9. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Rye
Rye woke up to noises from out in the living room. Strange breathing. Jake’s deep voice mumbling occasionally, not sounding quite as gentle and kind as it usually had. Random thuds, either on the wall or the floor.
And at some point as he was curling up and pulling the blanket to his chin, Rye realized he was on the floor in the corner of the room. He didn’t remember moving out of the bed. Or apparently bringing the pillow and blanket with him?
He did, however, remember the nightmares. Running through a cold, dark forest. Being chased by a monster of the worst sort—a monster he just knew wanted to hurt him in the worst ways. Tripping over rocks and roots that he hadn’t seen. Always in the dark. Always cold and chilled and terrified and hurting.
The monster never caught him. But it almost did. It somehow always backed off just at the right moment to let him get away—so it could keep chasing him.
And somehow, those nightmares had left him feeling even more exhausted than he had the night before.
Out in the living room, he heard more noises—this time what sounded like dishes clinking, maybe. Maybe the door to the refrigerator closing. Something sizzling.
Then he could smell food. Toast, he thought. His stomach growled, and he scrunched his eyes shut and swallowed hard.
Breakfast.
Dinner last night— with dessert! —and then breakfast this morning. Breakfast and clean clothes and a warm place to sleep and a room with bright lights and windows.
How long had it been? How long since that day when that horrible man had offered to help him and Rye had made the worst decision of his life to trust a stranger? How long had it been since he’d been tossed down that rickety flight of stairs, into that dark, cold, damp basement? Cursed at for crying. Then beaten for the first time and starved and—
“Stop your fuckin’ crying, boy. You’re a fuckin’ baby. Dammit. I’ll give you something to cry about.”
He could hear the voice again—the anger and the disgust. It seemed to be coming from right behind him, the monster in the darkness. And then he could feel the echo of a rough touch—hands grabbing him hard enough to bruise, pushing him into the solid cement wall, hitting him so hard it forced all the air from his lungs.
God, why did he have such a good memory for some things and such a terrible memory for others?
He closed his fist tighter around the blanket as he tried to push the scary thoughts away and picture his mom instead. Her kind green eyes, her soft voice, her gentle smile. But it was fuzzy. His memories of her, no matter how many times he’d tried to hold onto them over the years, were fuzzy and weak.
And that fact hurt much more than the gash on his cheek and the bruises on his abdomen.
The man had told him a lot of things.
Your mama doesn’t care about you.
She’s glad you’re gone.
She wished she’d gotten rid of you sooner.
She fuckin’ hated you. You were a burden. A fuckin’ deadweight. She’s free of you now. And you fuckin’ belong to me. Stop your fuckin’ crying, or else—!
And at first, he’d known the words weren’t true. He’d known his mom loved him and had to be terrified and scared for him. She’d certainly have called the police to report him missing and pulled the whole town together to look for him. Uncle Jon and Aunt Tanya. Elsie and her family. And Nicki and Raegan and Liam and their families. Mr. Brock from school. And Sam from the ice cream shop. They had to all have been out looking for him.
But as time went on, the man’s words had started to make more sense. Because how could they not have found him? How could a whole town full of people and the police not have found him?
So after a while, that idea—the possibility that maybe his mom hadn’t missed him so much after all—it had grown and rooted itself deep within him. Even though he knew it just had to be wrong, even though he knew it with all his being, the man’s words were still there, still causing him to doubt.
A soft knock at the door pulled Rye back to the present—whenever the present was—and his eyes darted toward the sound as he tugged the blanket up tighter to his chin .
Jake—who seemed so kind and so honest, who seemed so trustworthy and nice—stood in the doorway, one hand holding onto the doorframe. Blocking his exit. Large and imposing and filling up the whole doorway. Holding him there against his will.
It wasn’t true—or at least it didn’t really seem true—but at the same time, Rye couldn’t help as his heart started pounding. And when Jake took a small step forward, his face contorted in a pained grimace, Rye involuntarily shrunk back into the corner more.
Jake stopped, frowning, and shook his head slightly. Then he backed up a step. “Are you hungry?” he asked, the gentleness back in his voice now. “I’ve got toast and eggs. I like mine over easy, but if you want, I can scramble up some for you.”
Rye blinked.
“Scrambled eggs à la Davis for my beautiful baby boy,” his mom sing-songed, setting a plate in front of him at the dining room table.
“Mom! I’m eight years old. I’m not a baby!” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly.
But his mom just smiled. “Ryan, no matter how old you are, you’ll always be my baby. Now eat your breakfast or you’ll be late for school.”
Toast with scrambled eggs topped with shredded cheese and ketchup. Scrambled eggs à la Davis. And there it was—the image he’d been searching for for years. His mom and her smile. Her soft smile and kind eyes.
He blinked again, remembering where he was, and then nodded and reached up to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.
“Scrambled?” Jake’s voice had somehow become even gentler, and Rye thought that if it was a trick of some kind—if Jake was trying to trick Rye into trusting him—he was awfully good at it.
Rye closed his eyes and nodded again.
“Alright. Just give me—” Jake’s voice cut off suddenly, and there was a low grunt of some sort, followed by a sharp breath. When Jake started speaking again, it was obviously through gritted teeth. “Just give me a few minutes.”
The change in Jake’s tone sent a shiver through Rye, and his stomach lurched. He forced his eyes open, but Jake was already leaving the room, limping heavily on his right leg, one hand on the wall to steady himself.
When Jake was out of his view and the footsteps had faded, Rye’s heart finally seemed to settle down a little, and he pushed himself up to sit and then stood slowly, his body aching as he stretched out. His legs felt a little like Jell-O, weak and wobbly, but he managed to stay upright. Then he carefully leaned down and picked up the pillow and blanket, wondering again how they had gotten on the floor with him overnight. He set them on the bed and started over to the doorway cautiously.
“Yeah, Kris, I know... I know. I just have to finish making breakfast and then—” Jake’s voice carried in from the kitchen, and Rye stopped and listened. “Well, he’s got to eat, Kris... I know. I will, I promise. Besides, I’ve got that deadline next week for that article on... Yeah, white abalone conservation, and—”
Something clattered, and there was a curse—not muffled or quiet in any sense. Rye’s chest tightened, and he grabbed for the doorframe as he stumbled back a step.
“Dammit. No, I just—I just dropped the bowl. I’m fine, everything’s fine. I’ll call you later, though. I gotta clean up this mess and—and start over. Shit, there’s eggs all over the floor now... Hah, yeah, well, if you come next weekend, you can certainly mop, but I’ll do my best now, and... No, I’ll be careful... Yes, I promise... Love you too, sis.”
Sucking in a sharp breath, Rye stepped backwards into the room, turning so his back was up against the wall. His head started to pound, and he splayed his hands on the wall behind him as he closed his eyes.
There were no more words from the kitchen, but he could hear sounds—Jake’s heavy footsteps, a grunt here or there, a drawer opening and then closing loudly. Everything seemed to pulse with anger and frustration, and Rye suddenly couldn’t support himself anymore. He lowered his head to his hands and slid down to sit, his back still against the wall right next to the door, rasping breaths barely filling his lungs with air.
“You’re fuckin’ dead.”
The footsteps seemed to come his direction, uneven and menacing, yet he couldn’t make himself move. He couldn’t push himself away from the wall and back to hide in the corner. He was frozen there, panicked.
And when the footsteps stopped and he heard a quiet “oh,” Rye thought for a moment that he might vomit again.
Please don’t hurt me. Please.
Instinctively, he covered his head with his arms, and some pathetic whimper escaped him.
“Hey, you’re okay,” the voice said. It was almost gentle. Not angry. But strained.
Rye felt himself shaking, and he wanted to run. He wanted to force himself onto his feet and run away. Far away. Far from wherever this was, which was much too close to where he had been. Why was he still here anyway?
The voice spoke again, and Rye immediately shrunk back more, even as he inwardly scolded himself for being such an idiot. This wasn’t the man. The man was never gentle or soft. “You’re okay, you’re—ah, um... Sorry, if I startled you. I just dropped a bowl, and...”
And the man never, ever apologized.
“Anyway, uh, I just... need to sit for a few minutes before I can make your breakfast. I’m sorry about that, but I—I have to. So, uh, I wanted to tell you, you’re free to take a shower or something if you want. I probably need to sit for at least fifteen minutes. You know where the bathroom is, just down the hall, and anything you need is in the cabinet above the toilet. Towels and body wash and shampoo and such. Feel free to use anything. Sorry again. I’m not—”
Jake.
Rye opened his eyes and tilted his head just a smidge so he could see the man standing a couple of feet away. Jake’s eyes were on him, but they were soft, kind, worried. Not angry.
Jake pursed his lips and seemed to be trying his best to smile. “I won’t hurt you,” he said, his voice quiet and reassuring.
God, it was too much.
Rye sucked back a sob and nodded as he lowered his head to rest on his knees. He wanted to believe it. So much.
“I’m gonna go sit now. Just for a bit. Your breakfast should be ready in twenty minutes, maybe. Okay?”
Rye just nodded again, but didn’t lift his head. Then he held tighter to his knees and let himself cry as the footsteps retreated back down the hallway.
The man had forced him to bathe at least once a week, and as soon as he’d started growing facial hair, the man had also forced him to shave at least twice a week. But bathing had been a bucket of cold water in the corner, an icky bar of soap that was somehow always barely a sliver, and a rough sponge that smelled a little of mildew. And shaving had been a rusty old razor that cut his skin more than it did his stubble.
This was so different.
Rye stood outside the shower with the shower curtain drawn back and carefully reached forward to test the water temperature. Steam rose up around him, and he could feel the warmth before he even touched the water. He closed his eyes as his hand hit the stream coming from the showerhead. It was warm. Warm and soothing, somehow .
He let his hand linger there under the water for a few seconds, then he glanced back over his shoulder toward the bathroom door. It was locked. He’d locked it. Himself. Although he wasn’t sure it really made him feel any safer.
Quick. He’d be quick about it. Just in case.
Even though he knew he wasn’t being watched, even though he knew Jake was in the other room, sitting down because his leg was hurting—definitely not here, banging the door down so he could watch Rye strip naked and wash himself—Rye hurried. And his stomach began aching, a painful twist that was all too familiar.
He pushed down his pants, tugged his socks off, and then pulled his sweatshirt over his head, hissing at the pressure of the fabric against his injured cheek. Leaving everything in a heap on the floor—because folding it up would take too long—Rye climbed into the shower, under the stream of warm water.
It flowed over him, melting the chill away as it hit his back and slid down his shoulders and chest. He almost started sobbing again, and he almost sank down to the floor, overwhelmed with emotion. But he didn’t. Not quite. Instead, he covered his mouth with one hand to hold the sob in and reached out with the other hand to steady himself against the wall.
It felt so good. So good. Like a... like a warm blanket wrapped around him.
Biting back another sob—and silently scolding himself for wanting to cry, again—Rye continued to lean against the wall as he picked up a white bottle off the edge of the tub. It was labeled body wash , and there was a picture of a pink flower on the front with some other words he felt like he should recognize. And he could. Or at least, he could read some of them. Dove . Rose . Roses were flowers. But the flower on the front didn’t look like a rose, did it? And Dove —doves were birds, weren’t they?
“Stupid child. Stupid fuckin’ child.”
He should know these things. And he felt like he did. Or he had at some point. Or the knowledge was there, but buried somewhere hard to get to.
And he was supposed to be hurrying. Washing himself so he could put his clothes back on. Not keeping himself vulnerable for longer.
Although it wouldn’t really matter, would it? If Jake decided he wanted something, he was so much bigger than Rye. He could break down the locked door, push open the shower curtain, grab Rye with those big hands of his, and—
The bottle slipped right out of Rye’s fingers and landed on the floor of the shower with a loud thud. And Rye collapsed, shaking, as the water continued to stream out of the showerhead above him.