What Remains

Chapter 4

I will take my chances
Sea of your thoughts
See them

I thought after that encounter two days ago Kenny would be more social. Boy, was I wrong. He's been ignoring me. Leaving me in silence— he hasn't even brought me food. I'm hungry, my stomach growls every five seconds and I'm one step away from going postal. I've thought about what I could do to piss him off— to make him speak to me in the least. Even just through the door. I thought I could pretend I hurt myself in some stupid way, but I figured he might blow up on me. Then I got the idea to throw shit around my room. He'd hear it, I'm sure. Maybe he'd think someone else decided to break in. Or that my friends came back for me. They aren't bad people. I know that. I keep telling myself that but a part of me is still mad. Mad or spiteful? I wish I didn't feel that way. If I were reasonable, I'd write what they did off as mercy. They didn't want me to live in pain, or to live in fear that this man would be following me for the rest of my days. That backfired tenfold.
So, I begin my rampage. I grab the lamp, watching the late sunlight catch the surface before tossing it to the other side of the room. It crashes, the light bulb shatters into a million pieces. Sucks for Kenny. I snicker to myself, flickering my eyes to each surface to find my next target. I spot the drawer on the dresser and open it; there is a book inside. I snatch it up and throw it— the spine breaks with a crack but it doesn't explode everywhere like I would have washed. I stand up, stretching my arms out in front of me. The wooden stool is my next victim. I pick it up, then with a small sigh and change of direction, throw it to the wall beside me. It makes a loud crash, but it doesn't break anywhere I can see. Surely that will get his attention— but it doesn't feel like enough, no, not for me. Not where I am now. I need to keep going. I tug on the bind— maybe I can get the bed to move with me just enough to reach the wardrobe. I fasten my hands on the head bar and pull; it moves in the slightest, but it certainly won't do if I want to break more. I find that my limbs throb, not a painful throb, but they do. A pang of disappointment furrows my brows— is my cut affecting me more than I had thought? I think so. shit. But I won't give up. I won't let myself. The rope is long enough to let me reach the foot of the bed, so I creep there. Once again, I fasten my hands on the metal and pull; it is easier this time, and it moves three more inches back. I wheeze and let my head fall between my arms— is this really worth it? Putting myself through exasperation and the possible opening of the cut just to grab his attention? Honestly, with the grumble that just coursed through my stomach, I stop questioning it. I look back up, tightening my grip and inhaling. With a grunt, I pull the bed just where I want it. I begin to cramp, the consequences of my actions. I graze my hand over my stomach. Surely I will be okay. Something like that can't ruin everything. My attention shifts back to the dresser. There are two glass cups that Kenny had forgotten to bring down and a few books. That's more like it. I first grab the two cups, shattering them on the floor next to the mirror. The books are all tossed in separate directions. It'll waste his time to clean. A part of me wonders if this really isn't a good idea; Kenny could blow up and just completely ignore me. Decide to leave me to die all on my own. No. He isn't all like that. Unstable, yes, murderer, yes, but he isn't like that. Not to me, at least.
Pushing the bed back into place is easier. I let myself fall onto the plush mattress with a huff. Surely that's enough to bring him up here. If not then he must either be deaf or genuinely mad at me. I did nothing wrong (it was fair to make a point like that, right?), so if he is mad I'm praying to god he speaks up.
There are loud stomps outside after what felt like a year. They are fast, not calculated like Kenny's usual catlike strides. Clearly this set him off. I sit up, tossing my legs over the side of the bed quickly. He'll come in, I am sure at this point. They get louder and louder until they're just outside my room. The lock clicks and he swiftly pushes himself inside. I don't speak, but I almost laugh as I watch at least twenty emotions pass through his eyes.
"What..." Kenny pauses, finding his words, "What was the purpose of this?" It sounds more like a scolding than a question, especially with his en-garde stance.
I think about giving a shrug, but I figure it would have just provoked him. "You were ignoring me." My tone is matter-of-factly. Slightly cold, even.
His hazel eyes draw to me, "So you decided to destroy your room?" His tongue clicks at the end of his sentence. His question is rhetorical.
"It worked." I furrow my brows, he's more calm than I expected, "I deserve to know what you're doing, and why you're keeping me alive." My voice got a little loose with this statement; in all honesty, I'm just trying not to blow up in his face. I am hungry, tired, and just plain grumpy.
"You sound mad." Kenny remarks, beginning his way to clean my mess. Ever since the first day here I've hated his short responses. Always so bland and boring.
"Because I am. You're isolating me." God, it sounds like I'm speaking to a child. A manchild. He can't possibly think nothing's wrong with this.
Kenny pauses, "I'm keeping you alive here. You're being stubborn." He sounds impatient.
"I'm being stubborn because I don't want to be here. Not only that, you think I should kill my friends because they wanted to keep themselves safe." I exclaim— how can he not understand?
Kenny shoots a glare my way, "How many times do I have to tell you— they're bad people. They left you behind when they could have helped you. I'm helping you. You and I both know that I was supposed to kill you." His tone becomes less frustrated with each word he speaks. His last statement is unsettlingly nonchalant— too much so. He sounds like a stern father, now that I really think about it.
I give a prolonged blink, "And why haven't you? Answer that, at least." I sound more desperate than I would have liked.
"I don't need to answer you." He shoots me down immediately. It's stupid. He is being stupid.
My tongue prickles as if I'm conjuring up a curse, "I deserve that much. Why do you keep shooting me down?" My words are rushed, impatiently spilling from my mouth.
"I'm not 'shooting you down'." Kenny's voice is accusatory as if I am the one who forced him to take me.
"Then answer me!" I shout. It feels like I'm verbally flipping a table. I sort of regret ever bringing him in here. Stupid me. He's probably confused with how I've switched up; I'm just tired of constantly being scared of him.
He sends me another crude, spiteful glance as he drops a large piece of glass back onto the ground, "You're being inept. Lower your voice." He is clearly annoyed. He paces around the room, thoughtlessly fixing things with little to no pattern.
"You're stupid, and you're always blank. Look at you pacing around the room." I allow my angered tone to show through, "Why do you treat people this way? There is no reason for you to be an ass." Maybe it's that I'm too bold for him to handle, but he goes silent. Just focused on the stupid things everywhere.
"And now you're quiet." I mumble. Maybe I need a different approach— maybe he is just a big baby. "Please, just talk to me. That's all I ask." My voice lowers into a plea.
With a sigh, Kenny places the broken lamp back upright. "What do you want?" I imagine him raising his brow with that unimpressed tone. Bingo.
"I want to know why you're keeping me here. Why me in the first place? You could have taken May or..." I trail off.
"You and I aren't very different." A curt breath follows his words.
I almost snicker, "I have reason to think we are." I am spiteful, cursing his statement with my tongue.
"That's because you hate thinking that you could be like me." He straightens out, growing back to his normal size in an instant like I intimidate him, "You're independent." As soon as he steps forward, the mood changes. It's like a thick sheet is drawn over the room, "You don't need those people outside of here. You got up on your own, and you were ready to fight your way out of here without them." His presence weighs heavy, domineering. He's akin to a predator stalking its next victim.
I rub my thighs— what am I supposed to do with my hands? With my thoughts? Does he want an audience, is that what I'm here for? My bottom lip catches under my two top teeth. He could be right, that's the worst part of all of this. I mean, he got his first statement in his speech spot on; I don't want to be like him. A coppery taste draws into my mouth.
"I've done, in your morals, terrible things. Yet here you are, talking to me all civil." Kenny's voice turns back to that unfittingly educated English tone. His tongue clicks like he's maintaining the attention of a pet, "I know you don't think you owe me a debt. Why are you being friendly, tell me?" It doesn't sound like a question — more of a tease. Not rhetorical or anything, though.
"Well,—"
Kenny cuts me off, "You're unsure."
"I'm not dead." My eyes narrow, holding him in my sight. I know he knows that I won't give up that easily.
He gives a short 'tsk' to my words. A step forward solidifies his undying relentlessness, "You don't want my attention, but you'll ruin your room to make me look your way. That's odd, isn't it?" His hazel eyes mirror mine with the narrowing, but not with the expression held within; they hold an odd brightness. A candle growing fierce, "You need me. You hate that thought, but you do. Without me, you'd be dead. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have gotten up and kept fighting."
I scoff, "I don't need you." I speak no higher than a breath.
"But you do." Kenny's tone is cold, straightforward. He takes one more step forward.
I try to argue, but my tongue is caught. It feels like someone holds a firm grip on my throat.
"We are one in the same." And yet he talks down to me like I am no more than a bug compared to him, "I'm not asking much of you. This is not at all a chore." A slow, almost unsure head shake accompanies his words, "You don't even have to do anything. Just come with me, tell me where they are and I will help you." A pause, "I am not your enemy. You don't have to keep treating me as such." It sounds more like a command than a plea.
"If I do, I will be a bad person. I am not a bad person." Whether I am reassuring myself or him, I don't know anymore.
"I agree." Kenny speaks gently, like a doting father. My eyes draw back to his like they're connected to ropes, and he is on the other end. Pulling. Yanking. "You are a good person. Doing this, letting me help you, won't change that; you have a valid reason."
If a bad person calls you 'good', does that make it true?
"They're not bad people either." A thin line draws itself in front of me. Point of no return.
"But they hurt you. Bad people hurt good people." Kenny's throat is corded tight, like he too feels how I do.
"I don't have to do anything I don't want to?" Any air that I catch in my throat stays there. I can't sigh. My stillness, my hands that are placed loosely on either side of me, is akin to a doll.
"Nothing you don't want to." Kenny nods slowly as if to make sure I see the gesture— or him. Likely him as a whole.
"I just tell you where they live, and that's that?" I guess they are wrong for leaving me behind. The look in Justin's eyes.. I wish I could go back and erase that memory. It is their fault for bringing me here; I never wanted to come.
"And you come with. That's all I ask." A final step. He is directly above me, staring down with eyes so guileless.
I nod, finally releasing the air inside my lungs. I deflate; my shoulders ache from how rigid I only now realise I was. Is this the right choice? No. No, and I knew that from the start. I don't want to be a murderer, I want to be like my father. I want to be strong, not monstrous. Kenny accepts my silence, taking a short step back. It feels like the energy in the room relents its hold on me, finally letting me breathe in my space. Kenny's hand softly strokes the top of my head in a message I'm not present enough to decipher, then he continues his way to the door. My stomach growls, and his hand hovers over the doorknob. "I'll make you some food."