Page 10

eight

It's a Texture Thing

Noah

" H oney, we're home," Tate says.

Five more minutes, I think, refusing to open my eyes. Just five more minutes of pretending this is okay—that's all I want.

"Let's go, Noah," he says, patting my ass. "Get up. We're going inside."

I open my eyes, stretching my aching body and taking stock of my injuries.

Everything hurts. It seems like it hurts more now that I've slept. My ankle, my shoulder. My hip hurts—maybe from the jump or maybe from limping the way I did.

Between my legs and the back of my throat hurts.

Silas opens the door and helps me out of the vehicle. "Do you have a way to get inside?"

"Um, yeah," I tell him. "The garage door has a code."

He guides me toward the garage with Tate behind us, and I type in the passcode. The door lifts, and I lead them into the house, disabling the alarm once inside.

"Where's the kitchen?" Silas asks.

"It's…that way. Through the living room and th en to the right."

He doesn't explain before heading in that direction.

"Nice house," Tate says.

I'm not sure how to respond to that. Objectively, it is a nice house. But what happens inside this house…it isn't nice at all, and I wish I'd never stepped foot in this place.

"I guess," I say, shrugging.

"Is your room upstairs?"

"Yeah."

"Come on; I'll help you."

I wrap an arm around him, and we make our way to the staircase. Once we reach the steps, he picks me up, carrying me to the top.

"You could just throw me down the stairs, you know. Get it over with."

He laughs, and I wait for him to say something like, I was never really going to kill you, Noah. I care about you too much to do something like that.

Instead, he says, "Nah, I've seen you jump from a second-story window. You'd probably just stick the landing. Which room is yours?"

"The one at the end of the hall."

Once we reach the threshold, Tate sets me down, and I flip on the light.

"Damn, this is your room?" he asks. "It suits you."

I scoff. "Yeah, no, it doesn't."

"It looks like sunshine in here," he says, looking over the paintings on the wall. "That's how you look to me—like sunshine. "

His gaze drops to the boxes near the wall, filled with books and assorted personal items—the kinds of things I wouldn't have needed over the next few days. He stops at a box with a framed photograph of me with Mia at our junior prom sitting on top and picks it up, smiling just a little.

In the photo, I have a tight, closed-lip smile the way I always did before because my teeth embarrassed me. Mia beams from ear to ear, her smile just as wide and perfect as Tate's, the same hazel eyes sparkling more than her sequined pink ball gown. I wore something even louder—a black dress with a deep 'v' dipping down to my belly button. It screamed, look at me—see me, want me, touch me; someone for once fucking notice me , but it didn't work. Tate had a date, Mia had Levi, and I went with someone who ditched me as soon as he got the chance.

I took their car and left alone a couple of hours later. Silas made me feel better, though—when we were still just friends.

"I tried to talk to her," I tell him. "I never hated her."

He turns the photo over in his hands and tosses it back into the box.

"Where were you going to go to school?"

Were.

"University of Oregon." I turn away, blinking back tears. "I'm just going to…take a shower," I say, opening my bathroom door.

"You have your own bathroom?" he asks, following me inside. "It's cute. Is this your closet?"

Before I can answer, he opens the door to my walk-in closet and steps inside. "Oh, shit. What happened in here?"

"What? What do you mean? "

When I enter the closet, my heart sinks. On the floor are the shredded remnants of my wardrobe, and at my feet, a pair of kitchen shears. It's fitting, really. It's like the universe knew I would cease to exist soon, and decided to start getting rid of the evidence early.

"Did he do this?" Tate asks.

I shrug. This time, when I blink, I'm unable to prevent tears from rolling down my cheeks.

Probably. But I guess it could have been my mother, too. Maybe they even did it together.

"Hey, it's okay," Tate says. "You don't need this stuff anymore, anyway. Go ahead and shower; just make it quick. I'll find something you can still wear."

I limp toward the shower, turning on the water while Tate looks through the pile of shredded clothing. I don't wait for it to warm before stripping down, pushing back the curtain, and stepping inside.

It's cold enough that it momentarily takes my breath away, but it doesn't really matter. The shock to my system is a nice break from the pain.

I sit on the bench, lathering up my loofa, and begin washing my body, tensing when I hear footsteps in the bathroom stopping just outside the curtain.

"Are you okay?" Tate asks.

I swallow a lump in my throat before answering. "Yeah."

"Do you need any help?"

"No."

"Okay. You have three minutes, Noah. I put some clothes on the sink for you. "

He waits a beat, and when I don't answer, I hear his boots against the tile, heading back to the bedroom. Assuming I only have two minutes to spare, I finish scrubbing my body and then hurriedly wash my hair.

I turn off the water, step onto the rug, grab a towel, and sit on the toilet lid before drying myself off. There's a pair of black underwear on the counter that hasn't been destroyed, so I slip those on. The jeans have a few cuts in them, but they aren't unwearable, so I put those on, too, before pulling on a dark green sweatshirt.

No bra, though. I'm not sure if it's because there wasn't anything salvageable or if it's for lack of trying—not that it matters. I wrap a towel around my hair and step out of the bathroom. Tate sits at my vanity while Silas stretches out across my bed with a cleaver in one hand and a knife sharpener in the other.

Not ominous at all.

Tate stands, gesturing toward the bench seat. "Sit."

I sit in front of the mirror, looking not at my own reflection, but at Silas and the knife.

"Hey, Noah," Silas says, filing the blade. "Found what I was looking for."

"What do you mean?"

I'm so distracted by Silas—by the motion, by the sound of the cleaver running through the sharpener—that I don't even notice Tate behind me, removing the towel from my head and using it to wring out my hair.

"Do you feel better?" he asks.

"Um, a little. I guess. "

He grabs a hairbrush from the vanity and begins running it through my hair. And it feels…really fucking nice. I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, forgetting again what we're doing here—that hours ago, I left a house full of dead bodies, and now one of the killers is brushing my hair and the other is behind me, reclining on my bed while sharpening a knife.

I missed them. And if I can pretend none of that other stuff is real, I don't even notice that hole in my chest.

Tate sets the brush down in front of me and places his hands on my shoulders, rubbing the sore muscles.

"Remember what I told you about what we were going to do for you?" he asks.

In the mirror, I watch Silas stand, crossing the room until he's behind me, too.

"You didn't tell me," I say. "You just said you were going to help me understand you."

"We're going to help you get your own revenge. Which of these rooms does your stepdad sleep in?"

"Um, their room is downstairs, but I don't—" I start.

"Don't worry; I'll find it," Silas says. "Hold this." He passes Tate the cleaver knife and leaves the room.

"Silas!" I shout. "Silas, stop! I don't want to!"

He turns the corner, making his way down the staircase without looking back at me. I stumble a little when I start down the stairs after him, and Tate appears at my side.

"There's just no talking to him when he's like this," he says, smiling.

"Silas!" I scream again as Tate helps me to my feet .

"Easy on that ankle, baby. I've got you." He wraps an arm around me, and I lean on him, letting him help me down the staircase. "I want you to know that it's okay if you like this, Noah. There's nothing wrong with it—with any of it. I don't want you to feel guilty for enjoying the things that we've done or what happens next."

"Well…what's happening next?"

He doesn't answer, but I think I know.

By the time we reach the bottom of the stairs, Silas is already hauling Paul into the dining room. Blood runs from his nose down his chin as he struggles against his hold, but Silas has five inches on the older man as well as thirty pounds of muscle and infinite rage.

"Sit!" Silas shouts when they reach the table. Tate pulls out a chair and hands Silas the meat cleaver.

"Who are you?" Paul cries out. "You can take whatever you want! I have money!"

"We don't care about your fucking money," Tate says.

Paul looks at Tate, recognition flashing in his eyes. Tate is hard not to notice anyway, but with the blue hair, he's easily recognizable. Next, he notices me, and then looks at Silas before turning back to Tate again.

"I know you," he says, appearing to relax a little. "I know both of you. You're just…what? A couple of nineteen-year-old kids? Whatever you do here, I will be pressing charges, and you will go to jail." He turns to me. "It's not worth it…for whatever this lying whore said to you. She's not even that pretty."

It happens so fast it's almost like it isn't real—like I'm watching a movie. In one swift motion, Silas grabs Paul's hand, pinning it to the wooden table while raising the cleaver knife overhead with the other, and then brings it down on his wrist.

It slices clean through the bone and gets stuck in the table. Silas has to tug on it twice to get it free.

Paul screams, falling from the chair onto the floor, his remaining hand gripping the other wrist while it spouts blood, and the other hand just…sits there…on the table.

"I always thought this would be a fair punishment for men who hit women," Silas says calmly. "Come over here, Noah."

"Help!" Paul screams through his sobs. "Kathy! Help me!"

"Silas, you need to get out of here! My mom is going to call the police."

"Nah, I've got their phones in my pocket," Silas says. He kneels on the floor with his knee on Paul's back, immobilizing him. "Come on, Noah." He extends the knife toward me. "It'll feel good; I promise."

"What are you talking about? What will feel good?"

When I don't move, Tate shoves me forward. Stumbling on my injured ankle, I end up on my knees beside Silas, who takes my hand, presses the knife handle into my palm, and then closes my fingers around it.

Then he pins Paul's arm against the hardwood floor. "Go ahead, Noah. He deserves it. It's not a bad thing; it's the right thing."

"I'll kill you," Paul says, gasping for air, his breath loud and labored now. "I'll fucking kill you, Noah!"

Even through my fear, I laugh a little because…I know he's not going to do anything to me ever again. No one is—except for Tate .

"Do it now, Noah!" Tate screams, pulling me back into the moment.

"He hurt you; he hurt your mom. And he'll keep doing it if he can. He ruined your life," Silas says.

Tate saunters up to the table, picking up the dismembered hand by its index finger, and tosses it onto the floor beside me. "One could argue he had a hand in my sister's death, too. Things could have been different if she had a friend around."

I stare at the heap of bloody flesh at my side, and my vision blurs. But Tate's kind of right, isn't he? If it weren't for him, we never would have moved, and it probably would have forced us all to make up, no matter what that looked like. I could have had more—more of Tate brushing my hair, more of Silas holding me and sheltering me from the rest of the world. I could have Mia, and I wouldn't have this hole.

"What are you…what are you talking about?" Paul sobs.

Apparently, he's given up on shouting for help. Maybe I was right—maybe Mom is using again, and it'll take a lot more than a little dismemberment to get her out of bed.

"Don't be a wimp, Noah," Silas says.

"She's always been a wimp," Tate says. "She used to be better at following fucking directions, though."

I glare at him.

"Oh…didn't like that one, did you?" he asks.

"You stupid fucking whore," Paul spits. "I'm gonna—"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence before Silas punches him in the face.

"DO IT NOW, NOAH!" Silas screams— screams —in my face through clenched teeth.

He's terrifying, like that time in the back alley, and all I can do is react. I lift the cleaver overhead, screaming, and then bring it down on his wrist.

My aim isn't as good as Silas's—the knife comes down at kind of an angle—and I definitely don't possess his size or strength, so it doesn't slice clean through.

It feels good, though, just like he said. I bring it up and back down—again and again. Four times it takes before the hand finally separates from the arm.

I let the knife fall to the ground and sit back on the floor, my entire body shaking with some mix of shock and adrenaline.

"Good girl," Silas says, placing his hands on my shoulders. "You did so fucking good, Noah."

He leans in, kissing my face, my lips, and pulling me into him. But I can't really move. I can't speak.

"I'm so proud of you, baby," Silas continues as Paul wails. "Look at that worthless asshole. He won't be able to hurt anyone anymore. You did that to him."

Paul rolls onto his back, his eyes closing, but I can still see his abdomen rising and falling slightly, so he's breathing. He's still alive.

"Misuse it, you lose it. Do you get it now, Noah?" Tate asks. "How good it can feel to make someone pay? He's giving up, and he's going to bleed out. He's fucking helpless, and you made him that way. How many times did you and your mom feel helpless because of him?"

"What…what did you do?"

I look up and see my mom crossing the room…with a gun in her hand .

"What did you do, you little bitch?!" she screams.

She barrels toward me, raising the weapon at her side and pointing it directly at my head before firing.

Pain. All I feel is white hot pain before I hit the floor.

Silas lunges for her legs just as the sound rings out, taking her down, the gun sliding across the hardwood floor. I watch him from behind, driving the knife into her body over and over again, until I close my eyes, unable to watch anymore.

He's killing her. He's killing my mom.

"Hey," Tate says, appearing at my side. "You're okay. Where does it hurt?"

It's my arm or my shoulder—the entire left side of my body is on fire, but I can't speak to answer. He runs his hands over my body, over my torso and neck before turning my head and pushing them through my hair…until finally, he closes his hand around my upper arm.

"Ahhh!" I scream.

"Okay," he says, studying the wound through the torn sleeve of my sweatshirt. He sticks his fucking finger it in, and I scream again. "This is okay, Noah. It just grazed you—it's a scratch."

A scratch? It was a bullet! That's what I'd say if I were capable of speaking, but I'm not. I'm in shock, trapped inside my own mind. My mother grabbed a gun, aimed it at my head, and pulled the trigger. If Silas hadn't lunged at her, my own mother would have killed me.

My chest hurts. I didn't know. I didn't know she hated me this much .

And now she's dead. She must be, right? Because Silas is standing over me with a bloody knife in his hand, and she's somewhere else, not moving, not making a sound.

I start to cry, and it quickly turns into hysterics.

"Hey, it's okay," Tate says, appearing at my side again. "You're okay. This is going to hurt, though, Noah. Take a deep breath."

I don't know what he's talking about, and I don't care. I don't bother taking any kind of intentional breath because how could anything hurt right now?

My mom tried to kill me.

My mom didn't want me on the planet, breathing air anymore.

As I sob, Tate rips the torn sleeve from my sweatshirt, tying it around the top of my arm, and then pours what I assume is alcohol of some sort onto the wound.

I guess it burns.

He sits me up, pulling me into his lap just in time to watch Silas split Paul open from his sternum to his waistline. Then he—or it least it looks like it's what he's doing from this angle in the darkened room, but it doesn't make sense—plunges his fist into the wound.

"Silas…"

It comes out in a whisper. It took every ounce of my energy to produce that one word, just his name, and it doesn't even register.

Stop. That's what I want to tell him .

"It's better not to talk to him when he's like this, baby," Tate says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "You know that. This is how I like him, though—hard."

When he removes his hand from Paul's chest cavity, there's something clutched in his fist.

It's a part of him—maybe the spleen. I think it's too small to be a liver, but I don't really know; I've never seen either in real life, fresh from a dead body.

I watch as Silas sinks his teeth into it, and when he turns to me again, blood drips down his chin while his jaw works, grinding the organ between his teeth.

"Take a bite," he says, holding it to my mouth.

Pressing my lips together in a tight line, I shake my head.

"Just do it, Noah," Tate says. "It's not a big deal. We're all just meat."

"Just a little bite. He should have stayed out of our woods. This is what he gets," Silas says.

I shake my head again.

"Do it now!" Silas screams, pushing it past my lips. I feel the organ against my teeth, taste the blood in my mouth, and I just want it to stop.

And so, I take a bite. A small bite, turning my head to the side and gagging at the feeling of flesh on my tongue.

Tate slaps his hand over my mouth before I can spit it out.

"Swallow it," he says.

I shake my head.

"Swallow it fucking now, Noah, or the next bite will be bigger. "

I try my best to swallow it three or four times, but it won't go down whole. I give up, crushing it into tiny pieces between my molars. It's soft, kind of like fruit, and easy to grind.

It takes a few tries, but I manage to swallow the tissue.

"Is it done?" Tate asks once I finally stop retching.

When I nod, he removes his hand. "Show us."

I wipe my bloody mouth with my remaining sleeve and then open wide for both of them to see. Once satisfied that I've swallowed it all, Tate takes the organ from Silas and sinks his teeth into it.

"Mmm. It's a texture thing. I get it; it's not great," he says, tossing the bloody mass aside. "All right, let's go. Can you walk?"

Walk? I can't talk.

"I've got her," Silas says. "We'll go out through the garage again. We should hurry, though. We'll be lucky if no one heard that gunshot, and we're fucked if they did."

Silas leans down, picking me up, and carries me through the living room, stepping over my mom's body on the way to the door, the weapon she shot me with lying just to her side.

I shouldn't have looked.

She's wearing Christmas pajamas—the ones I bought for her last year—the white and red shredded flannel material drenched in blood and clinging to what's left of her torso. Her lifeless, glossy green eyes follow me until we're out of sight.

Silas sets me down in Tate's lap in the passenger seat and then gets in on the driver's side and starts the car .

We pull away from the house, and I know it's the last time I'll ever see it. It's the last time I'll ever see this neighborhood, this town. It's the last time I'll see anything.

And inside each of the cookie cutter houses—with their matching exterior lights all set to turn on at the same time every night—everyone else is just sleeping. Tomorrow, maybe they'll send thoughts and prayers like they did when Mia died, and then they'll sleep just fine again.

"You ruined everything."

I surprise myself when I hear the words aloud instead of just inside my head.

Tate threads his fingers through my hair, still damp from my shower, his thumb tracing circles against that spot behind my ear again.

"I didn't mean to," he says. "I never wanted to hurt you . And I get it. I know you think I don't, but I do, because I do understand you."

"No, you don't."

"I do. You needed someone to love you out loud so that you'd believe it. I can't really explain why I couldn't do it. It wasn't anything you did wrong."

I'm far too tired, far too broken at a visceral, soul-shredding level to listen to any of this. The fabric of my existence has been mangled, splintered into something I don't even want to look at anymore. I can't take anymore.

"I just want it to be over. I want to be clean, too."

"Hey, it's your song." Tate leans forward, turning up the volume. "Hey There Delilah" by Plain White T's plays on the stereo. "The world will never be the same, and you're to blame, sweetheart."

But it's not my song. I'm not sure it's my fault, but the world won't ever be the same. That version of me—of the three of us—it doesn't exist; it hasn't existed for a long time. And now, we'll always be this. We'll always be the runaways—the cannibals from my childhood bedtime story.

The murderers and their victim who mistook this all for love.

"Hey, what's worse than death?"

What? What is this? A riddle? A threat? "Tate, I can't…I don't have the energy."

"In the house, you said there were things worse than death. What's worse?"

This, I think. All of this is worse. Being tricked into a sexual relationship with two of your friends and falling in love with them, only to find out they weren't capable of loving someone like you out loud—and he's right. It is what I needed. Now, I'll never know what that feels like.

Your best friend taking her own life when you're on bad terms and knowing you'll never get the chance to fix it.

Watching your mother's husband abuse her. Your own mother pointing a gun at you and pulling the trigger. Stepping over her dead body.

This is all worse.

"The hole," I tell him.

He can't possibly know what I'm talking about, but he never asks for clarification, nodding before kissing my forehead. I close my eyes, letting fresh tears roll down my cheeks.