Page 128 of Finding Noah

Quiet, it said. Shut up.

I rolled my head against the mattress, whining through my despair. He left the bedside to retrieve something else, and again, I tried to watch while being unable to see a fucking thing. Until he returned with a case of some sort. An old doctor’s satchel.

What the fuck is this?

He laid it on the bed and opened it to pull out a bottle.

“Wha-what is that?” I asked as he poured the contents onto what appeared to be a rag. “What is that? Wha-wha-what are you gonna do with that?”

He crouched beside the bed and grasped my chin in his hand.

“No,” I protested, trying to wrench my head away, but the fight was futile. “No, no. Stop. God, please. Stop—”

But then, with a delicate touch, he dabbed at my face with the cloth, stinging the cuts with whatever was in that bottle. My lungs stuttered with racking breaths as he cleaned the open wounds on my cheeks, forehead, and lips as I stared into the lifeless holes where his eyes should’ve been.

When he released my chin and turned to assess my bare torso, I dared to admit, “Something on my back hurts. I think … I don’t know … but I-I might be developing sores or s-s-something.”

He nodded, inspecting the places where Ben had punched my ribs and gut. He looked up to my face as he gingerly pressed and prodded with his gloved fingers, asking a silent question.

Does this hurt?

I shook my head, then faltered. “A-a-a little, but not too bad. I don’t think anything’s broken.”

He nodded, and then slowly, he rolled me onto my side.

I closed my eyes and winced as he gently cleaned the open, oozing wounds on my back and along my thighs. He stopped and uttered a sigh, the only sound he’d emitted in the time he had spent in my dungeon, and I knew what he was looking at. He laid a hand against my shoulder, as if to soothe me for what was to come next, and shame flooded my face as he grasped my flesh. I swallowed, flinching and trying to move away, but just like with Ben, there was nowhere to go, no way to run.

But this man didn’t want to hurt me, or so it seemed, as he applied something that not only soothed the pain, but felt … nice.

He cleaned my backside, wiping away the bodily fluids and waste that had crusted my skin over the last several days.

“Th-thank you,” I said in a broken whisper, blinking away the tears.

He laid a hand against my shoulder again, gave me a pat, then carefully rolled me onto my back.

I winced. “Fuck, that hurts so much.”

He nodded solemnly, then held out the water again, to which I responded eagerly.

This time, he let me have more, which I drank down in grateful gulps, until the bottle was nearly empty. He took it away to grab a paper bag from beside the chair and produced what appeared to be food. I jolted with anticipation at the smell wafting from its contents as he opened it and pulled out a wrapped sandwich.

He held it up in question.

I nodded, as desperate as a homeless dog, only considering for a moment that it could be poisoned. I didn’t care. I was so hungry, and if this man wanted to drug me, then maybe it would at least provide some relief.

He fed the cheeseburger to me in small, ripped-away chunks. Reason told me to go slowly, to ask him to save some for later … but would there be a later? Would this be the last meal I’d ever eat? Was this it? A room-temperature, squashed burger from McDonald’s?

Seth never took me to McDonald’s, I thought suddenly, and as I chewed, I began to cry again.

Swallowing, I whispered, “I just wanted to go home.”

The man in the black suit lifted his head, studying me for a moment.

“I was going home,” I went on, the tears coming faster, harder. “I-I-I’m supposed to be there now. I’m supposed to be with my dad and my mom and m-my … my …”

Don’t mention Meg, something told me. Don’t utter her name.

And I didn’t.