9. Chapter 9
Asher
So … that backfired to epic proportions.
I already knew Noah was fully capable of doing some fucked-up shit to me, but I didn’t expect him to charge at me like that with a knife to my throat, eyes black and devoid of emotion, lacking the barest sense of humanity.
Fuck, it scared me. My heart rate is still recovering in the aftermath.
A few minutes later, Noah comes back with a new set of clothes: a long-sleeved black shirt, black boxer briefs, and worn jeans.
If he hadn’t just done what he did, I would have teased him about his all-black, emo wardrobe, but instead, I shut down.
I hold my hand out for him to uncuff me, all in silence, as he helps me get the shirt on. It smells like him. The pants do too.
I don’t want to talk to him, and he seems to get the hint, leaving me alone to stew in my sullen thoughts. Again and again, I relive the moment when he had me at knifepoint.
He called my bluff, whether he intended to or not. It’s not just the pain I’m averse to; it’s dying. It scares me too much. I’m too much of a coward, I guess, so I cling to life, even though I have nothing much to live for. I have the drugs, but Noah stole them from me, so now I have nothing.
I’ve already cried like a baby, but the tears keep coming until I feel like an empty shell.
I scratch at my wrists, wanting to hurt myself, longing for the razor blades I used to scratch my skin with as a young teenager, before I found the drugs.
I lacked the fortitude to become a full-time cutter; I hate pain, remember?
But without anything else, it’s my only option to soothe myself.
I scratch harder, breaking skin. Noah wants me to feel better, to take care of me, but what is he going to say when he finds me here all bloody, huh? I scratch myself for a while longer, but the pain quickly becomes too much.
I lie in a fetal position instead, rolling myself into a miserable ball.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair of him to do this to me.
I don’t deserve this?…?Fuck, I don’t deserve this?…
Tears blurring my eyes, I try to rip the chains off the ceiling, pulling so hard my wrist burns.
I grab the chain with my other hand and pull again, until the wall is creaking.
That damn wall will collapse before I manage to rip the chain off the hanger.
I’m stupidly loud while I do this, but I don’t care. Noah can come and hold a knife to my throat again to get me to stop. I don’t have the brainpower to do anything more calculated right now, anyway. I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams, painfully aware of all I am missing.
My freedom. The drugs. Mostly the drugs.
I’d like something to occupy myself with, other than the boring books Noah brought me. Maybe some video games. Some music. I’d like to be rid of this annoying handcuff, that’s for sure.
But other than that?…?what else is out there for me?
No girlfriend. No friends to speak of, and those I do have, I have only because of our common interest. Yeah, you got it: drugs.
As for my parents, they couldn’t care less about me. They have their perfect first son, their soon-to-be Harvard graduate, and I’m just a string-along that happened to pop out around the time they were teaching my brother to walk.
You were just an accident—a shadow of the son they truly wanted.
My parents Venmo me money each week; they can’t have their son walk around dressed like a homeless thug. Though, in their eyes, I guess I still do, with my oversize sweaters and baggy jeans.
In any case, that is the extent of their love. For me, anyway. My brother, they shower with gifts and praise when he does well, like when he got into Harvard.
I remember that day as if it was yesterday. Ethan sat in the kitchen with Mom by his side, acceptance letter in hand. I happened to step by the doorway when she hugged him, and Ethan gave me a gloating smile before he leaned into her embrace, eyes closed.
Happy. Content. The way I had never felt.
Gritting my teeth, I keep pulling at the chain. It feels good to pour all my anger and frustration into violence. I still feel sick as hell, and I should probably be in bed, but I’ve never been good at doing what I should do.
No doubt alerted by my noisy attempt at escape, Noah comes down the stairs. He’s not in a rush, and his face is as blank as always.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” I snap. “Trying to get free.”
“It won’t—”
“I know it won’t work! Just let me try, okay?”
Noah frowns and takes a step closer.
“Don’t,” I grit out. “Don’t you dare come any closer.”
“Do you think I’m afraid of you, Goldilocks?”
“I don’t know,” I say, and a thought strikes my anxiety-riddled mind. “Afraid I’ll kill myself, maybe.”
It’s a gamble, but it pays off; Noah’s mouth falls open, and his forehead scrunches up in a frown.
“How about if I do this, huh?” I fling the chain toward myself and wrap it around my neck.
Noah’s eyes widen slightly, and his hands twitch by his sides. “I thought you didn’t want it to hurt.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“Maybe you’re talking bullshit.”
“What if I’m not? What are you going to do, then, huh, Noah? What are you going to do when you come down here and find out I’m fucking dead?”
He studies me for a few moments, arms crossed. “You think you’ll hang yourself with that chain? You can’t tie it well enough to hold your weight; it’ll come loose if you try.”
“I’ll find a way.”
“You know this will only make me watch you closer, right? I’ll have you on suicide watch from now on.”
Crap, I didn’t even think about that.
“You’ll have to leave sometimes,” I mutter. “To cook food and stuff.”
“I’ll bring some cans down,” he says, shrugging. “Are you sure you want to play this game with me? I’m pretty patient, you know. I’m a hunter.” His gaze is fixed on mine, and I can see in his eyes that he’s telling the truth.
He’s patient like a rock, and I’m everything but. With any pursuit I set my mind to, I fail before I see it through. That’s how it’s always been, and so it will be even with killing myself.
I let out a frustrated shout and throw the chain off my neck. “Fine. You win.”
Noah shows no sign of triumph or amusement. He just stands there, arms crossed, studying me.
Fuck, I hate him so much.
I sit down, legs drawn up to my chin. “Happy now?”
“Happy?” He says it with more blank sincerity than the question warrants. A serious answer to a sarcastic question. “No.”
“Me neither,” I mutter.
He chooses his next words carefully, and he speaks them in a slow, even voice. “What will it take for you to be happy?”
I sigh. “You already know what would make me happy, Noah. It’s pretty fucking simple.”
He tilts his head. “But you’ll feel better soon. Your body won’t be dependent on the drugs anymore. Your mind is another matter, but I’ll help you.”
“No.” I hide my face in my sleeve, wiping at the tears that don’t need much encouragement to spill these days. “You can’t help me. This is hopeless, what you’re doing.” I can’t be saved. You might as well give up.
“There is hope,” Noah says quietly, and for some reason, I don’t feel like the words are directed at me. His gaze is far away, and a great sadness fills his eyes. “There has to be.”
“Why?” I whisper.
“You’re my only?…?my?…” He bites the words off and shakes his head. “Never mind.”
We fall into silence, and I take the opportunity to study the lines of his body, the way he holds himself. I contemplate his strength, his speed?…?He’s still carrying that knife; the hilt of it sticks up by the belt of his jeans, and an idea forms in my mind. A desperate one.
If I can’t convince him to let me go, and if I can’t get rid of the chain, then my only way of escape is to hurt him.
Maybe even kill him.
I glance down at my hands, swallowing hard.
I didn’t want it to come to this. I’m not a fighter. I’m not a killer. I’m too weak, really, to overpower someone like Noah, unless I can take him by surprise somehow.
To do this, I have to forget about his tales of his past life, and the dark parts of him I see reflected in myself. I have to forget about that soft look in his eyes, the way he seems so hungry for me to like him.
I can’t like him. I have to hate him. I have to want to hurt him for what he’s done to me. Part of me does, but another part?…?I don’t know. I can’t make sense of my thoughts. I can’t make sense of anything when it comes to him, but the fact remains.
If I want to break free, I have to fight, and I need that knife of his. But first, I need to regain my strength and stop feeling as sick as I do, and for that, the only thing that helps is time.
Days pass— eternity passes—of shivers, cold sweat, and jaw-clenched agitation. I haven’t been able to sleep save for a few fitful hours, but one morning, finally, I sink into dreamland, and I stay there for a long time.
When I open my eyes next, there’s a shadow at the edge of my vision, rummaging around for something in the corner of the room.
Noah.
I shut my eyes and pretend I’m still asleep, and he seems none the wiser. He empties my bucket into the toilet, and after he flushes its contents, he returns it to its place, but he doesn’t go back upstairs.
He stays, watching me. Looming over me.
It’s creepy, yeah, but I can’t help but think it’s a little endearing too. He reaches a hand out to brush a strand of hair from my face. That tenderness, it almost?…?But no. I can’t afford to hesitate. I have to do this. I have to take this chance.
I strike out, quick like a viper, grabbing his forearm in as tight a grip as I can manage. I flip around, forcing him further onto the bed, and with my other hand, I reach for his belt.
But when I fumble for the handle, the knife isn’t there.
Noah already has it in his hand.
How did he react so quickly?