7. Chapter 7
Asher
Maybe I shouldn’t be so mean to my kidnapper. He might get sick of me one day and slit my throat, but then again, considering the way my life has been going lately, maybe I wouldn’t mind.
I’m stuck in the basement of some loner weirdo, I shit and piss in a bucket, and worst of all, I have no drugs.
Said loner weirdo doesn’t seem like the usual serial killers and rapists, though, like the ones in the true crime documentaries Lilith forced me to watch. Noah just seems lonely. Maybe he keeps me here because he wants a friend or something.
Ugh, just my luck to end up as some loner’s emotional support teddy bear.
Maybe it would be better if he just killed me.
As long as it’s painless; I fucking hate pain.
Drugs take my pain away, so go figure. Freedom, on the other hand?…
Freedom just means returning to the outside world—the world that made me turn to drugs in the first place.
If I could just have my drugs, I wouldn’t care all that much about being locked up?…
I look up at the ceiling with a sigh. How fucking sad. How pathetic.
Smoking that cigarette was a mistake. It only made me feel even more nauseous than before. I toss and turn, unable to find rest. When I’m not puking, I’m crying, and when I’m not crying, I’m shivering, curling up into a miserable ball on the bed.
What did I do to deserve this? Why did I do this to myself in the first place?
So fucking stupid. I thought I could control it.
I thought I was just having some fun. That I was numbing my pain.
It used to be just once in a while, but during the past few weeks, I’ve had to shoot up in the morning just to go to class.
It snuck up on me, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Sorry to who, I don’t know.
Sorry to myself.
Sorry for doing this to my body.
But those thoughts pass quickly, interchanged with the cravings for relief, the substance that will make me feel better again. I don’t even need to leave this basement. I don’t even need to be free. I just need it, more than anything.
The sheets are soaked in my cold sweat. The little light coming from the window is hurting my eyes, and I try to sleep, but I can’t. I can only cry and barf and shiver and wonder if I’ll ever feel better or if I’ve ruined my body for good.
Will I ever get out of here, or will I be stuck in this basement in eternal purgatory?
Will I die down here, after chasing away the only person who can save me, the only person who can bring me any kind of relief?
If only in the form of a glass of water.
If only in the form of company while I’m going through this hell, even though I hate him. I hate him?…
I see his face before my eyes, and I imagine him upstairs, doing whatever it is he’s doing. I wish he would come down here; I wish he would tend to me. But I chased him away. Why did I do that?
I wipe my tears on the pillow, tasting bile in the back of my throat. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this bad. I don’t think I’ve ever been this desperate. And I don’t think I’ve longed for something this badly.
I lose track of time. When every minute is agony, it feels like an eternity has passed, and I fear Noah has forgotten all about me. That I pissed him off too much, that he’s given up on me for good. The thought makes me cry harder, until at last, I fall asleep from sheer exhaustion.
My eyes slide open, my lids crusty from the salt of dried tears. Noah is here. Emptying my buckets. Watching me.
“How are you doing?” His voice echoes in the darkness.
It’s nighttime. I don’t know how long I slept.
“Bad,” I mumble. My muscles twitch painfully whenever I move. It’s like the worst flu I’ve ever had, because it’s also laced with inescapable cravings, along with a rampant anxiety, making me irritable and murderous.
Noah watches me a moment before he leaves and comes back with a basin of water and a towel.
My words come out slurred. “What are you doing?”
“Taking care of you.” He kneels in front of the bed. Then he wets the towel in the basin and starts wiping my face clean of sweat.
I let out a low noise of protest, but I’m too weak to move, let alone escape him. The towel is lukewarm and soft, and his movements are gentle.
“I’m sorry you’re feeling this way,” he mumbles.
I have to force the words out. They need to be said. “But not sorry enough to let me go? Not sorry enough to?…?to at least give me what I need.”
“The drugs are not what you need.” His movements are steady and strong as he slides a hand gently to the back of my head and lifts my hair to wipe the towel across my neck.
“You don’t know that,” I whisper. “You don’t know me.”
“So let me.”
I close my eyes, letting him take care of me like a child. It feels good; I can’t deny that. Maybe?…?Maybe I was too harsh to him before. About the books. Maybe I should apologize.
“Noah.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m—” My mouth tightens, and I can’t say the word. Instead, I shift my gaze sideways with a scowl. “Never mind.”
He doesn’t deserve to hear me say sorry. He’s the reason I’m in this situation in the first place. Well, if I didn’t get myself addicted to heroin, I suppose I wouldn’t be here, so I suppose it is my own fault after all?…
I crawl into an even tighter ball, seeking relief but finding none.
Why can’t he just give me what I need to make this stop? He could keep me here for as long as he wishes, if he only gave it to me?…?If he only made me feel better?…
He claims he wants to help me or save me or whatever, but why can’t he understand that I can’t be saved?
All I’ve done in this life is distract myself from the fact that I’ll never amount to anything.
I act like I don’t give a fuck, with a stupid smile on my face. High out of mind, high out of sight.
Hasn’t Noah ever depended on anything? It doesn’t even have to be a substance—it can be another person, a pet, or even a place.
It just so happens that I’m the type of fucked up where I have to twist my brain chemistry to feel human, and now I’m starting to lose my grip on everything, or rather, gain a grip on everything.
Sobriety means my bad thoughts are returning.
Sobriety means the depression lurking in the recesses of my mind is surging back to the surface.
I’m a better person when I’m high, for fuck’s sake. Happier. More fun. People like me when I’m high. The sober me is a cowering creature who belongs in the dark.
“Fuck you,” I whisper, tears running down my cheeks.
It’s all his fault, forcing me to go cold turkey like this in some twisted, involuntary rehab. As if his actions and attitude weren’t enough to piss me off, he’s stupidly beautiful, with that long black hair, angular face, and eyes so dark you’ll get lost and never find your way back.
Why is he being so gentle with me? Why is he looking at me like that, with that soft look in those pitch-black eyes?
He discards the towel and reaches out again, this time to cup my cheek.
I flinch. “Stop.”
He pulls back immediately, and somehow, that only makes me angrier.
“Please just go.” I turn around, trying to shield myself from that attentive, soft look in his eyes. I have to push him away, because if I don’t, I might have to admit to myself that I need him, and that’s a battle I’m not yet ready to surrender.
I don’t know how many days have passed.
Days of sleeplessness, of being sick, and of an ache deep in my bones. The shift is gradual, but today, I’ve been feeling a little better. Less nauseous, less shivery. Less achy. Layers of cold sweat have dried on my skin, and the need for a shower feels more pressing than any other.
Noah arrives what feels like only seconds after my call, as if he was on standby upstairs.
“Yes, Goldilocks?” he asks, and he lifts a hand to push his long hair out of his face. I wonder what it would feel like to slide my fingers through those silky black strands. I’ve never seen a guy with hair that long. Looks kind of cool.
Shaking my head and pushing the thoughts away, I focus on the task at hand. “I stink. I need a shower or something.”
“A shower.” He studies me for a while, and for once, I can guess what he’s thinking: How is he going to manage this without the risk of me trying to escape?
He turns on his heel, leaving me alone again, and when he returns, he’s holding something in his hand.
A knife.
What did he say about those chickens again? We had twelve?…?I slaughtered the last one?…
I crawl further up the bed, plastering my back to the wall. “Wh-What are you doing with that thing?”
“This?” Noah lifts the knife with a shrug. “This is just to keep you from getting ideas.”
I exhale in relief. Okay, so he’s not going to slit my throat with it. At least, not yet.
“Don’t you have a gun or something?” A knife seems so?…?intimate. I imagine that sharp blade sinking into my stomach, and I shudder at the thought. I can almost feel the pain—biting, all-consuming?…?Noah’s dispassionate black eyes staring down at me as I bleed out on the floor?…
A gun is more immediate. Bang , you’re dead. He wouldn’t have to be close to me. He wouldn’t have to touch me.
“Would you rather I use my hunting rifle?” he asks, oblivious to my discomfort.
I grimace. “Never mind.”
“Come, then. Let me uncuff you.”
With no small amount of hesitation, I crawl to the end of the bed and hold out my arm.
Noah slides the knife into his belt to instead fish a small key out of his pocket, which he twists into the twin padlocks that are undermining my freedom.
The locks click open, and for the first time in days, I’m rid of that solid weight around my wrist. Sighing, I stroke the raw skin underneath.
“Come.” Noah gestures to the bathroom where he usually empties my buckets.
“We’re not going upstairs?” I ask warily. I’d rather get a chance to orient myself around the house, even if I won’t dare to attempt anything in the presence of that knife.