Page 132 of Finding Noah

Still gasping, I choked out, “Fuck you, Ben.”

He laughed, a wicked sound. “You'd fuckin' love that, wouldn't you?” He reached out to grab at my groin, pinching and twisting as I cried out. “I bet you wish I'd let you drill this fuckin' dick into my—”

He was interrupted by the ringing of his phone again. “This fuckin' bitch!” he exclaimed, releasing me before storming out the door without so much as another glance over his shoulder.

Tears sprang to my eyes as I turned toward the window, looking for the moon and the promise that Meg was out there somewhere, thinking of me. I found it, peeking down at me through the dirt-smeared glass, and I held its gaze as if it were hers and waited for sleep to take me.

If I was lucky, I wouldn’t wake up.

But before I had the chance to welcome either, the door opened, and in walked the man in black.

“Ah, look. It's the Grim Reaper again,” I commented, surprised that I had the ability at all to joke around, even if sarcastically.

But, God, I was tired of this game, and as he knelt beside the bed to play doctor, I shook my head.

“No.”

Still, he went to roll me over against the strain of my useless arms, and again, I protested.

“No!” I croaked, broken and strained. “No more!”

This time, he listened and sat back on his heels to seemingly study my face through the black lenses where his eyes should’ve been. Waiting, waiting … for what?

He tipped his head in question.

“Fuck, can you speak?!” I demanded, and he remained motionless, silent. Staring at me through that stupid fucking mask. “Goddammit.”

I blinked at the ceiling, shaking my head, thinking about this situation I'd found myself in.

A sexual plaything for a sick psychopath.

A patient for a mute angel of death.

This has to end.

“You wanna help me out, dude? Is that what this is about? You wanna help?” I asked, positioning my head to look at him again.

He gestured with a hand. Go on.

“Then kill me.”

He shook his head.

I laughed bitterly as dry tears burned at my eyes. “You mute asshole! Fucking kill me!”

Again, he shook his head.

“Oh my fucking God,” I cried to the ceiling. “I can't do this anymore. Do you understand me? I can't do this. I'm dying. He's fucking killing me, and you're letting him. Do you get that?! Oh, what the fuck do you care, right? You don't fucking care. You're just helping to keep me alive and prolong this fucking sick, twisted—”

“Why did you come here?”

My mouth was held agape at the low, gravelly sound of his voice, and slowly, I turned from my view of the black ceiling to stare at his black mask.

“Answer me,” he demanded.

It was an unnatural voice, disguised. Like Batman. A forced gruffness.

I wanted to be Batman once too.