Lay Me Down

6. Reason (I was there).

*Trigger warning: flashbacks, self-harm, blood. Scroll down for a brief summary.*

{Cary}

Cary's mother was in the kitchen when he came down for breakfast. All the cupboard doors were open, and she was taking plates and cups down and stacking them into boxes. He checked her face—focused, but not angry. "Morning," he said, like he was supposed to.

She acknowledged his greeting without breaking her stride. She stacked one box full of dishes after another on the floor around the kitchen while he made his toast and ate it.

"There." She clapped her hands and he startled. "Can you help me with these, Ciaran?"

The old name made his skin crawl. "It's just Cary now," he said without looking at her. He felt her eyes boring into him as he got off the stool to gather up the first two boxes. They were surprisingly heavy. "Where to?"

"I thought I would store them in the basement," she said brightly.

He was already out of the kitchen—he half-turned back, but she was standing there watching him with her eyebrows raised. He turned back to the hall and went to the door of the basement, tripping a little over his own feet. He set the boxes beside the door and black pressed around his vision. Jesus-God, help.

He turned to get the rest, putting off the inevitable moment when he would have to open the door to hell. His mother watched him while he made three trips to the kitchen, stacking all the boxes in two neat piles on either side of the basement door. He stood between them, shifting from foot to foot, but he couldn't make his hand reach for the handle. Finally he turned to face her. "I can't."

She made an annoyed tsk and came towards him, cornering him against the door and the boxes. "Don't be ridiculous, Ciaran. There's nothing down there." She reached behind him and threw open the door and then backed him up onto the stairs. He missed the top step and grabbed her wrist so he wouldn't fall, his sock feet stinging as they struck the next step down.

"Let go of me—" Beverly threw him off, and Cary slipped backwards another step, grabbing the stair rail and hanging on with palms that were slick with sweat. He didn't dare turn his head and look down the stairs. Cool basement air slipped past his skin. It smelled metallic, like rusted nails and damp concrete.

His mother was rubbing her wrist at the top of the steps, glaring at him. "You're behaving like a child. There is no reason you can't go down there."

"There is a reason." His voice wavered. "You know what happened down there. You came and got me after."

Her eyebrows drew together like she was genuinely puzzled. "That was just one time. Years ago."

He couldn't get his breath. "Not just one time."

She had already turned. "Stop pretending, Ciaran. If you can't obey me in this simple thing—"

He realized a moment too late what she was doing.

"—you can stay down here and think about it." She slammed the door and clicked the lock.

He vaulted up the steps, colliding with the door with all the force of how badly he wanted it to open. "No!" He pressed against it, rigid, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Mom! I'll do the boxes, please ... don't leave me here." He hammered the door with the flat of his hand. "Mom!"

The lock clicked and the door swung open. Cary nearly fell at his mother's feet. The curve of her mouth said she knew she'd won.

He grabbed two of the boxes, the muscles of his shoulders and arms straining as he staggered down the stairs and dumped them at the bottom. In the time it took him to straighten and turn, he saw the basement room and the piece of drywall where he used to put his hands and hold still. His mind played the sound of his father pulling his belt free, and Cary took the steps back up three at a time, straining to leap back out of that nightmare. There were three boxes left, and Phillippa was in the hallway with Liam in her arms. He grabbed two more boxes; the dishes inside rattled in his haste as he ran down the stairs. He shut his eyes at the bottom, but that was a mistake. What he saw in the blackness of his mind was worse. He turned and stumbled back up. He could barely make his rubber legs reach the top.