Chapter 12: Part Three

Day Two

He had a dream that something heavy, violent, was trying to climb it's way out of his chest, and awoke to his own violent coughing. Poison. It's how he thought of the filthy water covering his prison floor, and even while he'd managed to get a lot of it to drain, he'd also managed to inhale more than he wanted to think about in his restless sleep. Twice now. And his skin itched. He'd clawed at his own arms, his neck, his face, trying to make it stop. Completely saturated, he felt infested. Crawling... but crawling with what?

Gasping, David sat upright, his hand moving roughly along the wall as he desperately searched for the lighter, swatted at his own face with his free hand in an attempt to receive himself from some unseen, unbearable pest. And then it was there, cool in his hand, he closed his eyes tightly, hoping it wasn't too wet. Flick. He opened his eyes to a warm flame, and sighed. It seemed somehow bigger, hotter each time he used the lighter. And as he looked down over his body, he felt relief. He was damp, and filthy, sore and scratched up, but there was nothing he could see that was crawling. And the light made him feel better, but there was no excuse to keep using it. No need to waste. It was day again. He could tell from the small amount of light coming through the vent. It wasn't as good as the lighter, but after all the nights he'd spent in the basement—in the dark, even a little light was something. And David hated the dark. He hated how it isolated him until he disappeared, how it had sometimes taken a full day to see clearly again after being allowed out. Even all the times that Oliver had insisted on staying with him, if only for short periods before their parents would fish him out and leave David alone had never soothed his fear of it. But now he had some light, so he let the lighter flicker out.

And a moment later he was holding the flame out in front of him again, moving to his feet as if startled.

David winced. His ankle was still tender, and his head swam from the motion, but he was up, and too distracted to care about discomfort as he stared across the room, somewhere below the steel plate that served as a locked door. He blinked a few times, as if the red and white lunch box—the hard kind that served as a mini cooler—was a figment of his imagination that could disappear if he didn't act with caution. He took a step. And then another. It was still there. He smiled like a fool for a brief moment, like he'd one some sort of game. But, the happy face was soon replaced by one of suspicion as he eyed the lunch box, and moved closer. He didn't see it as a relief for his growling stomach for several long moments, but as an intruder instead, the kind that showed up while he was sleeping. Not paying attention. Holding the lighter lower to the ground, he took a quick look around, wondering if there was anything else he missed. By the time his eyes reached the tall bottle of water his light only lasted long enough to remember where it was before the flame went out and he was on the ground, reaching, lifting... drinking.

He didn't realize that water could actually taste good. It had always been just water, and it wasn't as if it were the first time he'd been deprived of such a basic necessity, but this... it was perfect, soothing, and cold against his dry throat, washing away the foul taste he'd been unable to wash from his mouth from his earlier vomiting. But, as soon as he thought of pouring some over his head to wash away the grime he stopped, catching the error in his actions. Coughing, catching his breath, he weighed the bottle in his hand, cursing himself when he'd decided that he'd already drunk down nearly half without knowing that there'd be more coming. But still, he was tempted enough to give in and take one more sip before sealing the bottle and tucking it under his arm.

David reached for the lunch box next, intending to take it back to his corner, which he'd decided was the warmest part of the room. But, he didn't make it that far before that, too, was open and he was reaching in, finding what felt like two plastic wrapped sandwiches, which he found no interest in once he felt the small thermos. And it was warm. He lifted it in both hands, held it to his chest... to his neck, his face, and he closed his eyes, imagining for a brief moment that the small amount of heat he felt was everywhere, burring him, like being in his own bed covered in the electric blankets that Oliver was so fond of in the winter. And for a moment, he imagined that he was comfortable. Comfort would have meant everything to him just then, which his why he made a point to not waste too much time wishing for it as he opened the thermos and sniffed at the contents. Soup. He couldn't quite tell if it was chicken broth or some kind of beef stew, but either sounded good, and he sipped without caution, oblivious to the way that the hot liquid scalded his tongue before slipping down his throat. He chewed a soft potato between his teeth, and lifted the mug higher in search of more.

And then he heard something. Something that he imagined he wasn't supposed to hear from in there. David closed his mug and placed it carefully back into the cooler before he stood and moved closer to the vent where he strained to hear. His right ear sounded muffled, water logged, and so he turned his head to listen with the left. One. Two... One. Two. Three. Four. Footsteps in the grass.

"Hey!" his voice cracked, his throat ached, but he made it work again, anyway. "Hey! Who's out there?"

"I hear you, David."

David took in a breath, let it out slowly, and closed his eyes. He almost cried, but didn't, of course, because David Martin just didn't do things like that. "Oliver!"

"I hear you, David!" Oliver repeated, louder this time, feeling laced in his voice. "But... but..."

Oliver's words trailed off, and David struggled to be patent. "I can hear you, too, Oliver," he called up. "But only when you talk loud... and you've gotta hold still, alright? It's easier to hear when you're not movin' around."

Apart from the sound of his own breathing, David heard silence for several moments, and began to feel uncertain.

"Oliver?"

"I'm not moving now, David... and I can still hear you."

David sighed. "Good, so listen, okay?" he found himself leaning against the wall, suddenly feeling exhausted, and eyed the lunch box. He's eat more, he decided. Regain his strength... talk to his brother. "Right... I need you to find out how long they plan on keeping me down here... it's different this time, I don't know if I can..."

"But, David, I'm not supposed to," Oliver interrupted, his voice sounding absent in a way that seemed familiar to David. "I'm not supposed to hear you anymore. And I'm not supposed to see you. I don't, David. I don't see you, so I'm good, right? Right, David?"

David found himself slowly looking up, picturing his brother sitting somewhere above, not noticing the wet grass seeping through his clothing... and he went numb inside. He didn't become frustrated or confused, or even angry that Oliver didn't seem to grasp the severity of his predicament, because David knew better. He knew Oliver.

"Oliver... why aren't you supposed to hear me anymore?" he asked, and when he found no response from his brother, he shouted the question. "Why aren't you supposed to hear me, Oliver?"

"Because you're not real, David."

"What?"

"But I know the truth," Oliver continued. "So I told her... I told her it's a lie. You're my brother, David. I told her you're my brother."

David could have asked many questions just then, but he found himself staring straight ahead, darkness swarming his vision as he swallowed against his sore throat. "What did she say?" he finally asked.

"It's a secret."

"What she said is a secret?" David asked, perplexed. Oliver didn't keep secrets from him.

"No, David... it's a secret. Dad'll get mad... he can't know you're real... and Frank got mad. He left, David."

"What do you mean, he left?" David demanded, once again thinking of his call to frank Seaberg, remembering his car in front of the house.

"He won't talk to me anymore, David," Oliver said, sounding strained. "He won't come see me if I talk about you, David."

"Because I'm not real?" David mumbled, unsure of whether or not his brother even heard him this time. Not real. Didn't exist. It was the same thing, wasn't it? But what did it mean? His father couldn't know. Frank couldn't know... They didn't know. But his mother knew.

David started to pace, thinking harder. What had she done? If his dad didn't know where he was... something was wrong. If he didn't know where David was, he couldn't hurt him... but something was wrong. What had she told his father?

David wished that he could remember that night. How long had it been since she'd trapped him here? A few days maybe, he didn't know. It felt longer. And what had she said to him?

I'll make it better. You'll see.

If you go away.

David froze, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Oliver!" he suddenly shouted. "You have to get me out of here! Hurry!" it wasn't a demand he would have made minutes ago. He'd thought of it, but never would he have asked, not if it would get Oliver in trouble. But the game had suddenly changed, and now he knew. He wasn't supposed to get out. His mother had lied to his father, and while David didn't know exactly what she'd said, he knew well enough that she'd have to keep her secret now. Because it wasn't safe. None of them were safe if caught in a lie to Brian Martin. But, unfortunately for Mary Martin, David couldn't have cared less if she was caught.

"But I can't, David!" Oliver suddenly said. "Mama says it's not safe! It's not safe, David. She said it'll be alright if we just wait... if we just..."

"Damn it, can't you see she's lyin' to you?" David screamed. "D'you think I'll live down here? I won't! I won't Oliver! She'll die before I do! Do you hear me? I'll make her stop breathing! Get me out of here! Get me out of here!" David's voice rose to a screech in his panic, his blood rushing to his head so quickly that he barely heard a thing as his brother fled, leaving him alone once again before he deeply inhaled the stale air, and then collapsed.

He felt betrayed. David told himself that it wasn't Oliver's fault. His brother was just afraid. Oliver had been manipulated by their parents, and if David knew anything, it was that Oliver was easily taken advantage of. He'd do what he thought was best for anyone, in this case, he'd leave David down there based on the belief that everyone would be safe, and perhaps ultimately happy that way. And David had played right into his mother's hands when he'd threatened her to Oliver. But he still told himself that it wasn't Oliver's fault. He knew Oliver, and his brother wouldn't have walked away if he hadn't believed that doing so would be good for David, too. But then, telling himself this was true, and believing it, were two very different matters for David Martin because... he felt betrayed.

He was in a damn hole! Hurt, tired, and for all he knew, dying. And his brother had left him there. Even more distressing was that he didn't know if Oliver was even going to remember it... and if anyone had the right to forget the last days, David strongly felt it that should be him.

And while he might have had many things to be jealous of regarding his brother, this was the one thing he felt strongly about. Oliver lived in a world where he got to pick and choose the moments he lived in. Perhaps he didn't have the control over it that David was imagining at the moment... but Oliver still got to forget, and often did. It had always been difficult for David to hear Oliver tell him how much he wished he could remember the moments that he blacked out, but it had never been because David sympathized with him, but because more often than not, David knew what Oliver had forgotten, and found his brother's talent for wiping unpleasant things from his memory something to be envious of indeed. And when he wasn't jealous of it, David had been grateful for it, for Oliver's sake, and his own. He'd never abandoned his brother. He'd never betrayed him. He'd failed him, though. But Oliver couldn't remember. Oliver didn't remember, so why the hell did it feel like he was trying to get even now?

He's not trying to hurt you, David told himself. That's not what's happening. Oliver just needs time. He'll think. He'll come back. He'll save you.

Because David was quickly doubting his ability to save himself. After Oliver had left, David had quickly come to the conclusion that his mother would be back again. Perhaps with more food, or words that didn't make sense. He didn't understand what her plan was just yet, but he knew that she hadn't left him there to die, and if she was going to come back, this time he intended to be ready. He forgot about rationing what little food and water he did have, and ate until he was full, and while he felt as if there wasn't enough water in the whole town to quench his thirst, he used what he had, even sparing a small amount to clean the wound at the back of his head, which had swelled beneath his hair, the broken skin becoming increasingly irritated by the filth he found himself in. He'd even removed his wet shirt, and while it didn't make him feel any warmer, his skin started to dry, and that was a comfort in itself.

All of this was supposed to help him get stronger, be ready. But as the first few hours passed, David developed a strong sense that something was wrong. Because he didn't feel stronger at all. If anything, he felt even more drained than he had when he'd awoken to the lunch box. And it felt like more than just the bitterness that his brother's abandonment had left with him. His feet. They'd been numb before, cold. But now his toes felt strange, as if they were falling asleep, and the same sensation was in his gut... but admittedly, that could have been the knots, the anxiety he felt over being alone. Without Oliver. That seemed to bother David more than anything because Oliver had always been everything he had. And maybe Oliver didn't know it, but David was all that he had.

David closed his eyes, deciding that he should rest for a few minutes before he had to be alert, waiting for his mother to come back. Just a small rest wouldn't hurt anything, he decided. He needed to calm down, anyway before his stomach decided there wasn't enough room for the food he'd consumed alongside all of his grief. He tried to think of things that were good, things that gave him comfort. Unfortunately, when David closed his eyes, the only place he ever found himself was back in the dark.

He remembered when he first started spending most of his nights in the basement. Before he'd killed the fawn, it had always been hours at a time, mostly during family meals when his father said he couldn't stand to look at him. But after the day that David had found himself crawling out of that hole with the blood on his hands, things had changed.

He'd rebelled against his father, and he'd been punished for it. He knew that was the reason when they'd locked him in the basement. But it hadn't been the one his father had given him when he'd unlocked the door and allowed bright, blinding light in for a few moments as he inflicted one of his long winded speeches upon David's poor ears. The words hadn't had any effect. David had heard about what a terrible burden he was so many times that words like that had lost all effect. But when his father had mentioned that David was being punished for being evil, a cruel boy who'd slaughtered one of god's helpless creatures, as if he'd made the decision to do so on his own, David had known that his days spent in the dark would likely be increasing. And he was right. He just hadn't realized that his brother would be sharing the experience with him, even when he didn't volunteer to do so.

Cats. In the year since David had sent the fawn to somewhere better, there had been many cats. Sometimes, when he was out hunting with his father they'd come upon one of the scraggly creatures, particularly when they were close to the old shack across the lake. And the woman who had lived there then had given David something in common with his father. Neither of them liked her.

The first time it was supposed to be a joke. They'd taken one of her cats and hung it in a bag on her front porch, after they'd gotten it riled up, of course. The point was to make sure the witch-lady got scratched up real good when she went to the trouble of getting it down. But that hadn't been the way that it had happened.

It was a Sunday morning, and while Odetta Grover never went to church, it was the morning she went into town for her supplies. Oliver had been with them as they watched, waited, and for the first time David could remember, it had been Oliver angering their father as he whined about what was happening to the cat. David remembered the spark of protective fury towards his father that had arisen in his chest when their dad had told Oliver that he was stupid, a baby, that he should just shut up.

But he'd kept quiet... and Oliver didn't. It was when Oliver suffered a strong hand to the back of his head that David had had enough. Instead of attacking his father, though, instead he'd walked right out into the open and up to the front porch. The cat's claws had come right through the cloth sack to scratch up his hands as he took it down, but looking over at Oliver, he'd known that he was doing the right thing. Which is exactly what made his next decision one that likely would have been difficult for any normal person to understand.

Odetta Grover was a large woman. The kind that easily had the old floorboards in her house screeching, or her old little car sinking an inch closer to the ground when she sat in it. So inside the house, when she'd moved towards the door, David had heard her, and made a quick retreat, taking the cat with him.

But, he couldn't go back to his own family. They practically hiding right in front of the door, and as soon as it opened, she'd see him, so he'd moved behind her car instead, hoping to duck away once she got in. In the bag, the feline started growling, hissing. He dropped his hand over it's head and squeezed hard. It struggled, but the sound was muffled suitably enough. He could hear Odetta Grover getting closer... and then she stopped. Turned back.

David's head popped up and he saw her looking in her purse as she haded back towards the house. She'd forgotten something. It didn't matter what. She was headed back towards her house, which meant that David could get himself into a more suitable location. He stood, stepped away from the vehicle, and then froze when he saw the faces of his brother and father watching him. Oliver looked frightened, and along with a familiar, soft look in his eyes there was something else. Anxiety. He watched his brother's eyes shift from his face to the bag the squirming cat was trapped in. The cat. That's what Oliver had been nervous about. He didn't think the animal was safe yet. And, David realized, it wasn't.

Looking at his father just then might have been a mistake, but that's where David's eyes wandered next, and with one look, he received a promise. Not just one that threatened something worse if David continued his present corse of action. Sure, there were plenty of other ways that his father could play the David's evil game if David let this one cat go for his brother, but that didn't bother him so much. Not anymore. It was the way that their father was looking at Oliver that happened to be a bother, and David had a feeling that if he made the wrong decision now, Oliver would be the one suffering later.

David heard something in the direction of the house, and a quick look told him that Odetta was on her way back, if the way his father and brother hadn't lurched back hadn't already told him. But, David didn't move. He looked down at the sack hanging from his hand, and then back at his father, smiling when the old man's head looked ready to explode as he wondered if David was purposely going to get caught. And David thought of doing just that, too. If anything, to watch his father try to explain when he pointed out exactly where he was to Odetta.

But, David decided, that kind of fun was just going to have to wait. Oliver looked as if he'd reached his maximum stress intake as it was, and unfortunately, David was going to have to cause just a little more for him before this was over. He waited until the last possible second before Odetta might have seen him, and walked away from the car, towards the side of the house. But, he didn't do that before dropping the sack that the cat was trapped in. Right behind the rear tire of Odetta's vehicle.

By the time the engine roared to life, David was out of sight. But he saw it all. He made sure of that, watching with wide eyes. The bag moved. He heard the cat, and then he didn't anymore. Just the engine as the car backed up, the cloth sack disappearing under the first tire, and then the second. And then it didn't move anymore.

He cocked his head, looked harder at the sack, the little lump in it, and stomped down the urge to go peak inside. But his attention was turned when the vehicle came to an abrupt halt, the front bumper facing the cloth sack, the motionless lump within. He moved stealthily alongside the house, closer. Probably closer than he should have come. But he was watching Odetta, feeling interested in the curiosity he saw on her face as she left her car and approached the thing that didn't have a place on her drive. And then as she knelt down, he saw it on her face before she even opened the bag. Realization.

David somehow knew that there was no doubt in her mind when it came to what was in that bag, and he couldn't understand why she was reaching out, acting as if she needed to see it, anyway. She cared. About every one of those strays that he saw as nothing more than an infestation that kept breeding, populating the woods. She cared about the dead cat, like he'd cared about his fawn, and he was troubled by this. He didn't want to believe that it was the same thing because then, he'd done to Odetta Grover what his father had done to him, and he wasn't sorry for that because he sympathized with the witch-lady, but because that made him something that he couldn't be. It made him like his father.

It was Odetta Grover's sudden sobs that pulled David from his startling thoughts, and for what felt like impossibly long minutes he watched her with a growing curiosity, trying to understand what he was feeling as it occurred to him that other than his mother, he'd never heard a woman cry before. And when it came to his mother, her tears had given him a sense of accomplishment. That's why he was confused when he couldn't determine how he felt about Odetta's.