispered inside him.

“Okay,” he muttered to the empty room. “Okay… breathe, Sam. Just breathe.”

Sirens wailed somewhere outside—too far to place, close enough to matter. His heartbeat roared in his ears, pounding so hard his vision shook, swallowing every other sound, every other thought.

Calm down. Take a minute.

He pressed his forehead against the door and drew in a large breath. Slowly, he let the air leak out, then turned—and flinched.

The boy sat in the recliner, watching him.

Small. Six or seven, maybe. Bare feet dangling just above the carpet. His hands rested neatly on the arms of the chair, fingers still, composed, as if he’d been waiting there for a long time.

Too calm. Too patient.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just studied Sam with open, unguarded curiosity.

The sight of him hit harder than the gunshot had.

“Oh—hey,” Sam said quickly, lifting his bloody hand before realizing how he must look. He lowered it. “Sorry. Sorry, kid. Listen, I’m not gonna hurt you. I just… I need a place to catch my breath, that’s all. Then I’ll leave. Cool?”

He shaped each word carefully, the way he’d learned to do in courtrooms and parole offices. Say the right thing. Sound reasonable.

His eyes flicked around the room: family photos on the wall, toys stacked neatly in a corner, a half-finished coloring book on the coffee table.

A real house.

A real kid.

Jesus, Sam.

The boy tilted his head, then lifted one hand and gestured toward the couch across from him.

“Yeah?” Sam let out a shaky breath. “Thanks, kid.”

He dragged himself over and collapsed onto the cushions. The couch sighed beneath his weight. For a moment, he just sat there, letting gravity hold him, letting the candlestick hang useless in his hand.

“Your parents around?”

The boy hesitated, as if considering the question seriously, then shook his head.

Sam swallowed. “Latchkey kid, huh? Didn’t think there were many of those left these days.”

The boy stared at him.

The words spilled out anyway. Silence had always made Sam nervous.

“When I was your age—hell, younger—most kids I knew stayed home alone while their parents worked. Made sandwiches. Watched cartoons. Tried not to burn the house down. Now you leave a kid alone for an hour and you’ve got cops banging on your door.”

The mention of cops made Sam lean forward, peering through the narrow gap in the curtains. Nothing. He leaned back again.

The boy lifted his hand and pointed at Sam’s head.

Sam huffed softly. “Yeah. I know.”

He pressed his sleeve to the wound, wincing as fresh pain flared. “Bullet kissed me and kept going. Lucky. That’s what they call it.”

Lucky. The word tasted wrong.

The boy tilted his head again and gestured toward a throw blanket draped over the couch.

“Right,” Sam nodded. “Stop the bleeding.”

He yanked it free and pressed it hard against his scalp. The fabric darkened instantly, warm and heavy in his hands.

“I must look pretty bad, huh? You don’t seem scared, though. Tough kid.” A weak smile. “You’re a good listener, too. Not much of a talker. That’s fine. Talking’s mostly just noise anyway.”

He peeled the cloth back slightly and grimaced at how soaked it already was. The adrenaline was draining now, leaving him lightheaded.

“It wasn’t supposed to go down like that,” he said quietly.

Saying it out loud made it sound like a lie.

“I didn’t wake up this morning planning to hurt anyone. I didn’t wake up planning… any of it.”

He stared at the ceiling, tracing a crack that ran from one corner to the light fixture.

“Things pile up,” he said. “Stupid choices. Bad luck. Fear. Pain. All of it stacking until there’s too much and the whole thing collapses.”

His voice wavered.

“A house of cards. Pull the wrong one and suddenly you’re standing in the wreckage, wondering how it ever got so tall.”

A weak laugh escaped him. “I met her at church.”

The word felt absurd now.

“I’d just finished a four-year stretch. Thought maybe I needed God. People kept saying He forgives. Redeems. I figured maybe if I stood in the right building, said the right words, He’d see something worth fixing.”

He shook his head. “Never really believed in Him. How could I, when all He deals are losing hands?”

He stopped. Glanced at the boy.

“My daddy wasn’t a good man. Wasn’t kind to my mom or my sister. Hated me most of all.”

A pause.

“When I was little, I took his screwdriver and poked it into an anthill. Just wanted to see how it worked. He caught me.”

Sam lowered his voice and jabbed the air with his finger. “‘You think you can touch my stuff?’ Right in my face.”

His hand drifted to his chest. “Then he stabbed me. Right here. One millimeter the wrong way and he’d’ve hit my heart. I was five.”

He swallowed. “That’s the thing about beatings. Each one gets easier. Each punishment gets worse. I lived like that eleven more years.”

The room felt colder afterward.

“I’m not saying that excuses anything,” Sam said quickly, as if arguing with someone unseen. “Just—sometimes the things you learn stick when they shouldn’t.”

He looked at the boy. “Sorry.”

His head tipped back. The room felt distant now, like it was slowly drifting away.

“She was beautiful,” he said softly. “The second I saw her, something clicked. All those empty places inside me—it felt like they finally filled up.”

His voice grew reverent. Dangerous.

“I thought if I learned her well enough, I could become what she needed. So I watched her for months. I knew her habits. Her coffee order. The way she tapped her foot when she was nervous.”

A breath.

“I broke into her apartment once. Read her diary. Felt bad about it—but it was necessary. It was love.”

The blanket slid from his fingers and fell to the floor.

“I was perfect,” he whispered. “Perfect.”

His eyelids drooped.

“I’m not a bad guy,” he said. “I help my neighbor with groceries. Babysit my sister’s kids. We build forts. I do the voices when I read to them.”

His voice cracked. “They love me.”

A beat.

“Bad guys don’t do that. Right?”

“I’m not a bad guy,” he said again, quieter. “Didn’t matter, though. After service she went up to the pulpit. I waited. Fixed my hair. Brought flowers.”

A breathy laugh. “She thought I was selling them. Said she didn’t have cash. I told her they were from me. Tulips—her favorite.”

His smile collapsed.

“I mentioned her granny’s story. Pixies dancing in the garden. I read it.”

He stared at the boy.

“She looked at me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe. Started backing away. I said it was okay. Held out the flowers.”

His jaw tightened.

“She slapped them out of my hand and then… I don’t know. Just red. Red. Red.”

Candlestick. Screams. Sirens. Running.

“I thought I was different,” he whispered. “I wanted to be.”

The boy kept watching. Waiting.

A car alarm chirped outside. The sirens were gone.

“I should go,” Sam said, pushing himself upright. “Your parents wouldn’t like finding me bleeding on the couch.” A pause. “You’re a good kid. Thanks for the hospitality.”

The boy tilted his head and pointed at him.

“What?” Sam pressed his hand to his scalp.

No blood. No pain.

His clothes were clean.

“What the—”

The boy slid from the recliner and stood before him, one small hand outstretched. Calm. Certain.

“Oh,” Sam breathed, understanding settling like a final weight.

He took the boy’s hand. It was warm. Solid.

“So,” Sam whispered, trembling, “do the little things count in the end? Do they make up for the bad?”

The boy—wide black eyes framed by long lashes—did not answer.

And Sam went with him anyway, unsure which way he was being led.