5. Chapter 5
Asher
I’m in my old boy’s room, and Ethan and I are playing with Legos, laughing, teasing, wrestling each other over our favorite piece.
The scene shifts to us in the kitchen, where Mom asks Ethan about his grades, then turns to me and asks what I want for my birthday.
The scene shifts again. Ethan stands in the hallway, a gym bag slung over his shoulder.
“You don’t have to go,” I plead. “You can go to Springvale, like me. Mom and Dad won’t mind.”
His lip curls, his expression cold and distant. “They won’t mind? I know you’re stupid, Ash, but you can’t be that stupid.”
“What?” My mouth falls open. He’s never talked to me like that before. Granted, he hasn’t spoken more than a dozen words to me during the last couple of years. Somewhere along the line, something happened between us. I don’t know what.
“Don’t you get it?” Ethan says. “Mom and Dad knew you were hopeless from the start, so they bet their whole world on me instead. I was always the smart one. The ambitious one.” He takes a step closer and speaks low into my ear.
“They didn’t even want you, you know that?
Ever wondered why we’re only ten months apart?
Breastfeeding as birth control wasn’t that effective, was it?
You were just an accident—a shadow of the son they truly wanted. ”
He opens the door. I put my hand over my eyes, shielding myself from the blinding light and my shame. He turns around, casting one last glance at me.
Then he was gone, and I was alone, and my big brother didn’t love me anymore?…
Fuck, I’m so stupid. So worthless. Just a shadow?…?hopeless from the start?…
I wake up crying, and I’m not in the hallway of my parents’ home anymore; I’m on a small bed in a dank and creepy basement. Noah’s basement.
“Fuck.” I lift a hand to my forehead, feeling fucking awful—groggy and wired up at the same time. Feverish. As my hand moves, something clinks by my side, and a cold band of steel shifts on my wrist.
Oh, right?…?He’s got me trapped. He’s got my phone, access to my contacts?…?Complete dominion over my life. My nostrils flare along with my racing heart, but I feel too groggy for true panic.
Footsteps drift from upstairs. Noah is probably giddy out of his mind right now, succeeding in keeping me his prisoner like this. Dead Eye?…?I remember my brother telling me about him. How terrified they were of that weird kid in school.
Supposedly, one day in fifth grade, that weird kid lured them into the woods, and something happened there?…
Something that left them all traumatized.
They never spoke to him again—so fearful were they of his revenge.
What exactly did he do to them? Considering the situation I’m in, I’m not so sure I want to find out.
The footsteps are drawing closer. Down the stairs now, creaking, until my captor appears in the doorway, with the same vacant expression and awkward, stilted movements.
“Have you been crying, Goldilocks?”
I scoff, wiping my face to get rid of my tears. “Don’t call me that.”
“Then what do you want me to call you?”
“I don’t want you to call me anything. I want you to let me go.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“It hurts,” I sniffle. I can’t stop crying. Tears pour down my cheeks, pushing up my throat. “I feel sick.”
“I know,” Noah says softly. “You have to get through it. You’ll feel better when it’s over.”
“What day is it?” I sob.
“Monday.”
Fuck, I slept through the whole weekend.
I had no idea it’s been that long. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep any more, though, despite my exhaustion.
I feel restless and antsy, unable to focus on one thought before the next one comes knocking, and I’m unable to stop fucking crying, unable to stop hurting.
My muscles tense up, and my heart pounds erratically. It hurts. It fucking hurts.
“Noah, please,” I beg. “Let me go.”
Noah says nothing. He just rounds the bed and fetches my bucket before he goes into a room by the stairs. A bathroom, I guess it must be; I can hear a toilet flushing as he gets rid of the contents of the bucket.
When he returns, I motion desperately for the bucket, and as soon as he gives it to me, I throw myself into it, hulking up the contents of my stomach, crying all the while, pathetic noises tearing from my throat.
Worst of all, Noah watches me while I do it.
Sitting in that damn chair, out of my reach.
I ought to kill him for this. One day, I might get the chance, and if I do, I’ll take it without hesitation.
Wow, I’m fucking losing it. If Noah doesn’t let me go soon, I’ll have lost everything—control over my mind and my bodily functions, and even my will to live.
“Fuck you,” I sob into the bucket. “Fuck you.”
“That’s it. Get it all out, Goldilocks. You’ll feel better.”
“Shut up. I hate you.” I want to hurt him, and with the inability to do so physically, I’m forced to settle for words. It seems to have the desired effect; when I glance up, Noah is fidgeting with his hands, looking down at his lap.
Yeah, he likes me, all right.
Not in the exact same way Kayla liked me, but it’s similar. He’s awkward as hell, and that emotionless face of his is hard to read, but anytime I voice any dislike of him, he gets all sad and twitchy and uncomfortable.
Finally, I have something to hold over him, something that will level this twisted playing field between us. Hurting his feelings might make me forget my own pain. So deep runs my desperation that I’d go to those lengths to feel better, like some insecure bully.
It’s my druggie brain talking, I know. If I could only get some relief, I wouldn’t be like this.
I didn’t use to be like this.
I don’t want to be like this, but I can’t help it.
“Do you think I’ll ever not hate you?” I ask, wiping my chin. The smell alone makes me dry-heave.
“I don’t know,” Noah mumbles.
“Do you think this will work—keeping me prisoner like this? For how long?”
“For as long as it takes.”
“For what? For me to stop craving drugs? That’s never going to happen. For me to start liking you, is that what you want? Do you think I’ll be grateful for this?”
“You don’t have to be grateful,” Noah says with a small shrug. “I just want to—”
“Help me?” I yell. “With this?” I rattle my makeshift handcuff, pulling at it, and the edges of the chain dig painfully into my wrist. It’s a sharper pain, a clearer pain, than the pain inside me, so I keep doing it—pulling at the chain, even as it scrapes my skin until redness blooms underneath.
“Stop that,” Noah says.
“Why?” I sob.
“There’s no need for more pain.”
“No? Then let me go! I won’t be in pain if you let me go.”
“If I let you go, you’ll just get high again.”
“I won’t! I’ll get clean, I promise. Just let me go!”
Noah shakes his head with a small smile. “I don’t believe you.”
Yeah, I don’t believe me either.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks. “Something that will make it easier?”
“Yeah. Get me a cigarette.”
I didn’t even know the words would come out before they did, but I guess my nicotine addiction is rearing its ugly head alongside all the rest.
“A cigarette?” Noah asks, blinking. “Okay.”
“Really?” I set the bucket down, veins buzzing with the thought of getting at least one of my cravings fulfilled.
Noah stands and disappears up the stairs. “I’ll be back.”
Yeah, he’ll be back. And I’ll be here, waiting for him to fulfill my every need, like a helpless animal, alone with my stupid nightmares and my worthless, beating heart.