And so, instead, he was staring at the wall.
The house had long since quieted down, the deep but warm silence broken only by the sound of his mom’s soft snoring coming from her bedroom down the hallway.
His aunt and uncle had left hours ago, a while after Rye’s mom had gotten Rye “settled” into his old bedroom to try to sleep. And shortly after, the police officer lady, Rachel, had stopped by. Rye had heard Rachel and his mom talkingquietly, the sound carrying all the way down the hallway and into his bedroom. Something about Rachel staying outside in her truck to keep watch.
Rye hadn’t wanted to think about what that meant, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself.
“I know where the fuck you live.”
The rotten words had brought with them another of those brief but absolutely terrifying moments of panic, and he’d barely been able to stop himself from crawling out of bed and retreating into the corner of the room.
And not less than three times since, he’d heard his mom’s light footsteps stop nearby, probably right in the doorway. He’d stayed still, keeping his eyes closed tight, his back to the open door, and he’d tried to breathe slowly and steadily so she’d think he was sleeping.
Only several minutes after she’d left each time had he let himself open his eyes again.
And then, he’d resumed staring at the wall.
It had probably been several hours since the last time his mom had come to the doorway and at least an hour or more since he’d heard her snoring coming from down the hallway. So it was probably safe now.
He frowned a little at the word.Safe.He wasn’t really sure anything felt safe right now.
But he finally allowed himself to move, to reach out and touch the wall. It was smoother than he’d thought it would feel. And warm.
And that made his racing heart slow down ever so slightly.
Rye let his fingers linger on the wall for a few more seconds, then he rolled over onto his back, carefully, trying to avoid making any sounds, and he pulled his blanket all the way up to his chin. Swallowing hard, he shifted one more time to lie on his right side and scooted all the way back so he could feel the wall behind him.
And he looked around the room.
His bedroom.
It was well-lit, the single light built into the ceiling fan up above brightening up the whole room. And it was small and plain, all the walls bare and painted that same dark-blue color. The beige carpet seemed newer, or maybe his mom had just taken good care of it, he didn’t really know.
The room didn’t spark any memories at all, and if his mom hadn’t told him it used to be his, he wouldn’t have known. That bothered him more than he’d expected.
A tear slipped down his cheek as he continued studying the room, but he quickly reached up and wiped it away with another frown.
The furniture was just as plain as the rest of the room—a small wooden desk tucked up against the corner opposite the bed and a single, matching dark-wood dresser, again bare, with nothing sitting on top of it. Nothing at all. No books or toys or games.
Not that he remembered what had once been there. But there had to have beensomething. And he wished therewassomething there now because maybe, just maybe, it would help him remember. Although he also didn’t blame his mom for packing everything up and putting it away somewhere, if that’s what she’d done. The closet maybe.
Or maybe she’d just gotten rid of everything.
He had been gone for fifteen years, after all.
Rye closed his eyes again as more unpleasantness bubbled up inside him. And then he started to shake, and his chest started to hurt, and for a long, long moment, he couldn’t breathe.
God, he hated this.
He was home. Home in his old house with his mom. And she was happy to have him back, and he was happy to be back. And so why, why, why couldn’t he remember what he wanted to and forget the rest?
Rough hands gripped his arms. Not really, but he could still feel them. And cigarette smoke, stale and rotten, filled his lungs as a low, gravelly voice whispered awful things in his ear. He whimpered and coughed and covered his head with both arms as he screwed his eyes shut and pushed himself back into the wall more, like that would help.
And he wanted to get away. So, so badly, he wanted to get away.
But how could he get away from things that were only in his own mind?
More hours passed. And maybe he drifted in and out of sleep briefly, though he couldn’t be sure. By the time the morning light began to shine through the shutters on the window up over the dresser, he’d been sitting up for some time, his back still pushed against the wall and the blanket still tugged all the way to his chin.
