NEW! "That Hand That Feeds - Part Two" (ATWT/Nuke/Angels Lie)
Title: The Hand That Feeds - Part Two
What It Is: Oneshot/Songfic/"Angels Lie" 'verse
Rating: M for language
Prompt: Still another sequel to “Angels Lie”!
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make no money.
link
Note: This story begins after Noah’s return, but flashes back to when he was missing.
****WARNING: BAD STUFF HAPPENS*****
***
The Hand That Feeds - Part Two
Noah’s drowned now, but it’s okay. He’s floating just below the surface of the river. It’s quiet here, and the light is a pale greenish-blue. There’s no pain. Instead, his body bobs in the water in a gentle rocking motion. Occasionally a boat passes overhead, its hull cutting through the dim coolness. Noah can hear faint voices from the people inside the boats as well as mysterious mechanical sounds, clinks and hisses and beeps. It all fades into a general, drowsy murmur, like a hive of bees on a hot summer afternoon.
Except for The Voice.
The Voice is insistent, intrusive. Every time Noah starts to drift toward the bottom of the river -- and darkness, and peace -- it jerks him back toward the surface, tugging painfully like the rope on his wrists.
“Noah, can you hear me? I need you to breathe, buddy.”
Noah doesn’t want to breathe, doesn’t want to struggle. Maybe if he’s very quiet and still, The Voice will leave him alone.
“God dammit, Noah, breathe. I know you can hear me.” The Voice is louder suddenly, like he’s yelling in Noah’s ear. “Breathe!”
Noah obeys automatically, then gasps at the sudden pain that flowers in his chest.
“That’s it. Again.”
Noah breathes in again, but he’s pissed. It hurts.
“One more time.”
Noah tries to refuse, to shake his head, but he can’t move. He’s suspended, smothered. Now the cool dim light is gone and there’s nothing but blackness, tinged with redness, ringed with agony.
“Breathe.”
The river is so comforting. There’s no pain there, only quiet. Only rest.
“…BP’s dropping….” Another voice, this time a woman’s, further away. “…losing …”
“Oh, hell no, Mayer,” snaps The Voice. “Not on my watch. Don’t you fucking dare!”
There must be a lot of boats on the river today, because now a third voice joins in. Like the first, it’s familiar, but this one sounds bored and slightly irritated. Noah can’t make out the words, but for some reason this voice makes him tense and anxious.
“Damn right I paged you,” The Voice says loudly. Too loudly. Noah wants to tell everyone to shut up. He’s exhausted, for crying out loud.
“…three fucking minutes …” The Voice continues. “…scrub in…”
“… point out the obvious,” murmurs the third voice. “…routine pnuemothorax…”
“…don’t care… help…”
“...don’t perform general…”
“… freaking kidding me?”
“…someone else--”
“Shut the FUCK UP!” roars The Voice. Noah can’t help but flinch, even in his watery bed.
There’s a long silence. The Voice speaks again, this time with icy calm. The words are brittle and clear, even in Noah’s befuddled and darkened haze. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Dr. Oliver, but it’s the middle of the night and we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere. There is no one else. I don’t care what your professional issues are. I don’t care what your personal issues are. I will NOT lose a patient because of your God-damned ego! Now get over here!”
There’s another long silence, then the general murmur starts up again. The mechanical noises follow. Noah feels himself relaxing. His chest doesn’t hurt as much now, plus the loud guy seems to be on top of things. Maybe it would be okay if he drifted off to sleep.
“Just rest, Noah,” The Voice says, confirming his hope. “We’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay now.”
Noah obeys. The last thing he hears before the darkness descends is music -- Mozart -- and the two voices bickering over the volume.
He sleeps.
***
The river is what broke him, finally.
It wasn’t just waking in sudden terror, feeling his body thud against the rail and then fall into nothingness. It wasn’t the horror of drowning, water filling his mouth like a fist, punching down his throat, reaching for his lungs. It wasn’t the unbearable pressure on his chest, or the current sucking him downward. It was the darkness. It was being blind and helpless, not knowing which direction was which, complete and utter disorientation -- just like after the accident.
Even after he stopped thrashing in panic and started treading water, the darkness was there. Even after he broke the surface and felt air against his skin and gulped it gratefully into his lungs. Even as his searching hands found the rope that bound them and followed its length back to the boat. (The tiny corner of his mind that still functioned noted his hands were tied in front of him instead of in back as usual. Jimmy didn’t mean to kill him, then, his brain noted coolly; this was a game, a test.) Even when he collapsed and felt the surface of the deck blessedly solid underneath him, he still couldn’t see.
After he finished coughing up half the Mississippi, he felt frantically at his face, trying to pull the blindfold off before Jimmy forced his hands behind his back again. He just wanted to see, just for a second, even if the only thing he caught a glimpse of were those flat, cruel eyes. His searching fingers found nothing but wet skin, lips, nose, eyebrows and eyelashes. The blindfold was gone but he still saw nothing.
That’s when he started screaming.
Voices frantically shushed him, calling his name.
“Noah! Dammit, Noah, pipe down!”
Noah kept screaming.
“Get him inside!” Rough hands caught at him, hauled him to his feet, dragged him across the deck. Noah thought all the fight had left him, but he found himself thrashing and bucking, shrieking “No no no no no!” over and over again. A heavy blow to the face shocked him into stillness. Then the hands grasped his head, holding it in place.
Light. Piercing, sudden. Overwhelming. Noah tried to turn his head away, but the hands held him fast. He blinked frantically, eyes watering. Gradually, a figure swam into view. His father, crouched in front of him, brow creased in what almost looked like concern.
“Turn the light on, Jimmy,” his father ordered.
The fierce glow in Noah’s eyes moved abruptly, bobbing away into the darkness. It was a flashlight beam, Noah realized. He heard a faint click, and the bare yellow bulb over the galley came on. He could see the small aluminum coffee pot still sitting on the hotplate, the worn dishtowel draped over the narrow sink.
Noah realized he was sitting in the chair again, hands bound. His father knelt in front of him and Jimmy stood behind him in the doorway, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. Jimmy’s face was hidden in darkness. Everything outside the circle of yellow light in the cabin was hidden in darkness because…
Night, Noah finally realized. It was night outside.
He felt relief surge through him. He wasn’t blind, he told himself. He wasn’t blind. It was just nighttime.
Nighttime on the river and he was on the boat. He’d been on the boat for…
His brain skidded to a halt. He couldn’t remember how long. Had it been days? He tried to piece together the memories. He’d been tied to the chair, he remembered, blindfolded. Jimmy asking him questions, the same questions over and over again, but Noah never broke, never changed his story, never gave up until…
Darkness. Merciful darkness, and nothingness. No pain.
He must have passed out. Again. Only this time, instead of letting him rest, Jimmy threw him overboard and he woke up drowning.
Terror seized him at the thought, short-circuiting his brain. He stiffened and felt the screams rising inside him again and--
“Noah.” His father interrupted his racing mind. “Breathe.”
I can’t, Noah thought. I don’t know how.
The panic must have shown on his face, because his father said, “Take a deep breath. Just one.”
Noah drew in a harsh, shuddering breath. His lungs still burned from the river.
“Let it out slowly.”
Noah obeyed.
“Good. Again.”
I can’t.
“You can do it, Noah. Just one breath.”
Noah breathed in.
“Good, now let it out.”
Noah exhaled. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders.
“One more time.”
As his father coached him, Noah’s breathing deepened. His panic gradually eased, and his other senses kicked in, one at a time. He realized he was soaking wet and shivering, his jeans heavy and clinging to his legs. Water ran down his bare chest and dripped on the floor. He could hear the hollow thunk of the current against the hull and smell whiskey and cigar smoke, sharp in the humid air. Everything hurt.
Winston peered into Noah’s eyes. “Better now?”
Noah laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was such a stupid question. Sure, he wasn’t hyperventilating anymore, but he wasn’t better. Better would be somewhere not on this boat, not being tortured by his sick homophobic father and his psychotic sidekick.
Winston frowned. “Noah? Are you okay?”
The question -- plus the phrase “psychotic sidekick”-- struck Noah as hilarious, and he let out a high-pitched giggle. Winston’s eyes widened in alarm, which was absolutely hysterical. Now the giggles wouldn’t stop.
“What did you give him?” his father snapped at Jimmy.
“Nothing.” Even Jimmy sounded alarmed. “Swear to God.”
Noah doubled over, helpless with laughter. He wanted to explain the joke, how funny it was that his dad was okay with Jimmy beating him until he bled but God forbid he give him drugs, but he was laughing too hard to speak. He laughed until he cried, until somehow the laughter turned into huge, hitching, helpless sobs.
He was done, Noah realized. He couldn’t fight anymore. He didn’t even care that Jimmy had won, or that Plan B had failed, or that he was crying like a baby in front of his father.
“Noah.” Winston rested his hand on the back of Noah’s head. “Calm down, son. Take a deep breath.”
Noah shook his head. “No.” He remembered what his father had said earlier. He knew it was against the rules. But he didn’t care. “Please,” he begged. “Please stop. I don’t care. You can kill me. I can’t…” He shook his head, beyond words.
“Shhh.” To Noah’s shock, Winston pulled Noah’s body against him and held him close. Noah froze, waiting for a blow, but it never came. Instead, his father rubbed his back. “It’s all right.”
For one second, Noah felt like a small boy again. It's not that he remembered his father ever hugging him. It was his smell. Whiskey and coffee, cigars and after-shave. His father was always clean-shaven, even now, even on the run.
Noah had a sudden flash of memory: Being very, very small, so small he had to stand on a step-stool to reach the sink, watching his father shave.
He loved watching his father's morning routine, loved the ritual of it. Winston would wash his face, put in the drain stopper and let the hot water run into the spotlessly clean sink. He’d arrange the towel, razor, and shaving cream can with military precision, lined up in a row like three little soldiers. Sometimes, when he wasn’t in a hurry, he’d let Noah shake the shaving cream can. The aluminum cylinder felt cool and heavy in his hands. Then he'd push the button and there'd be a funny hissing, burbling sound and a pristine cloud of thick white foam would appear on his father’s waiting palm.
Winston always used a straight razor because he said it gave a closer shave and also, Noah suspected, because it was more badass and manly. (The leather strop was a feared instrument of punishment, but Noah couldn’t help watching in fascinated horror when his father sharpened the razor on it.) His father was fearless with the straight blade, shaving his dark whiskers with a few bold strokes. Then he’d pull out the stopper, letting the foamy water gurgle down the drain, give his face a brisk rinse, and towel it dry. A quick splash of Brut after-shave and he’d be on his way. Sometimes, when he’d be in a good mood, he’d put some on Noah, too, slapping one cheek, then the other, but in a way that didn’t hurt. It made Noah feel proud.
When Noah finally got old enough to shave -- not until he was 14, which was humiliating enough (his father started at 12) -- he carefully lathered up and reached for the straight razor. He never felt the nick, but seconds later blood was pouring down his face and dripping in the sink. Frantically, Noah tried to clean up the mess, even though his father had already left for the day. But the bright red blood kept coming.
Noah plastered a band-aid on his face, but the blood soaked it immediately and ran down his cheek. It took twenty minutes before the bleeding stopped, and by then the towel was ruined and Noah was late for school. He stuffed the bloody towel in a plastic bag and shoved it in a trashcan behind the football field, praying no one would see him.
When Winston came home that night, Noah was doing his Algebra homework. The house was clean, dinner was on the stove, and the table was set. Noah carefully kept his face angled away from his father, but it was no good. Winston took Noah’s chin in his hand and turned his head toward him.
Noah didn’t dare pull away, but he tensed as his father examined the band-aid. (He’d tried going without one, but the cut was too big.) He’d checked the answering machine, and there was no message from his home room teacher about his being late that morning. But he wasn’t supposed to touch his father’s things, ever. He stiffened, waiting for a reprimand or a blow.
Instead, Winston threw back his head and roared with laughter. The next night, he’d come home and tossed Noah a package of cheap disposable razors.
“Don’t worry, son,” he said. “You’ll get there eventually.”
Now, Noah allowed himself one tiny moment to breathe in that achingly familiar scent, to rest his head against his father’s solid chest and hide his tears in his neck.
“It’s all right,” Winston said. He pushed Noah back, holding him at arm’s length. “I believe you, son. I believe you.”
Noah blinked through his tears. A chill came over him that had nothing to do with the river. For a second, he’d forgotten about the past few days, why he was on this boat with his father and a madman, why his body was covered with bruises and burns, slices and welts.
Noah took a deep, careful breath, and spoke through cracked lips. “You…believe me?”
Winston gripped Noah’s shoulders tightly. “Yes, son. I do.”
It took every fragment of self-control Noah had left not to flinch from his father’s touch. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Dad.” His voice cracked dangerously on the last word, and he froze in terror.
But Winston was smiling, his eyes bright with tears. “We’re done here.” He shook Noah a little bit by the shoulders. “Do you understand, son? We’re done. We can go back to the way things were, and it will be like none of this ever happened.”
Noah couldn’t trust his voice. He nodded, praying it would be enough.
It must have been, because Winston rose to his feet. “We’ll get you cleaned up and then you can get some sleep,” he said, giving Noah a clap on the shoulder. “In the morning we’ll move on.”
He turned away. Noah allowed himself to collapse forward, to drop his head in his shaking hands. It was over.
Twenty minutes later he was tucked in the narrow bunk. He’d been untied and washed and fed and given clean clothes. They were Jimmy’s, and too big. The jeans bagged at Noah’s narrow hips -- “Sorry, buddy,” Jimmy said. “There’s no way I’m giving a prisoner a belt” -- and the T-shirt and hoodie were ridiculously large. But they were warm and dry. Jimmy had also given him a handful of painkillers, which he’d washed down with whiskey, and Noah could feel relief spreading through his body as the drugs took hold.
It was dark in the cabin, but a light came through the porthole from where his father lounged in a deck chair enjoying a cigar. Jimmy sat beside him on the deck with a line in the water, joking about catching a midnight snack and occasionally slapping a stray mosquito. The river was still, but the boat rocked slightly in the current, a comforting, hypnotic movement.
As Noah closed his eyes and let sleep claim him, he allowed himself a second of silent triumph. Against all odds, and despite an eleventh hour surrender, Plan B had worked. His father believed him. Now it didn’t matter what happened to Noah the next day or where he and his father went or how the movie ended, because Luke would be safe from him. Forever.
He should have known it was too easy.
To be continued…
What It Is: Oneshot/Songfic/"Angels Lie" 'verse
Rating: M for language
Prompt: Still another sequel to “Angels Lie”!
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make no money.
link
Note: This story begins after Noah’s return, but flashes back to when he was missing.
****WARNING: BAD STUFF HAPPENS*****
***
The Hand That Feeds - Part Two
Noah’s drowned now, but it’s okay. He’s floating just below the surface of the river. It’s quiet here, and the light is a pale greenish-blue. There’s no pain. Instead, his body bobs in the water in a gentle rocking motion. Occasionally a boat passes overhead, its hull cutting through the dim coolness. Noah can hear faint voices from the people inside the boats as well as mysterious mechanical sounds, clinks and hisses and beeps. It all fades into a general, drowsy murmur, like a hive of bees on a hot summer afternoon.
Except for The Voice.
The Voice is insistent, intrusive. Every time Noah starts to drift toward the bottom of the river -- and darkness, and peace -- it jerks him back toward the surface, tugging painfully like the rope on his wrists.
“Noah, can you hear me? I need you to breathe, buddy.”
Noah doesn’t want to breathe, doesn’t want to struggle. Maybe if he’s very quiet and still, The Voice will leave him alone.
“God dammit, Noah, breathe. I know you can hear me.” The Voice is louder suddenly, like he’s yelling in Noah’s ear. “Breathe!”
Noah obeys automatically, then gasps at the sudden pain that flowers in his chest.
“That’s it. Again.”
Noah breathes in again, but he’s pissed. It hurts.
“One more time.”
Noah tries to refuse, to shake his head, but he can’t move. He’s suspended, smothered. Now the cool dim light is gone and there’s nothing but blackness, tinged with redness, ringed with agony.
“Breathe.”
The river is so comforting. There’s no pain there, only quiet. Only rest.
“…BP’s dropping….” Another voice, this time a woman’s, further away. “…losing …”
“Oh, hell no, Mayer,” snaps The Voice. “Not on my watch. Don’t you fucking dare!”
There must be a lot of boats on the river today, because now a third voice joins in. Like the first, it’s familiar, but this one sounds bored and slightly irritated. Noah can’t make out the words, but for some reason this voice makes him tense and anxious.
“Damn right I paged you,” The Voice says loudly. Too loudly. Noah wants to tell everyone to shut up. He’s exhausted, for crying out loud.
“…three fucking minutes …” The Voice continues. “…scrub in…”
“… point out the obvious,” murmurs the third voice. “…routine pnuemothorax…”
“…don’t care… help…”
“...don’t perform general…”
“… freaking kidding me?”
“…someone else--”
“Shut the FUCK UP!” roars The Voice. Noah can’t help but flinch, even in his watery bed.
There’s a long silence. The Voice speaks again, this time with icy calm. The words are brittle and clear, even in Noah’s befuddled and darkened haze. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Dr. Oliver, but it’s the middle of the night and we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere. There is no one else. I don’t care what your professional issues are. I don’t care what your personal issues are. I will NOT lose a patient because of your God-damned ego! Now get over here!”
There’s another long silence, then the general murmur starts up again. The mechanical noises follow. Noah feels himself relaxing. His chest doesn’t hurt as much now, plus the loud guy seems to be on top of things. Maybe it would be okay if he drifted off to sleep.
“Just rest, Noah,” The Voice says, confirming his hope. “We’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay now.”
Noah obeys. The last thing he hears before the darkness descends is music -- Mozart -- and the two voices bickering over the volume.
He sleeps.
***
The river is what broke him, finally.
It wasn’t just waking in sudden terror, feeling his body thud against the rail and then fall into nothingness. It wasn’t the horror of drowning, water filling his mouth like a fist, punching down his throat, reaching for his lungs. It wasn’t the unbearable pressure on his chest, or the current sucking him downward. It was the darkness. It was being blind and helpless, not knowing which direction was which, complete and utter disorientation -- just like after the accident.
Even after he stopped thrashing in panic and started treading water, the darkness was there. Even after he broke the surface and felt air against his skin and gulped it gratefully into his lungs. Even as his searching hands found the rope that bound them and followed its length back to the boat. (The tiny corner of his mind that still functioned noted his hands were tied in front of him instead of in back as usual. Jimmy didn’t mean to kill him, then, his brain noted coolly; this was a game, a test.) Even when he collapsed and felt the surface of the deck blessedly solid underneath him, he still couldn’t see.
After he finished coughing up half the Mississippi, he felt frantically at his face, trying to pull the blindfold off before Jimmy forced his hands behind his back again. He just wanted to see, just for a second, even if the only thing he caught a glimpse of were those flat, cruel eyes. His searching fingers found nothing but wet skin, lips, nose, eyebrows and eyelashes. The blindfold was gone but he still saw nothing.
That’s when he started screaming.
Voices frantically shushed him, calling his name.
“Noah! Dammit, Noah, pipe down!”
Noah kept screaming.
“Get him inside!” Rough hands caught at him, hauled him to his feet, dragged him across the deck. Noah thought all the fight had left him, but he found himself thrashing and bucking, shrieking “No no no no no!” over and over again. A heavy blow to the face shocked him into stillness. Then the hands grasped his head, holding it in place.
Light. Piercing, sudden. Overwhelming. Noah tried to turn his head away, but the hands held him fast. He blinked frantically, eyes watering. Gradually, a figure swam into view. His father, crouched in front of him, brow creased in what almost looked like concern.
“Turn the light on, Jimmy,” his father ordered.
The fierce glow in Noah’s eyes moved abruptly, bobbing away into the darkness. It was a flashlight beam, Noah realized. He heard a faint click, and the bare yellow bulb over the galley came on. He could see the small aluminum coffee pot still sitting on the hotplate, the worn dishtowel draped over the narrow sink.
Noah realized he was sitting in the chair again, hands bound. His father knelt in front of him and Jimmy stood behind him in the doorway, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. Jimmy’s face was hidden in darkness. Everything outside the circle of yellow light in the cabin was hidden in darkness because…
Night, Noah finally realized. It was night outside.
He felt relief surge through him. He wasn’t blind, he told himself. He wasn’t blind. It was just nighttime.
Nighttime on the river and he was on the boat. He’d been on the boat for…
His brain skidded to a halt. He couldn’t remember how long. Had it been days? He tried to piece together the memories. He’d been tied to the chair, he remembered, blindfolded. Jimmy asking him questions, the same questions over and over again, but Noah never broke, never changed his story, never gave up until…
Darkness. Merciful darkness, and nothingness. No pain.
He must have passed out. Again. Only this time, instead of letting him rest, Jimmy threw him overboard and he woke up drowning.
Terror seized him at the thought, short-circuiting his brain. He stiffened and felt the screams rising inside him again and--
“Noah.” His father interrupted his racing mind. “Breathe.”
I can’t, Noah thought. I don’t know how.
The panic must have shown on his face, because his father said, “Take a deep breath. Just one.”
Noah drew in a harsh, shuddering breath. His lungs still burned from the river.
“Let it out slowly.”
Noah obeyed.
“Good. Again.”
I can’t.
“You can do it, Noah. Just one breath.”
Noah breathed in.
“Good, now let it out.”
Noah exhaled. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders.
“One more time.”
As his father coached him, Noah’s breathing deepened. His panic gradually eased, and his other senses kicked in, one at a time. He realized he was soaking wet and shivering, his jeans heavy and clinging to his legs. Water ran down his bare chest and dripped on the floor. He could hear the hollow thunk of the current against the hull and smell whiskey and cigar smoke, sharp in the humid air. Everything hurt.
Winston peered into Noah’s eyes. “Better now?”
Noah laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was such a stupid question. Sure, he wasn’t hyperventilating anymore, but he wasn’t better. Better would be somewhere not on this boat, not being tortured by his sick homophobic father and his psychotic sidekick.
Winston frowned. “Noah? Are you okay?”
The question -- plus the phrase “psychotic sidekick”-- struck Noah as hilarious, and he let out a high-pitched giggle. Winston’s eyes widened in alarm, which was absolutely hysterical. Now the giggles wouldn’t stop.
“What did you give him?” his father snapped at Jimmy.
“Nothing.” Even Jimmy sounded alarmed. “Swear to God.”
Noah doubled over, helpless with laughter. He wanted to explain the joke, how funny it was that his dad was okay with Jimmy beating him until he bled but God forbid he give him drugs, but he was laughing too hard to speak. He laughed until he cried, until somehow the laughter turned into huge, hitching, helpless sobs.
He was done, Noah realized. He couldn’t fight anymore. He didn’t even care that Jimmy had won, or that Plan B had failed, or that he was crying like a baby in front of his father.
“Noah.” Winston rested his hand on the back of Noah’s head. “Calm down, son. Take a deep breath.”
Noah shook his head. “No.” He remembered what his father had said earlier. He knew it was against the rules. But he didn’t care. “Please,” he begged. “Please stop. I don’t care. You can kill me. I can’t…” He shook his head, beyond words.
“Shhh.” To Noah’s shock, Winston pulled Noah’s body against him and held him close. Noah froze, waiting for a blow, but it never came. Instead, his father rubbed his back. “It’s all right.”
For one second, Noah felt like a small boy again. It's not that he remembered his father ever hugging him. It was his smell. Whiskey and coffee, cigars and after-shave. His father was always clean-shaven, even now, even on the run.
Noah had a sudden flash of memory: Being very, very small, so small he had to stand on a step-stool to reach the sink, watching his father shave.
He loved watching his father's morning routine, loved the ritual of it. Winston would wash his face, put in the drain stopper and let the hot water run into the spotlessly clean sink. He’d arrange the towel, razor, and shaving cream can with military precision, lined up in a row like three little soldiers. Sometimes, when he wasn’t in a hurry, he’d let Noah shake the shaving cream can. The aluminum cylinder felt cool and heavy in his hands. Then he'd push the button and there'd be a funny hissing, burbling sound and a pristine cloud of thick white foam would appear on his father’s waiting palm.
Winston always used a straight razor because he said it gave a closer shave and also, Noah suspected, because it was more badass and manly. (The leather strop was a feared instrument of punishment, but Noah couldn’t help watching in fascinated horror when his father sharpened the razor on it.) His father was fearless with the straight blade, shaving his dark whiskers with a few bold strokes. Then he’d pull out the stopper, letting the foamy water gurgle down the drain, give his face a brisk rinse, and towel it dry. A quick splash of Brut after-shave and he’d be on his way. Sometimes, when he’d be in a good mood, he’d put some on Noah, too, slapping one cheek, then the other, but in a way that didn’t hurt. It made Noah feel proud.
When Noah finally got old enough to shave -- not until he was 14, which was humiliating enough (his father started at 12) -- he carefully lathered up and reached for the straight razor. He never felt the nick, but seconds later blood was pouring down his face and dripping in the sink. Frantically, Noah tried to clean up the mess, even though his father had already left for the day. But the bright red blood kept coming.
Noah plastered a band-aid on his face, but the blood soaked it immediately and ran down his cheek. It took twenty minutes before the bleeding stopped, and by then the towel was ruined and Noah was late for school. He stuffed the bloody towel in a plastic bag and shoved it in a trashcan behind the football field, praying no one would see him.
When Winston came home that night, Noah was doing his Algebra homework. The house was clean, dinner was on the stove, and the table was set. Noah carefully kept his face angled away from his father, but it was no good. Winston took Noah’s chin in his hand and turned his head toward him.
Noah didn’t dare pull away, but he tensed as his father examined the band-aid. (He’d tried going without one, but the cut was too big.) He’d checked the answering machine, and there was no message from his home room teacher about his being late that morning. But he wasn’t supposed to touch his father’s things, ever. He stiffened, waiting for a reprimand or a blow.
Instead, Winston threw back his head and roared with laughter. The next night, he’d come home and tossed Noah a package of cheap disposable razors.
“Don’t worry, son,” he said. “You’ll get there eventually.”
Now, Noah allowed himself one tiny moment to breathe in that achingly familiar scent, to rest his head against his father’s solid chest and hide his tears in his neck.
“It’s all right,” Winston said. He pushed Noah back, holding him at arm’s length. “I believe you, son. I believe you.”
Noah blinked through his tears. A chill came over him that had nothing to do with the river. For a second, he’d forgotten about the past few days, why he was on this boat with his father and a madman, why his body was covered with bruises and burns, slices and welts.
Noah took a deep, careful breath, and spoke through cracked lips. “You…believe me?”
Winston gripped Noah’s shoulders tightly. “Yes, son. I do.”
It took every fragment of self-control Noah had left not to flinch from his father’s touch. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Dad.” His voice cracked dangerously on the last word, and he froze in terror.
But Winston was smiling, his eyes bright with tears. “We’re done here.” He shook Noah a little bit by the shoulders. “Do you understand, son? We’re done. We can go back to the way things were, and it will be like none of this ever happened.”
Noah couldn’t trust his voice. He nodded, praying it would be enough.
It must have been, because Winston rose to his feet. “We’ll get you cleaned up and then you can get some sleep,” he said, giving Noah a clap on the shoulder. “In the morning we’ll move on.”
He turned away. Noah allowed himself to collapse forward, to drop his head in his shaking hands. It was over.
Twenty minutes later he was tucked in the narrow bunk. He’d been untied and washed and fed and given clean clothes. They were Jimmy’s, and too big. The jeans bagged at Noah’s narrow hips -- “Sorry, buddy,” Jimmy said. “There’s no way I’m giving a prisoner a belt” -- and the T-shirt and hoodie were ridiculously large. But they were warm and dry. Jimmy had also given him a handful of painkillers, which he’d washed down with whiskey, and Noah could feel relief spreading through his body as the drugs took hold.
It was dark in the cabin, but a light came through the porthole from where his father lounged in a deck chair enjoying a cigar. Jimmy sat beside him on the deck with a line in the water, joking about catching a midnight snack and occasionally slapping a stray mosquito. The river was still, but the boat rocked slightly in the current, a comforting, hypnotic movement.
As Noah closed his eyes and let sleep claim him, he allowed himself a second of silent triumph. Against all odds, and despite an eleventh hour surrender, Plan B had worked. His father believed him. Now it didn’t matter what happened to Noah the next day or where he and his father went or how the movie ended, because Luke would be safe from him. Forever.
He should have known it was too easy.
To be continued…