shadowed [one]
Shadowed
Status: completed
Warnings: LOTS of them; see tags
Rating: R
Word Count: 102k
It snows that night; a foot and a half on top of the foot from last week and Matt tracks his way through the snowstorm to school just to discover they've closed due to the storm.
He debates staying anyway, but he knows that if he does, and his father finds out, the week of sanity he's built up in his mind won't stay. Jon's wrath isn't easily deterred. Instead, he trudges back through the snow to Jon's house, secure in the thought that his father won't be home until afternoon.
The car parked haphazardly in the driveway sends a shot of adrenaline through body.
Jon's dog barks before he latches the door, and yelps as Matt's father slams his fist on the armrest of his chair. "It's just Matt! Christ, you'd think it was a burglar or something with the way you flip your shit." Matt sighs, then holds his breath; his heart beats slowly in his chest. "Matt! Get in here!"
He takes his time dropping his bag off in his room - but leaving his coat and shoes on, because running is always a better alternative to whatever his father might have in mind - and greets his father with silence.
"Don't look so depressed," he grunts, flipping through the newspaper with a grimace. "It's just snow. You've lived in Minnesota for seventeen fucking years, get a grip already."
Ignoring the bait, Matt says, "You wanted me?" dully. His tone thuds against his own eardrums. His father barely glances up from the paper.
"Daemon needs food."
Matt's mind reels for a moment; he has no recollection of any Daemon, and can't even think of anyone his father knows of whom he can't recall the name. "Christ, the dog, you moron!" his father barks, flipping the newspaper closed so quickly Matt takes a short step back, ready to bolt. Over the years, his reflexes have improved quite a bit. By no means is he weak; his father just knows all the dirty tricks, and it's easier for Matt if he bolts and avoids a new trip to the hospital that he'll have to pay for somehow anyway.
His father smiles widely, impressed, when Matt flinches; whether it's from Matt's reaction or pride in his own training, Matt isn't sure. "The expensive stuff," he orders, "Use the money your grandparents sent you for your birthday."
Matt hesitates before saying, "It's gone. I used it to buy him the last bag." He leaves off the 'remember?' at the end of his sentence. He's not sure if his father ever knew that or not, but regardless, 'remembering' is a quick way for his father to think he's getting cocky, and he's not willing to go to school with a black eye or a broken arm or hair missing from his scalp. Not again.
"So find a way to get some. And pick up some ginger ale for your mother, she's throwing up again." Matt's heart constricts at the thought of his mother, always alone in the room he's never allowed into, not since she'd gotten sick. He doesn't even know what she has; his father had taken away that privilege as soon as he knew. Just by what he knows, he fears it's psychological, not physical. With the right treatment, he's sure things could improve. Whether that's with painful therapy or quick pills, though, Matt doesn't know. "Go! And get home before nightfall. And don't eat anything, Bill wants to see you this weekend and you know how he feels about you eating."
Matt cringes at the thought. Bill is a middle-aged man from the town over that his father had called not long after Matt's fifteenth birthday, and six months after his mother was put 'into storage'; Matt isn't sure of the extensity of the trials with Bill, but he's not sure he wants to. The human mind truly is an amazing thing; Matt is very thankful for how much his mind blocks.
He doesn't say anything else, and stands there until his father glances up and says, "Dismissed," as if he's in class. Matt hasn't questioned him since he was fifteen, and he's not going to start it up again now.
It's colder outside when he leaves, but the snow has slowed significantly. The walk to the grocery store is ten more blocks away than the school is, and Matt feels his toes go numb in his boots after the fifth count. Liam's across the road from the school, shoveling out his driveway, but makes it a point to jog over to the street Matt's on to say hello. "You look like you're freezing; wanna come in and warm up?"
Sometimes, Matt gets the distinct feeling that Liam knows; the way his eyes follow him through the hallways in school, the guarded questions Liam sometimes asks about his father. But he's never said anything, and so far, the police haven't turned up on Matt's doorstep, so he doesn't question it.
"No," Matt says, shakily; he tells himself it's from the cold and not the fear of his father finding out. "I have to get some things for my… mom. She caught a nasty flu." Immediately, he thinks of the dog food. Great - how am I supposed to bring it home?
He doesn't mention the dog to Liam.
Liam nods in understanding, albeit warily, then continues with, "Are you sure? Mom's already making coffee and hot cocoa; she'd probably do it for you, too."
Matt shakes his head. "No, I'd better be going. She's really sick." Liam eyes him suspiciously, but nods again anyway.
"All right. Stop by on your way back if you change your mind, yeah?" even as he's agreeing, Matt's thinking of ways to get back home just as fast, with a forty pound bag of dog food, through another route that doesn't cross past Liam's house. Liam pats his shoulder - Matt manages to hide his flinch - and goes back to shoveling his driveway. Matt watches him for a moment, and then continues on his way.
Even for a snow day without school, the store isn't booming with business, though Matt hadn't honestly expected it in this weather. He knows the police officer that sits across the street feels very strongly about loitering - and prostitution - and the clerk that just adds what he owes to a tab isn't working; Matt hadn't seen her car in the parking lot. He has no choice to go in unless he wants to be questioned by a police officer, or worse, depending on what kind of signals he unknowingly sends out.
Matt takes a deep breath and enters the supermarket. He's acutely aware that he's being timed by his father, and the more time spent worrying about finding the money to pay for what he's getting just means less time he has in private without his father breathing down his neck.
The young blonde girl who works register-one smiles as he walks in and Matt sort of returns it before he can fully think about it. Ginger ale and dog food, he thinks absently, beelining for the pet aisle before anyone can start thinking he'll steal something. That's the last thing he needs: somebody freaking out over him stealing something so that the police officer across the street can return him to his father.
The biggest bag the have in stock is ten pounds. Matt doesn't even get to enjoy the relief that floods his body before the voice in his head says forty pounds; he wants forty pounds, he always does. He swallows as he reaches for each bag, heart sinking into his stomach when he only finds three.
"He's going to kill me," Matt says under his breath. Images flood his mind, but Matt shakes his head of the thought of his father strangling him over dog food, and juggles the three bags into his arms and heads for the soda aisle. He receives strange looks from people pushing carts with three items in them, but he's grown accustomed to worse staring than their staring; the holes that their eyes glare into his back are hardly noticeable.
He grabs one of the bottles of ginger ale after a moment of uncertainty; his father hadn't specified how he wanted the ginger ale to return home, and after two years of total specification ("the green box, not the bullshit yellow box!"), Matt isn't sure what to do with himself.
After that, he backtracks to the checkouts and gets in line behind the bright 'number-one' sign hanging from the ceiling above the checkout. If anyone would follow Cassie's trail in regards to Matt's tab, this girl seems like she would be it. If she even knows what he'll be talking about, which she probably won't.
When the woman in front of him has finally gathered her things into her cart, Matt gratefully drops the dog food onto the conveyor belt. The girl blinks at the items, as though she isn't registering them, then at Matt, and then says, slowly, "Carts are available, sir and if you need assistance carrying your items to the car, there are employees available."
Matt had somehow managed not to cringe at her deciding to call him sir, but he can't stop it from showing as he says, "I walked."
The surprised and confused look on her face almost sets off alarms in his head, and he immediately thinks, I should fix it. Lie; a bike, a skateboard, a jet plane, anything, but she smiles after a moment of hesitance and rings up the dog food and the ginger ale without another word.
"Forty-three fifty-two," she says, looking at him expectantly. Matt's heart beats once, twice, slowly.
"I have a tab. Matthew Riley?"
The girl looks understandably confused, but she's smart enough to be subtle about it. Matt feels his defenses weakening a little; maybe he could trust her, too.
"Sorry, sir?"
"Claire," Matt tells her. "She had a tab set up for me. I mean, I don't normally come when she isn't working. Uh… Special circumstance."
The girl frowns, but not at him, as she turns around and searches through the cash drawer, presumably for a hint as to what the hell he's talking about. Matt feels the seconds ticking by, and he swears that time speeds up as adrenaline seeps into his veins. Finally, she turns back around and apologizes. "I'm sorry, I don't…"
Matt tries to hold it back, but his anxiety always brings along hyperventilation. The clerk doesn't seem to know what to do; neither does Matt. For a moment, he stands, clutching at his head uncertainly. What the hell is he going to do?
"Put it on my bill," a voice behind him says, young but clearly fatigued. Matt feels his tense muscles relax as he turns around. The voice belongs to a man in what Matt thinks is his late twenties, very uninterested in anything other than pulling out money from his wallet. The cashier catches up quickly, and rings up his items as well - a frozen pizza and a twelve pack of beer. "Fifty-six sixty," she says.
The man hands over three twenty-dollar bills like they're paper, and Matt catches a glimpse of at least five more in his wallet. He isn't dressed like he has a lot of money, and truth be told, Matt knows nothing about him, so he can't be that famous. When he looks around, though, hoping for some sort of clue, the girls behind him in line are giggling and clutching each other's hands. Matt rolls his eyes.
He presses change into Matt's hand. "Here, kid," he says, voice still seemingly tired, even though his eyes aren't. "Get yourself something to drink, you look like you're about to die from dehydration."
Truthfully, Matt wouldn't be surprised; he isn't sure when the last time he had something to drink was, even if he knows that the last time he'd eaten was breakfast the day before. But still; Matt imagines that even drinking water is something that Bill prefers on the 'no-no' list, whether the list is a tangible thing or just something sitting in the back of Bill's mind ready to screw Matt over whenever he's getting a little too bored. How is he supposed to tell this guy that he can't get a drink, of any sort?
As he lifts his pizza from the conveyor belt, the man looks at Matt strangely. "Damn, how old are you? You can't even be twenty years old yet." He tucks the pizza under his arm.
"Uh," Matt says, tucking the money safely away in his pocket. "No, I'm seventeen."
He pushes his wallet back into his jeans and eyes Matt as he picks up the beer with his other hand. "Seventeen…" he says, pulling the pizza back down to his side, and for a moment, his eyes glaze over as though he's deep in thought. He eyes Matt's dog food and says, "And you… walked all the way here."
"Exercise," Matt says by means of explanation, hoping the man will buy it. He does, nodding slowly.
"It's snowing again. Let me give you a ride."
Red flags go up in Matt's head; not because the guy's strange or anything but because he knows his father will be watching, and timing, and he can't risk it. So, he picks up the dog food and says, "I can't. I mean, I appreciate the offer, but I can't."
The man nods, and then continues with, "I'm Dallas Heath. I'm twenty-seven years old, I'm already pretty much a retired actor, and I never thought I'd be so unsatisfied with my life. There, you already know more than my mother does. So we're not strangers, and you can let me drive you home."
Truth be told, the idea of going with him - and even being kidnapped or kept hostage by someone other than his own father - is far friendlier than going home and facing whatever he has to bring. Unfortunately, the ramifications of that - his father finding out, mostly, and punishing him however he feels he should - scares him into being the good son he's been since his mother got sick. Taking orders and refusing to defy them, no matter what.
"I'm sorry; I - I get car sick. I can't. I want to, really, I just, I can't."
He's aware that the cashier is watching carefully and that the people in line are getting angry, so he picks up the ginger ale and smiles apologetically to Dallas before he turns around and leaves. He feels Dallas's eyes on him all the way out. Stumbling through snow three feet deep is already difficult enough, without thirty pounds in his arms. He falls three times, drops each bag at least as many times, and pops a hole in the bottle of ginger ale, and he has to carry it sideways so it loses as little as possible.
His jacket is sticky with sugar and soaked through, but he knows he won't be able to clean it until his father is away at work and he's home alone, so he deals with it. The dog barks as soon as Matt steps foot onto the porch. Matt ignores the way the hair on the back of his neck stands up, and enters the house.
Low voices are coming from the living room, and the dog's barking gets louder and louder until a high-pitched yelp reaches Matt's ears. "Shut up!" his father says. The dog trots, shamefully, into the entryway and nudges at Matt's foot; it's the most affection that Matt has ever received from the dog, though he's willing to bet that it's just because his father had taken his frustration out on the dog instead of him. "Matt! Get in here, I have a surprise."
This time, when the hairs on his neck raise, he pays attention. He doesn't drop the dog food - despite the way his arms ache - and follows the dog back into the living room. Matt's heart drops into his stomach again, and he's amazed he hasn't dropped the dog food in his arms.
Bill's sitting on the couch.
"Listen, Matt. Bill's nephew is coming out this weekend, so he won't be able to have you then. So he'll be taking you now. I've already called your school."
He catches sight of what Matt's still carrying in his arms, then turns to Bill and mumbles something into his ear. Matt's heart beats faster than he ever remembers it beating as Bill's smile turns evil. Matt hides the shiver.
"Anyway. You'll be spending the next few days with him." His father smiles. "You're able to reason that, right?"
Matt feels like throwing up. He's glad he hadn't even chanced the water.
"Matt?" The tone of his father's voice is clearly 'don't fuck with me', and Matt nods, just once. He doesn't look at Bill. "Good. Go put the dog food in the basement."
Matt finds himself back when he was fifteen, when this all started; Bill had been there, too; just as ominous and uninviting and sickening, and Matt had paid for questioning his father that first time.
"How old is he?"
"Fifteen."
"Christ, he's still young. Are you sure about this?"
"He gets off on the rape fantasy stuff, don't worry. He can take a lot more than you'll believe."
Matt forces the bile back down his throat, and ducks out of the room and into the basement. Bill's raucous laughter triggers a laugh of his own, albeit less rough and more sick. At this point, he's concerned that if he doesn't laugh, he'll throw up or cry or scream.
The sick, manipulative mind games, not just played with Matt, are just the beginning of his cruel and twisted nightmare of a life. Sometimes, he fears - no, remembers - that the only way out is something religion pushers say damn every soul; the ultimately selfish and free-will act, and Matt has already sworn he'll never do it.
He's not a coward. He can face whatever his father, or Bill, or anyone else hurls at him. His eighteenth birthday is a short trek of ten months away. After that: freedom.
Status: completed
Warnings: LOTS of them; see tags
Rating: R
Word Count: 102k
It snows that night; a foot and a half on top of the foot from last week and Matt tracks his way through the snowstorm to school just to discover they've closed due to the storm.
He debates staying anyway, but he knows that if he does, and his father finds out, the week of sanity he's built up in his mind won't stay. Jon's wrath isn't easily deterred. Instead, he trudges back through the snow to Jon's house, secure in the thought that his father won't be home until afternoon.
The car parked haphazardly in the driveway sends a shot of adrenaline through body.
Jon's dog barks before he latches the door, and yelps as Matt's father slams his fist on the armrest of his chair. "It's just Matt! Christ, you'd think it was a burglar or something with the way you flip your shit." Matt sighs, then holds his breath; his heart beats slowly in his chest. "Matt! Get in here!"
He takes his time dropping his bag off in his room - but leaving his coat and shoes on, because running is always a better alternative to whatever his father might have in mind - and greets his father with silence.
"Don't look so depressed," he grunts, flipping through the newspaper with a grimace. "It's just snow. You've lived in Minnesota for seventeen fucking years, get a grip already."
Ignoring the bait, Matt says, "You wanted me?" dully. His tone thuds against his own eardrums. His father barely glances up from the paper.
"Daemon needs food."
Matt's mind reels for a moment; he has no recollection of any Daemon, and can't even think of anyone his father knows of whom he can't recall the name. "Christ, the dog, you moron!" his father barks, flipping the newspaper closed so quickly Matt takes a short step back, ready to bolt. Over the years, his reflexes have improved quite a bit. By no means is he weak; his father just knows all the dirty tricks, and it's easier for Matt if he bolts and avoids a new trip to the hospital that he'll have to pay for somehow anyway.
His father smiles widely, impressed, when Matt flinches; whether it's from Matt's reaction or pride in his own training, Matt isn't sure. "The expensive stuff," he orders, "Use the money your grandparents sent you for your birthday."
Matt hesitates before saying, "It's gone. I used it to buy him the last bag." He leaves off the 'remember?' at the end of his sentence. He's not sure if his father ever knew that or not, but regardless, 'remembering' is a quick way for his father to think he's getting cocky, and he's not willing to go to school with a black eye or a broken arm or hair missing from his scalp. Not again.
"So find a way to get some. And pick up some ginger ale for your mother, she's throwing up again." Matt's heart constricts at the thought of his mother, always alone in the room he's never allowed into, not since she'd gotten sick. He doesn't even know what she has; his father had taken away that privilege as soon as he knew. Just by what he knows, he fears it's psychological, not physical. With the right treatment, he's sure things could improve. Whether that's with painful therapy or quick pills, though, Matt doesn't know. "Go! And get home before nightfall. And don't eat anything, Bill wants to see you this weekend and you know how he feels about you eating."
Matt cringes at the thought. Bill is a middle-aged man from the town over that his father had called not long after Matt's fifteenth birthday, and six months after his mother was put 'into storage'; Matt isn't sure of the extensity of the trials with Bill, but he's not sure he wants to. The human mind truly is an amazing thing; Matt is very thankful for how much his mind blocks.
He doesn't say anything else, and stands there until his father glances up and says, "Dismissed," as if he's in class. Matt hasn't questioned him since he was fifteen, and he's not going to start it up again now.
It's colder outside when he leaves, but the snow has slowed significantly. The walk to the grocery store is ten more blocks away than the school is, and Matt feels his toes go numb in his boots after the fifth count. Liam's across the road from the school, shoveling out his driveway, but makes it a point to jog over to the street Matt's on to say hello. "You look like you're freezing; wanna come in and warm up?"
Sometimes, Matt gets the distinct feeling that Liam knows; the way his eyes follow him through the hallways in school, the guarded questions Liam sometimes asks about his father. But he's never said anything, and so far, the police haven't turned up on Matt's doorstep, so he doesn't question it.
"No," Matt says, shakily; he tells himself it's from the cold and not the fear of his father finding out. "I have to get some things for my… mom. She caught a nasty flu." Immediately, he thinks of the dog food. Great - how am I supposed to bring it home?
He doesn't mention the dog to Liam.
Liam nods in understanding, albeit warily, then continues with, "Are you sure? Mom's already making coffee and hot cocoa; she'd probably do it for you, too."
Matt shakes his head. "No, I'd better be going. She's really sick." Liam eyes him suspiciously, but nods again anyway.
"All right. Stop by on your way back if you change your mind, yeah?" even as he's agreeing, Matt's thinking of ways to get back home just as fast, with a forty pound bag of dog food, through another route that doesn't cross past Liam's house. Liam pats his shoulder - Matt manages to hide his flinch - and goes back to shoveling his driveway. Matt watches him for a moment, and then continues on his way.
Even for a snow day without school, the store isn't booming with business, though Matt hadn't honestly expected it in this weather. He knows the police officer that sits across the street feels very strongly about loitering - and prostitution - and the clerk that just adds what he owes to a tab isn't working; Matt hadn't seen her car in the parking lot. He has no choice to go in unless he wants to be questioned by a police officer, or worse, depending on what kind of signals he unknowingly sends out.
Matt takes a deep breath and enters the supermarket. He's acutely aware that he's being timed by his father, and the more time spent worrying about finding the money to pay for what he's getting just means less time he has in private without his father breathing down his neck.
The young blonde girl who works register-one smiles as he walks in and Matt sort of returns it before he can fully think about it. Ginger ale and dog food, he thinks absently, beelining for the pet aisle before anyone can start thinking he'll steal something. That's the last thing he needs: somebody freaking out over him stealing something so that the police officer across the street can return him to his father.
The biggest bag the have in stock is ten pounds. Matt doesn't even get to enjoy the relief that floods his body before the voice in his head says forty pounds; he wants forty pounds, he always does. He swallows as he reaches for each bag, heart sinking into his stomach when he only finds three.
"He's going to kill me," Matt says under his breath. Images flood his mind, but Matt shakes his head of the thought of his father strangling him over dog food, and juggles the three bags into his arms and heads for the soda aisle. He receives strange looks from people pushing carts with three items in them, but he's grown accustomed to worse staring than their staring; the holes that their eyes glare into his back are hardly noticeable.
He grabs one of the bottles of ginger ale after a moment of uncertainty; his father hadn't specified how he wanted the ginger ale to return home, and after two years of total specification ("the green box, not the bullshit yellow box!"), Matt isn't sure what to do with himself.
After that, he backtracks to the checkouts and gets in line behind the bright 'number-one' sign hanging from the ceiling above the checkout. If anyone would follow Cassie's trail in regards to Matt's tab, this girl seems like she would be it. If she even knows what he'll be talking about, which she probably won't.
When the woman in front of him has finally gathered her things into her cart, Matt gratefully drops the dog food onto the conveyor belt. The girl blinks at the items, as though she isn't registering them, then at Matt, and then says, slowly, "Carts are available, sir and if you need assistance carrying your items to the car, there are employees available."
Matt had somehow managed not to cringe at her deciding to call him sir, but he can't stop it from showing as he says, "I walked."
The surprised and confused look on her face almost sets off alarms in his head, and he immediately thinks, I should fix it. Lie; a bike, a skateboard, a jet plane, anything, but she smiles after a moment of hesitance and rings up the dog food and the ginger ale without another word.
"Forty-three fifty-two," she says, looking at him expectantly. Matt's heart beats once, twice, slowly.
"I have a tab. Matthew Riley?"
The girl looks understandably confused, but she's smart enough to be subtle about it. Matt feels his defenses weakening a little; maybe he could trust her, too.
"Sorry, sir?"
"Claire," Matt tells her. "She had a tab set up for me. I mean, I don't normally come when she isn't working. Uh… Special circumstance."
The girl frowns, but not at him, as she turns around and searches through the cash drawer, presumably for a hint as to what the hell he's talking about. Matt feels the seconds ticking by, and he swears that time speeds up as adrenaline seeps into his veins. Finally, she turns back around and apologizes. "I'm sorry, I don't…"
Matt tries to hold it back, but his anxiety always brings along hyperventilation. The clerk doesn't seem to know what to do; neither does Matt. For a moment, he stands, clutching at his head uncertainly. What the hell is he going to do?
"Put it on my bill," a voice behind him says, young but clearly fatigued. Matt feels his tense muscles relax as he turns around. The voice belongs to a man in what Matt thinks is his late twenties, very uninterested in anything other than pulling out money from his wallet. The cashier catches up quickly, and rings up his items as well - a frozen pizza and a twelve pack of beer. "Fifty-six sixty," she says.
The man hands over three twenty-dollar bills like they're paper, and Matt catches a glimpse of at least five more in his wallet. He isn't dressed like he has a lot of money, and truth be told, Matt knows nothing about him, so he can't be that famous. When he looks around, though, hoping for some sort of clue, the girls behind him in line are giggling and clutching each other's hands. Matt rolls his eyes.
He presses change into Matt's hand. "Here, kid," he says, voice still seemingly tired, even though his eyes aren't. "Get yourself something to drink, you look like you're about to die from dehydration."
Truthfully, Matt wouldn't be surprised; he isn't sure when the last time he had something to drink was, even if he knows that the last time he'd eaten was breakfast the day before. But still; Matt imagines that even drinking water is something that Bill prefers on the 'no-no' list, whether the list is a tangible thing or just something sitting in the back of Bill's mind ready to screw Matt over whenever he's getting a little too bored. How is he supposed to tell this guy that he can't get a drink, of any sort?
As he lifts his pizza from the conveyor belt, the man looks at Matt strangely. "Damn, how old are you? You can't even be twenty years old yet." He tucks the pizza under his arm.
"Uh," Matt says, tucking the money safely away in his pocket. "No, I'm seventeen."
He pushes his wallet back into his jeans and eyes Matt as he picks up the beer with his other hand. "Seventeen…" he says, pulling the pizza back down to his side, and for a moment, his eyes glaze over as though he's deep in thought. He eyes Matt's dog food and says, "And you… walked all the way here."
"Exercise," Matt says by means of explanation, hoping the man will buy it. He does, nodding slowly.
"It's snowing again. Let me give you a ride."
Red flags go up in Matt's head; not because the guy's strange or anything but because he knows his father will be watching, and timing, and he can't risk it. So, he picks up the dog food and says, "I can't. I mean, I appreciate the offer, but I can't."
The man nods, and then continues with, "I'm Dallas Heath. I'm twenty-seven years old, I'm already pretty much a retired actor, and I never thought I'd be so unsatisfied with my life. There, you already know more than my mother does. So we're not strangers, and you can let me drive you home."
Truth be told, the idea of going with him - and even being kidnapped or kept hostage by someone other than his own father - is far friendlier than going home and facing whatever he has to bring. Unfortunately, the ramifications of that - his father finding out, mostly, and punishing him however he feels he should - scares him into being the good son he's been since his mother got sick. Taking orders and refusing to defy them, no matter what.
"I'm sorry; I - I get car sick. I can't. I want to, really, I just, I can't."
He's aware that the cashier is watching carefully and that the people in line are getting angry, so he picks up the ginger ale and smiles apologetically to Dallas before he turns around and leaves. He feels Dallas's eyes on him all the way out. Stumbling through snow three feet deep is already difficult enough, without thirty pounds in his arms. He falls three times, drops each bag at least as many times, and pops a hole in the bottle of ginger ale, and he has to carry it sideways so it loses as little as possible.
His jacket is sticky with sugar and soaked through, but he knows he won't be able to clean it until his father is away at work and he's home alone, so he deals with it. The dog barks as soon as Matt steps foot onto the porch. Matt ignores the way the hair on the back of his neck stands up, and enters the house.
Low voices are coming from the living room, and the dog's barking gets louder and louder until a high-pitched yelp reaches Matt's ears. "Shut up!" his father says. The dog trots, shamefully, into the entryway and nudges at Matt's foot; it's the most affection that Matt has ever received from the dog, though he's willing to bet that it's just because his father had taken his frustration out on the dog instead of him. "Matt! Get in here, I have a surprise."
This time, when the hairs on his neck raise, he pays attention. He doesn't drop the dog food - despite the way his arms ache - and follows the dog back into the living room. Matt's heart drops into his stomach again, and he's amazed he hasn't dropped the dog food in his arms.
Bill's sitting on the couch.
"Listen, Matt. Bill's nephew is coming out this weekend, so he won't be able to have you then. So he'll be taking you now. I've already called your school."
He catches sight of what Matt's still carrying in his arms, then turns to Bill and mumbles something into his ear. Matt's heart beats faster than he ever remembers it beating as Bill's smile turns evil. Matt hides the shiver.
"Anyway. You'll be spending the next few days with him." His father smiles. "You're able to reason that, right?"
Matt feels like throwing up. He's glad he hadn't even chanced the water.
"Matt?" The tone of his father's voice is clearly 'don't fuck with me', and Matt nods, just once. He doesn't look at Bill. "Good. Go put the dog food in the basement."
Matt finds himself back when he was fifteen, when this all started; Bill had been there, too; just as ominous and uninviting and sickening, and Matt had paid for questioning his father that first time.
"How old is he?"
"Fifteen."
"Christ, he's still young. Are you sure about this?"
"He gets off on the rape fantasy stuff, don't worry. He can take a lot more than you'll believe."
Matt forces the bile back down his throat, and ducks out of the room and into the basement. Bill's raucous laughter triggers a laugh of his own, albeit less rough and more sick. At this point, he's concerned that if he doesn't laugh, he'll throw up or cry or scream.
The sick, manipulative mind games, not just played with Matt, are just the beginning of his cruel and twisted nightmare of a life. Sometimes, he fears - no, remembers - that the only way out is something religion pushers say damn every soul; the ultimately selfish and free-will act, and Matt has already sworn he'll never do it.
He's not a coward. He can face whatever his father, or Bill, or anyone else hurls at him. His eighteenth birthday is a short trek of ten months away. After that: freedom.