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I tap my fingertips on my thighs—three times—take three steps, then stop. Just inside the door, on top of the stairs.
Goddamn rabbit hole.
“You coming, man?” Ash is staring up at me from the bottom of the stairs. He’s turned on the light, a bare bulb swinging behind him, and I force myself to keep going.
One step. Two. Three. One. Two. Thr—
Stop counting.
I reach the bottom, and Ash moves out of the way. Stench of musty furniture and urine, plus something sour that brings bile up my throat.
Swallowing hard, I willingly step into my nightmare.
Asher moves about, but I barely notice. Memories rise from the walls, from the floor. I can see Dad’s face, I can see the knife in his hands. His slurred words, taunting me, breaking me, echo in my ears.
‘Bastard. Worthless. Retard. Freak. Mongrel. You pretend you’re mine, but you’ve nothing to do with me. You think I’ll let the world mock me? Let them know?’
The tape tore at my mouth as I tried to yell at him and his buddy to stop. My wrists hurt where the cable-ties held them bound to rings in the wall. My legs were taped from ankle to mid-thigh. My ribs burned with every breath. My chest…
“Ty. Hey.” Ash’s face is right in front of me. His hands are on my shoulders, shaking me. “Snap out of it.”
In memory time, he was barely fourteen, much shorter than me and less muscled. It’s a shock to see him stand as tall as me, staring me eye to eye.
“I’m okay.” I take a step back, and he lets go. I rub at the phantom pain in my wrists, stretch my fingers.
“You don’t look okay.”
I sidestep him, needing a second to gather my wits.
“What are we here to see?” Ash asks. “Let’s look at it and go, yeah?”
>
Sounds like a plan.
The old scars on my chest and abdomen itch, my lungs labor, and I press a hand under my ribs. You can face this. There’s nothing here anymore that can hurt you.
Believe it.
In the corner of the room, there are stacks of beer craters and other junk, partly covered by an old green military blanket. My steps lead me that way without input from my brain. My thoughts have stilled like the waves on a windless day.
I know what is underneath. And yet it doesn’t feel real as I yank the blanket away and step closer to the hooks in the wall, the cut cable ties still hanging from them, still encrusted with my blood. The concrete underneath is brown with blood. Another blade, rusty and stained, has been left on the floor.
Blood everywhere. Dripping, sluicing, running, splashing—filling my mouth where I bite through my lip, squishing underneath me when I shift, filling the air with a sweet-sour stench that makes me gag.
“Dammit, Ty,” Asher mutters, grabbing my arm and dragging me away. “We’ve seen enough. Let’s get outta here.”
In a daze I let him pull me to the stairs and force my numb feet to climb. Then Ash is there, hauling me upward, toward the fresh air and the light. It feels like it takes an eternity before we are out and standing in the living room. I’m panting.
Ash looks murderous. He paces the length of the dusty room, stops by the sheet-covered sofa and shoves his hands through his hair. “Fucking hell, Ty. I swear I thought Dad was a bit unhinged, but this… This is totally sick, man. Did he…?”
He braces himself on the back of the couch and bows his head. He looks like he’s gonna throw up. “Did he do that often? Did he beat you? What else did he do to you?”
Still dazed, I back away until I hit a wall. “Roughed me up a bit from time to time. Not much.”
Not until he beat up my real father, got kicked out of the ring, started drinking more and began using me to vent his frustration. Not until that night from hell when he dragged me down to the basement.
“Why didn’t you say something about the beatings?” Ash stares at me sideways.
