“Mom. Mama. Mama, help me.” A voice I don’t recognize, one from the little boy that never was. I guess he does exist, trapped forever inside a monster.
Eventually, it’s quiet and empty. I don’t know where the rats go. Just that they’re nocturnal. We must have reached the morning. These are my two realities—chaos and helplessness or pain and suffocation—until I’m released. When I’m overwhelmed by the bastard creatures, there’s enough adrenaline to numb the pain. Once that’s gone, it’s back to the brain-itching ache, praying that my ligaments will just fall off so I don’t have to feel them anymore.
I get to cycle through this exciting bit of theatre. Rats or pain. Helpless overwhelm or burning alive on the inside. And somehow, between the cracks of those sensations, the shame seeps in like a weed. I was supposed to hold my shit together, endure, not cave and scream for my long-dead mother.
It all happens again, and again, and a-fucking-gain. Until I stop begging for someone to come for me and yearn for death.
Sitting at the edge of the exam table in nothing but a hospital gown, the light still hurts my eyes as my head pounds. I haven’t bathed yet, and the sickly-sweet bite of urine permeates the air. Yeah, I’m covered in my own piss and excrement. Fun times. But I can move, and my limbs sag with blissful relief, so I don’t really give a fuck what I smell like.
I do care about this doctor laying his filthy mitts on me. He’s professional, well, as professional as an off-duty physician on my uncle’s payroll gets. But I mean, he’s not overstepping patient-doctor boundaries. He’s only doing his job. I just can’t stand the thought of anything near me.
“I need to hear your heartbeat, Tatum,” he says, slowly as if he’s dealing with a wild animal.
He is. I snarl. “Donottouch me.”
“He’s completely traumatized,” Dr. Fuckface says. “Looks dehydrated, too. He should probably have an IV of?—”
“Of shut the hell up. I’m fine. I’ll drink some fucking Gatorade.” But I’m all jittery, my breath coming out jagged at the thought of him—ofanyone—touching me. My lip trembles. Why can’t I get it to stop trembling? Why can’t I breathe right? My body won’t do what I fucking tell it to do.
No control.
“He’s going to go into shock,” the doctor says.
Uncle Jasper, who’s leaned against the doorframe, watching everything, says nothing.
“Can we … can we go home, sir?” I ask Uncle Jasper. He’s the one in charge. I’ve still got the weird-ass breathing and the jitters going on. Am I broken?
“Leave us,” Jasper says in that voice of his. Always with the smooth voice. It fools you into thinking he’s a safe landing pad. “Go get him a Gatorade.”
The doctor hates us. He tosses his stethoscope into his little black bag, storming out of the room. Then we’re alone, facing off. But it’s clear I’m not competition. I’m a kitten facing off with a lion. “I’m not convinced you don’t need more thinking time.”
“Are you fucking kid …” I trail off, sensing the danger pouring off him. “I c-can’t go back there, sir. You win, okay? I’ll do whatever the fuck you want.”
“Hmm. Better. Let’s do a little test, shall we? You’ll go to the college I tell you to go to, but as far as Luke’s concerned, it’s what you’ve always dreamed of,” he says with the edge of mocking glee in his voice. “Now you say …”
My bottom lip’s swollen. Left side. A throbbing bulb that tastes like copper. Did I bite my lip?
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good, Tatum.”
Ugh. It’s Tate. Fucking Tate. Tatum grinds my gears.
“I’m going to allow you to play hockey—how fuckingniceof me. You’ll do a lot of ass-kissing to thank me for that one, but at some point, you’re going to get injured. It will ruin any future you might have had in the sport. Haven’t decided yet if it’ll be a real injury or a fictional one. It doesn’t matter to me which, but that will depend on you. When I decide it’s time, you’re going to say …”
God, I’d love to bleed the life out of him. I grit my teeth, still shaking. I fucking hate that I can’t seem to get my body under control.
“Yes, sir.”
There’s a long pause as he thinks, and I’m fucking desperate to read his mind. “You will know your place, boy. Do we understand each other?”
“Perfectly, sir.” But there’s bite to my words. He’s managed to leash me, sure, but a leashed monster is still a monster. If he wants me to be sweet, he’ll have to lobotomize me.
The doctor returns with a bottle of orange Gatorade. That’s the worst kind. Who buys fucking orange Gatorade? I suck it back anyway.
“Am I needed for anything else?” he asks.
Uncle Jasper shakes his head. “That will be all.”
