Page 18 of Creatures Like Us
“I wanna watch TV or something.”
“I don’t have a TV.” Auntie used to say TVs rot your mind.
“What?” Asher says with a huff of laughter. “You’re even weirder than I thought.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. Oh, how I hate it when he calls me weird, like the kids at school used to, and oh, how I hatethe way he smirks in triumph when he sees my reaction to his accomplished insult. He seems to revel in it, glaring at me with the same sadistic glint in his eyes as his bully of a big brother.
“Fine.” I hold out a hand. “If you don’t want the books, you don’t need to have them.”
“No. I want them.” He crawls up the bed, flinching away from the mere suggestion of my touch. His face is ghostly pale, enhancing the dark bags under his eyes, and his skin is covered in cold sweat.
I’ll give him a bath soon, but right now, he’s too prickly for me to even dare make the suggestion. I want to take care of him, but he won’t let me. He won’t stop fighting me at every turn, making fun of me whenever he gets the chance. I suppose I shouldn’t blame him, considering the predicament he’s in. He would make it easier on himself if he just surrendered to it though. I’ll give him anything he asks, except for two things: freedom and drugs. But those two seem to be the only things he wants.
I empty the bucket and bring him a second one to make it easier for him to manage his needs.
“If you need anything else, just call for me.”
“It’s nice to be such a spoiled guest,” he says dryly.
This time, I understand the sarcasm.
Chapter 7
Asher
MaybeIshouldn’tbeso mean to my kidnapper. He might get sick of me one day and slit my throat, but then again, considering the way my life has been going lately, maybe I wouldn’t mind.
I’m stuck in the basement of some loner weirdo, I shit and piss in a bucket, and worst of all, I have no drugs.
Said loner weirdo doesn’t seem like the usual serial killers and rapists, though, like the ones in the true crime documentaries Lilith forced me to watch. Noah just seems lonely. Maybe he keeps me here because he wants a friend or something.
Ugh, just my luck to end up as some loner’s emotional support teddy bear.
Maybe it would be better if he just killed me. As long as it’s painless; I fucking hate pain. Drugs take my pain away, so go figure. Freedom, on the other hand?…?Freedom just meansreturning to the outside world—the world that made me turn to drugs in the first place. If I could just have my drugs, I wouldn’t care all that much about being locked up?…
I look up at the ceiling with a sigh. How fucking sad. How pathetic.
Smoking that cigarette was a mistake. It only made me feel even more nauseous than before. I toss and turn, unable to find rest. When I’m not puking, I’m crying, and when I’m not crying, I’m shivering, curling up into a miserable ball on the bed.
What did I do to deserve this? Why did I do this to myself in the first place? So fucking stupid. I thought I could control it. I thought I was just having some fun. That I was numbing my pain. It used to be just once in a while, but during the past few weeks, I’ve had to shoot up in the morning just to go to class.
It snuck up on me, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Sorry to who, I don’t know.
Sorry to myself.
Sorry for doing this to my body.
But those thoughts pass quickly, interchanged with the cravings for relief, the substance that will make me feel better again. I don’t even need to leave this basement. I don’t even need to be free. I just need it, more than anything.
The sheets are soaked in my cold sweat. The little light coming from the window is hurting my eyes, and I try to sleep, but I can’t. I can only cry and barf and shiver and wonder if I’ll ever feel better or if I’ve ruined my body for good.
Will I ever get out of here, or will I be stuck in this basement in eternal purgatory? Will I die down here, after chasing away the only person who can save me, the only person who can bring me any kind of relief? If only in the form of a glass of water. If only in the form of company while I’m going through this hell, even though I hate him. I hate him?…
I see his face before my eyes, and I imagine him upstairs, doing whatever it is he’s doing. I wish he would come down here; I wish he would tend to me. But I chased him away. Why did I do that?
I wipe my tears on the pillow, tasting bile in the back of my throat. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this bad. I don’t think I’ve ever been this desperate. And I don’t think I’ve longed for something this badly.
I lose track of time. When every minute is agony, it feels like an eternity has passed, and I fear Noah has forgotten all about me. That I pissed him off too much, that he’s given up on me for good. The thought makes me cry harder, until at last, I fall asleep from sheer exhaustion.
