Chapter 9
Emmett
It’s been long enough that I heard feet shuffle outside, only to pass by.
Long enough that the water seeps into my skin and wrinkles me like a prune.
For the water to go frigid.
For my body to prickle with chicken skin.
And yet, the tears won’t dry up.
The suds won’t wash down the drain.
That the grime coating me feels more permanent than little raised white lines.
Is this what it’s like to be dead inside?
I wash again, scrubbing with trembling fingers and numb hands over the smudges that only I can see. Though it doesn’t matter how hard I clean the marks. They’re forever etched into my body, my being, like a reminder of all the dirty darkness that stains me.
Close the casket.
Sniffling away another wave of tears leaking from my eyes, I end up snorting back water that burns my nose and I cough.
Loudly.
Slapping a hand over my mouth, I gasp against my wet palm and force a swallow that feels too big to silence it. It hurts, burns in the back of my throat, aches in my sinuses, but I manage to choke down the discomfort.
“Em? You okay?”
It’s faint.
It still makes me jump, makes my heart thump wildly, and a wave of panic to rush over me.
No, no, no.
Please don’t …
“Y-yeah,” I croak out when my throat closes up and listen intently for a response.
For footsteps, the knob to turn, the door to creak open and leave me exposed.
It doesn’t matter that I pressed the little lock button once I retrieved the stack of clean clothes.
Moved the stand from over the toilet to bar the entrance.
That won’t stop someone if they want in bad enough.
But at least I’d hear it coming.
Minutes of silence pass before I finally decide to move, to force myself to finish up. Rinse the final lather from myself. Wipe down the shower walls with a second rag and cold water.
I’m shivering when I step out, not even bothering with a towel. I just drape the large tee and hoodie over my shoulders. Shove my legs through briefs big enough I have to roll the waistband on. Slip my feet into the cuffs of sweats I have to pull the string on to stop them from falling right off.
And with each layer I stack up, I’m bathed in the scent of something herbaceous and rich. Earthy. Thick.
Overwhelming.
The material pulled down over my fists makes it hard to move the shelf back, but I manage to get it close to where it was when I came in.
The pop of the lock disengaging feels like an unwelcome boom in the silence.
Will he know I locked him out?
The hall is clear when I step out, but my hands are shaking. The boards along the path to the stairs giving a slight creak beneath my feet, so I shuffle off to the side and hold my breath.
It’s quiet.
Not the same kind of quiet as my house, where not even a ceiling fan is left on and perhaps the drop of a pin could be heard at any point throughout the day until at least five.
Where the water barely falls from a shower head because the sound is too much to bear and the microwave stays on silent, though I don’t get to use it often.
But here … there’s the whir of an air moving motor. The distant noise of trees rustling against the roof. The wind teasing an open window accompanied by the chirp of birds. A song playing down low.
Tiptoeing closer, I catch the melody drifting up from the stairs. The vocals cracking. The lyrics … pain filled.
Working my throat to force a swallow, I follow the words of a man begging to be held onto. Find the first step when he calls out for his lonely mother. Suppress a bone deep chill when he lyricizes about his father, his home.
Halfway down the stairs, my knees buckle, and I grab the railing.
My eyes burn all over again and I wish half the lyrics could possibly be true.
They aren’t. They will never be for me. Maybe others have a better life than me, and maybe this is just how I’m supposed to be. The broken boy of Barren Ridge. Fighting himself for his life because those around me won’t bother trying.
I should have died on that bathroom floor.
Fuck whoever stopped the drugs from taking me away from all this.
They have no idea what they left behind when they brought me back to life.