Chapter Nine: Re-Dead
The ceiling feels like all there ever is, homogenous and infinite, a sea of pock-marked texture. It's better than looking around, looking at the sides, meeting gazes. Hollowed-out eyes staring listlessly, dead ones alive and watchful, imploring, please, please listen to me—
No, no, please, just leave me alone, stop so they'll stop, leave me be and I'll give anything—
Balled up fists, clenched knuckle-white and straining, ready to fight, flight impossible, unadvisable, strapped wrists and ankles. The sound of gurney wheels on tile is faint in the cacophony of voices, crying and screaming.
The nurses' bare hands are cold, expressions immovable as they transfer him, catching blows and kicking legs, pinning him back down to the chair with deft expertise, years of practice. Fingers clench his jaw, force open his mouth, touch his teeth, and the leather gag tastes foul, like vomit, it sings with horrid red energy. The whole room does, and in the sea of blood-soaked pain, bodily trauma, the doctor's gaze, empathetic and bereft at the same time, glints behind steel-framed glasses. Too much like Father's, the boy thinks, restrained and limp as the metal prongs are touched to his temples, wrapped thinly in useless cotton. As the waves start, crashing through muscles and bone in a tidal wave of agony, the colors grow brighter, blinding. He strains to stay afloat, to maneuver the firework shocks, neurons and brain cells splitting and busting like overripe tomatoes in the sun.
Eventually, the waters turn warm, and the boy succumbs, dragged down to rest on the sandy bottom of the ocean, awash in salinity and viscosity. Empty, empty, empty.
Join us, thin voices ask, it's easier.
Matt wakes with a start, eyes flying open in horror, pulling from Jonah's grasp, white-knucked around Matt's arm in his sleep. Matt runs to the bathroom, almost tripping over the door jamb. He barely makes it to the toilet before vomiting, hard. So hard it comes out of his nose, burning all airways with acrid, old champagne. Matt gags, and it seems to go on forever. He hasn't gotten sick like this since chemotherapy, his fried brain supplies. It all eventually forces itself up, but Matt's stomach still roils, mind trapped in an endless loop of awful mental images. Jonah, convulsing, his thin limbs struggling uselessly, his neck arched painfully back, staring up at the ceiling with rolled-back eyes, all whites. Foam pools and runs at the corners of his gagged mouth, a dark pool spreading underneath his body.
Matt stands shakily and gets into the shower, turning it on to stand under the cold spray, coughing wetly, clearing his mouth and nose. He takes deep breaths, sinking to sit on the shower floor, doing his best to clear his mind of the nightmare the medium was having, the memory he was recalling. He presses his forehead to the slick tile and dry heaves one last time, giving into his urge to cry. He cries for several long minutes, hitching and sobbing, before it abates, leaving him feeling tired. The water is freezing, but it feels good. Feels pure. Calmer, Matt does his best to think of something else, something happier, and settles on Jonah's lilting little laugh, head thrown back to the starry sky, pupils blown.
The occultist eventually turns off the water and gets out of the shower. He strips off his sopping nightclothes, brushes the foul taste out of his mouth as he cleans and flushes the toilet. He returns to the bedroom, cold and naked in the still house, the clock in the hallway reading just past four in the morning. Jonah is somehow still asleep, curled on his side facing where Matt's body has been. His face is buried in a pillow, biting it, jaw clenched, wet with spit and tears. Broken murmurs and sounds leave him, shuddering and rippling, his long, thin hands white knuckled, clenched on his own nightshirt.
Matt rushes to him and reaches out, gently shaking the boy's shoulders. Jonah's eyes fly open, burning blue and unseeing, those clenched fists flying out, striking Matt square in the jaw. Undeterred, Matt grabs his flailing limbs, shakes him harder.
"Jonah! It's me, baby, It's Matt! Come back now, come back to me, you're here, home safe!"
Jonah's eyes focus and meet Matt's, wild and unhinged. He sobs, chest heaving, and struggles to sit up. Matt pulls back the sheets and the comforter to make it easier, Jonah naked and glistening underneath, his damp drawers clinging to him, dampness seeping into bedding, spreading from the medium. Heart in his throat, Matt sits on the bed and gathers the wailing kid in his arms, rubbing his back and murmuring sweet nothings as Jonah cries and clings to him, burrowing into him, practically climbing into his lap. Matt ignores the wetness, his own tears stinging in the backs of his eyes, chest tight in sympathy. He comforts him forever, establishing a gentle rocking motion with the boy in his lap, skins pressed together and clammy. The darkness outside their window morphs, brightening just slightly, dawn soon approaching. Jonah's cries have slowed in veracity from a panic to a river of misery.
"Gonna move you now, little one, gonna wash you up, okay?"
Jonah nods his head in Matt's chest and Matt hoists him up in his arms, carrying the clinging teen to the bathroom. Foot on the edge of the tub, he braces the kid on his knee as he turns the water back on to hot, switching the pipes with a knob. As the tub fills, Matt carefully unbuttons the fitted waist and crotch of Jonah's soaked drawers, discarding them. He uses a soapy washcloth to gently wash the still-crying Jonah, quickly and efficiently cleaning his genitals, eyes averted. Matt feels like he could be sick again.
"Hey, I'm gonna leave you in the bath for a bit, okay? Gonna be right back, okay? Don't go anywhere without me."
Jonah sniffles and nods, his huge, wide eyes filled with a helpless sort of innocent expression Matt's never seen before. He's not sure he likes it. He misses Jonah, his Jonah, smart as a whip, eyes alert and full of mirth. This Jonah is empty and compliant as Matt arranges him into the tub, his head lolling back to rest on the tile, gaze staring aimlessly. Matt leaves, going back to their room to strip the bed, bundling it all up in his arms and descending the stairs, opening the cupboard under the stairs to reveal a washer and dryer. He thinks of Billy, distantly, as he loads up the washer with the dirty bedding, measuring out detergent. He remembers his embarrassment, and how mildly grossed out Matt had been at the time, too young and immature to empathize with the then-little boy. Now, washing soiled bedding, he aches to do things differently, to reassure Billy. It's okay. It'll all be alright.
But this is different…Jonah is nineteen, ninety-nine if we want to get technical. But how could Matt blame him, after the nightmare he had? The kid is re-living memories of electroshock therapy, for fuck's sake. This, paired with the memories he relived the night before of abuse? God, the kid has a lot of trauma.
Matt tries to wipe the grim expression of his face and goes back upstairs, catching a glimpse of Jonah still in the bathroom. The kid is sluggishly washing himself with bar soap, running it along his arms, staring at his own hands as if entranced. Matt wonders what he sees there, as he fetches nightclothes from Jonah's room. Jonah turns to face him when Matt re-enters the bathroom, and where the kid summons the energy to give him that small, tired smile, Matt has no idea. It quickly vanishes though, as Matt helps him from the tub, helps him dry off. His face pinches, and Matt's worried he's going to cry again.
"I'm so, so sorry Matthew," Jonah says, his voice little more than an emotion-thin whisper. He looks miserable, his chest and face flushed a hot red as he covers himself with his hands uselessly, as if Matt hadn't seen it all already, face and eyes averted.
"Hey," Matt's voice is firm as he takes Jonah's chin in hand, forcing the teen to look at him. "It's more than alright, Jonah. It's completely understandable, and there is nothing to be ashamed of."
Jonah makes a sound akin to a whimper, so Matt continues.
"Happens to the best of us honey, and after that nightmare, well…I certainly can't, and never will, blame you."
Jonah just nods, a tight, pained little nod. Mostly dry, Matt leaves the bedclothes on the counter and leaves, giving Jonah privacy. He goes back to their room and fixes the bed back up with a fresh sheet and a worn fleece blanket, the best he can do for now. Jonah returns momentarily, soft little bare footsteps on hardwood floors, looking wrung-out. Matt urges Jonah back into the bed, gently tucking him in, smoothing his hair. He procures two Melatonin, a large dose, and watches Jonah wash them down with a glass of tepid, bedside water.
"Okay, honey, all settled and all good!" Matt tries to affect a soft, cheery tone, but it feels hollow, even to him. "I'm going to go downstairs and get some work done, okay? You sleep as long as you like, and don't be afraid to holler for me, if you need me, alright?"
Jonah nods. As Matt turns to leave, Jonah catches his wrist. His gaze already seems a little hazy from the drugs, his voice soft and blurry at the edges.
"M-Matthew?"
"Yes, darling?"
Matt flinches as the term of endearment slips from his mouth, but Jonah doesn't seem to notice, his expression looking hopeful as he clings to Matt's hand, holding onto dear life.
"I can stay, if you want—"
"N-no, it's fine, I just…nevermind, M-Matthew, thank you."
And he withdraws, expression shuttering sad and lonely, drawing up the covers around himself, wrapping his arms around himself in a mimicry of—
Oh.
With a tired, genuine smile, Matt sinks to the bed and gathers Jonah into a warm hug, tucking him close. Jonah hugs back, face buried to chest, going limp into the embrace as the stress leaves his body. Matt holds it a few moments longer before releasing the boy, who gives him a gentle, tiny smile. He cozies up in bed and the melatonin catches him quickly, out like a light before Matt can make it to the doorway. Matt lingers there, waits a moment. He smells nothing, feels nothing, Jonah seemingly pulled into blessed, dreamless sleep.
Matt is still working, grading papers and constructing lesson plans, when the mailman comes. Matt watches through the window in grim humor as the man looks at Hell House, checks his clipboard again, and looks back at the house. The mailman carries the package in his arms as he gingerly approaches the porch, sitting it down in front of the porch steps before all but running back to his truck. Matt wonders if he'll rush home tonight and tell his wife that he delivered a package to Hell House today. He imagines their conversation. What, really? I can't imagine someone living there. Who is it, you think? Huh. Probably that weird man on TV, the one with the scars, the demonologist. He used to live there, you know, he's the one who burned it down in the first place. I wonder if it's still haunted.
Matt slices the package open on the kitchen table, a fond smile on his face, running his fingers over his dad's handwriting and home address. Looks like his Dad went through the trouble of paying for express shipping, just for him. Crumpled editions of the Holly Hill Gazette fall carelessly to the floor as Matt finds and unearths his prize. His old Nintendo 64, of all things, with four controllers (complete with rumble packs, of course), all the necessary wiring, and several game cartridges. Matt had spent quite a while trying to think of a distraction worthy enough to pull Jonah from his troubled past, completely envelop him and let him escape. He'd thought of movies first, of course, and while he still intends to expose Jonah to modern film, he was worried they wouldn't cut it. After all, they would still be in Hell House, watching fictional lives on a box. No, a video game seemed better, something wholly immersive. Jonah could even plug in headphones, if desired. Something to keep his hands and mind interested and occupied, while telling him a story at the same time. He's aware it may seem like a massive jump, going from sparse technology, only a radio, to a game system, but it's isolated. It's not the Internet, for example.
The living room of Hell House is rather sparsely furnished with a worn leather couch and an armchair, its twin currently in the basement. The victrola does take up quite a bit of the corner, along with the records, and a bookshelf occupies the other and includes a lamp. The mantle is bare of pictures. Matt scoots the sideboard from the front door entryway into the room, a low, cherry cabinet with two brass-knobbed doors. He stows the games and extra controllers away inside the cabinet, amongst the spare shoes and phonebooks. Matt leaves the house moments later and returns with a medium-sized TV, brand new and nice, which is placed atop the sideboard. Hooking up the system, along with the DVD player Matt just purchased, is quick and easy.
Matt carries the TV box and the packing box to the curb, looking up and down the street, looking for any curious gazes that may potentially be watching him. Tasks completed, Matt returns to the kitchen, glancing at the clock, shocked to find it's almost four in the afternoon. Jonah is still asleep upstairs, meaning the kid has slept for at least ten more hours. Good, Matthew thinks to himself, as he starts planning dinner. Lord knows he deserves it.
Jonah wakes alone in Matthew's soft bed, curled tightly under a thick blanket. It smells like Matthew, that same patchouli and sage smell, tinged with cigarettes, and Jonah feels warm, and comforted, even if Matthew's side of the bed is empty. He sits up with some effort, his mouth is dry and his head feels funny, all cottony and muted, and it feels similar to his vague memories of waking from a drug-induced coma. He groggily checks the bedside clock, a strange thing with glowing red numbers that display the time, and is distantly shocked that it's nearing nightfall. Jonah has slept almost a whole night and a day, and he surmises that it has something to do with the drugs Matthew gave him. He can't find it in himself to be bothered, and staggers from bed, going to the bathroom to down glass after glass of water. Suddenly feeling cramped, he sits at the pot to relieve himself. He remembers, then, the events of that early morning and grimaces in horror, hiding his face in his hands.
He'd wet the bed like a small child, he laments, mindless in the throes of a nightmare, later sniveling in Matthew's arms as the man had so carefully and sweetly cleaned him up. Jonah's face burns in embarrassment as he remembers Matthew's steady, warm hands and the warm washcloth, his soothing platitudes.
Little one, Matthew's comforting, reassuring voice repeats like a broken record in Jonah's mind. Little one, honey. Baby. Baby, baby, baby, as he'd tolerated Jonah's nakedness, his disgustingly human body, hip balanced by Matthew's warm, bare knee, as he…as he'd—
Jonah groans, an embarrassed, anguished sound, replaying the moment over and over in his head. Some emotion lays thick and coiling in Jonah's gut, fevered and coiling, and Jonah tamps it down, hard, mentally squashing it. Sick, Jonah, fuck, fucking sick, he berates himself, horrifed as that emotion in his gut practically fucking twitches.
No, no, no, hell no. Jonah's mind reels, frantic as he tries to explain away that feeling, cursed and damn and wrong. It just has to be teenage hormones, he wishes desperately. It's just the contact, that's all, hands on him there for the first time in…what, ever? In almost a hundred years. And Matthew surely wasn't helping, Jonah's brain hissess, with all those damnable pet names of his.
Why? A voice in Jonah's head asks. Why does Matthew use those pet names?
No. Absolutely not. Jonah murders that train of thought before it can even begin, unwilling to walk down that path. Matthew is just a good man, a sweet and kind one, that cares for Jonah, cares about him so very, very much that he willingly damned his soul to Hell for all of eternity just to have Jonah back in his life. And Jonah was not about to let these thoughts ruin what they have, drive Matthew away. It was just the contact, Matthew's touch, new and unexpected, so gentle, in a moment of vulnerability. Jonah's been through all this—the fire and brimstone—before, with Father.
Having successfully reasoned his way out of a literal panic, Jonah finishes washing up and brushes his teeth, his face set in a determined expression. He builds thick, impenetrable mental walls with each step down the stairs, and his fortress is built by the time he enters the kitchen to find Matthew in a black t-shirt and jeans, whistling to himself as he stirs a large pot of something.
"Good morning," he greets Jonah, his voice warm and kind, expression happy, as if he's happy Jonah is awake. His earthy-brown eyes belie nothing but happiness and fondness, "how are you feeling, kiddo?"Jonah takes deep, calming breaths, determined not to make something out of nothing.
"Morning, Matthew, I'm…feeling a lot better. Thank you, again, for earlier, I'm still sorry—"
"Nope, kid, if you start that back up, we're gonna fight. There's still no reason to be sorry!" Matthew chirps, downright cheery. "Now, sit your ass down, you're just in time for dinner. And, I have a surprise for you after!"
Jonah sits obediently, and Matthew plunks a plate down in front of him full of food Jonah is unsure of. It's pasta, for sure, in a tomato sauce, he thinks. Round little balls of meat. With cheese, and a plate of garlic bread is placed in the center of the table. Matthew doesn't hesitate to dig in, so Jonah does, immediately pleased with the dish. It's savory, and saucy, a little sweet and a little acidic, and the meat is tender and flavorful. He finishes his plate quickly, before Matthew, who stands anywhere, taking Jonah's plate from him and refilling it. Always taking care of him, it seems.
Matthew's surprise is absolutely wild. Jonah is told it's a television, a big square thing like a picture, but it's black and glossy reflective. Jonah thinks it would be great for mirror scrying, and he tells Matthew as much. The man startles and looks at him, a smile splitting his face.
"I hadn't thought of that, but you're right, Jonah. It'd be perfect."
But then Matthew pressed a button, and flipped a switch on a gray, oddly shaped thing with a crescent sticking out, and the black picture was flooded with color, movement, and sound. The image looks odd, a little boxy and a little grainy, but breathtaking all the same as a sunset paints a green field in tones of red and orange, a man in green riding a horse galloping across the screen.
"Oh." Jonah's voice escapes him, breathless in wonder, his eyes as huge as saucers, "My God."
Matt watches the expression of sheer wonder and awe spread across Jonah's face, and is pleased with his judgment. He watches as the medium reaches a hand out, gingerly touching the TV screen, only to pull back as if stung, bewildered at the fuzzy feeling crawling along the screen's surface. Jonah watches, leaning forward, fascinated as Link rides Epona off into the sunset of the Ocarina of Time title screen, his nose barely inches from the screen.
"Zelda?" he asks, hesitant on the pronunciation, "is it like a film?"
"Sort of," Matt comes to sit next to the kid on the floor, handing him the controller hooked up to the N64, "except it's interactive. A movie, you can only watch. But this, is a video game. You can play it, like cards."
"A game?" Jonah's voice is small and childlike in its fascination and uncertainty. As he watches the screen, he can read the title, and underneath, text flashes red. Press A. He studies the thing Matthew has handed him, a clunky, gray heavy thing, and finds it has all sorts of buttons. Four of them with arrows like a compass, a red button and a stick in the middle, green and yellow buttons slightly to the right and as big as dimes, and four yellow buttons on the far right, labeled A, B, C, and D. Jonah hesitantly presses the 'A' button, the green one, and the whole object rumbles, a loud bah-nah-nah-nah echoing from the glowy box. The horse scene fades into a blue screen with lines, three of them, all labeled 'Link'.
"Good job!" Matthew praises, and Jonah just nods back, flushing red. He presses the button again, and the topmost row is selected.
"Ah, maybe not that one," Matthew quickly says. "Press 'B' and scroll down—with that stick in the middle—to the bottom one. That top one is my save file, I would be devastated if it got deleted. You can delete the last one and start a new file."
Jonah just nods again, pretending like he knows what all that means, and follows Matthew's instructions. He slowly but surely selects the third file, as Matthew calls it, and scrolls around until he finds 'start new file'. A screen with all the letters of the alphabet appear, and asks for his name. Jonah turns to Matthew.
"Matthew? Why are all of them named Link when your name is Matthew? Who's Link?"
"Ah, Link is the name of the protagonist. You can change his name to yours if you would like, but I usually let him keep it, I don't know." Matthew explains awkwardly, seemingly embarrassed.
"I'll let him keep his name," Jonah replies, and slowly types out 'Link', before hitting the big green button, as prompted by the screen.
Matt is honestly shocked at how quickly Jonah is picking up the controls. Sure, he has to glance down at times to see what buttons he should press, but he got through the naming screen without looking down at the controller once. As the opening cinematic begins to play, Matt goes back to the kitchen to pack up the leftovers, tidy up, and do dishes. While in there, he preheats the oven to bake cookie dough he found at the store. Distantly, he hears the theme music of the first area of the game, the Kokiri Village, can hear Jonah selecting people and talking to them. He hears him laugh, a delighted sound. A few minutes later, he hears the distinct sound of Link tumbling, his cry of hyaa!, and Jonah laughs again.
When Matt goes back to the living room, Jonah is aimlessly running around the village. The expression on his face is one of rapturous awe and delight, absolutely beaming with his electric eyes fixed to the screen. Matt has to make him scoot back a bit, explaining that sitting that close might give Jonah a headache. Matt fetches him pillows to sit on, puts the cookies in, puts on coffee. As he wraps up these tasks, carrying a tray with cookies, milk, and coffee to the living room, Jonah has somehow already acquired the Kokiri sword and shield. He doesn't have to look at the controller at all, and Matt is simply awed.
Matt sits by Jonah with the tray, and the kid turns to him, giggling,
"I have a fairy ,Matthew, look! She's my friend! Her name is Navi," he explains, positively gushing. Matt laughs.
"Aw, sweet, kid. You'll get sick of her eventually."
Night falls and continues as the boys sit in the dark room, lit only by the light of the TV as Jonah plays on. He laughs, he exclaims, he adds his own commentary here and there—the tree can talk, Matthew, look at his little face! He has a mustache just like yours—and when the fighting begins, Jonah is positively enraptured, flinching and leaning in as he strikes and parries, cackling maniacally as he kills enemies. It takes him a while to get a hang of the slingshot, and at the sight of his first big skulltula, the one guarding the dungeon map chest, he shudders and grimaces, startling as the spider spins and knocks him over, his expression aghast and unsettled. He hands Matt the controller, asking him to take care of it, but Matt declines, instead opting to patiently explain how to kill it when its face is turned away.
He also gets stuck on some of the puzzles, but Matt never takes over or explains, simply dropping a leading hint here and there when Jonah starts to get truly frustrated. Matt passess him cookies, coffee, and milk when asked, crumbs lingering in the corners of his mouth. He plays on, all the way up to the boss door, when Matt checks the time.
"Ah, kid. It's past midnight, it's bedtime."
"What, Matthew, no! We've almost beaten the game, we can't stop now," the medium pleads, anguished, sounding suspiciously close to whining.
"No, silly, this is just the first dungeon. There is still plenty of game after this, hours and days left, no worries. You can come back and beat this boss tomorrow, okay?"
Jonah grumbles but acquiesces, watching Matt's walkthrough of how to save and quit the game, and how to turn the machine off. Matt follows the teen up the stairs, and they brush their teeth together. Jonah complains of a headache and accepts more pills from Matthew. They change into bedclothes, turn lights off, and get settled in. In the dark quiet of their room, Jonah and Matt face each other, and after several still moments, Jonah wiggles over, shyly curling up pressed against Matt, snuggling into his side, head on Matt's chest, Matt's hand immediately comes up to pet the head of silky black hair.
"This okay?" Jonah whispers, soft as can be.
"Yes, of course, baby," Matt replies, voice slurred and half asleep, and pats Jonah's head, like a cat.
Jonah blushes warm in the dark, eyes wide as he listens to Matthew succumb to sleep, snores echoing through his broad chest, heartbeat strong and sure in Jonah's ears.
Baby? Good Lord, give me strength—