The Man (Puppet Boy Prequel)

2.

HE WOKE to banging and thudding from upstairs. When he opened his eyes, his stomach let out a long and painful growl. When would his daddy return?

At least the smell of the puppet hanging next to him had become slightly less unbearable. He actually enjoyed passing time by staring at it; admiring how realistic it looked. His daddy was a true artist!

"Shut the fuck up!" he suddenly heard his father scream, and the front door slammed from upstairs.

Tommy furrowed his eyebrows. His father had never been one to swear around him before, so it was strange to hear profanity come from his angry and strained voice.

The basement door swung open, and light from the corridor illuminated the wall. His father's silhouette came into view, and also a shadow of another person beside him. Tommy heard groans and wondered if whoever was with him had been hurt. Maybe his father was helping him?

When his parent came into view, he was holding onto a man who had been trudging behind him. The man had dark, messy and matted hair that fell into his eyes and dirt smudged across his face. His eyes were dull and lifeless, closing for long periods of time before he would slowly open them and stare around the room in defeat. It didn't take Tommy long to notice his wrists were also tied behind him, and there was a piece of silver tape over his mouth.

"Hi!" Tommy chirped to the guy his father brought down the stairs.

The guy locked eyes with Tommy, and his father didn't hesitate to grab the guy and shove him roughly into the wall. Tommy's mouth opened in shock.

"Don't look at him," he demanded in a scary voice, facing the guy.

Tommy looked at the dirty ground. "Daddy, I'm tired. When are you going to untie me?" he asked, wanting to rub his heavy eyes and bundle into his comfortable race car blankets.

His father turned his head towards him slowly, glaring at his son. Tommy felt small beneath his heavy glare and his heart began to race again, all of the air from his lungs seeming to disappear.

"Thomas, do not call me that again."

His heart dropped. "Daddy?"

"Yes, do not call me that again."

"Then what do I-"

Tommy flinched when his father suddenly slammed the guy into the wall again, making him fall to the ground. Why was he hurting him? He couldn't help but tear up at the sight of his father standing over the weak body.

"I said stop, Thomas!" he screamed, his pale and tired face fading into a red colour.

Tommy nodded and kept his gaze fixed on the ground. He couldn't move, his small body was securely tied to the back of the chair and he'd been like that for hours. It was beginning to hurt, as the tough rope had been digging into his skinny arms. He wanted to cry, but he didn't want to get yelled at, and he certainly didn't want his daddy to keep hurting that man.

The guy he brought in was slumped against the wall and his father was rummaging through a box in the corner when the doorbell upstairs rang. His father straightened his back in alarm, looking around the room as if to listen for another ring.

"Daddy, aren't you going to answer that?" Tommy asked.

His father shushed him loudly, and the doorbell rang again. His father's eyes widened when suddenly, there was a loud, rapid banging at the door. Tommy's heart began to race as he stared at his parent in concern. What was going on?

"I'll be back. You!" he pointed to his son, "I better not hear you make any noise. And you," he turned to the guy, "You don't want to know what will happen if you do anything stupid."

The guy's chest swelled up and down rapidly as he watched Tommy's father stalk up the stairs cautiously. The knocking continued until the both of them heard the door being answered along with faint talking.

"Hi, I heard some yelling, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay," Tommy heard somebody say.

The guy in the room with him perked up at the sound of that. He began to whimper and make noise, as much as he could with the tape around his mouth. He hit his body into the wall over and over, trying to make any sort of sound.

"What's that?" the person from upstairs asked.

"Oh, that's just my son. He has a friend over," Tommy heard his father explain. Why was he lying?

The guy continued to scream into the tape, and Tommy wanted to tell him to stop, but he wasn't allowed to talk either.

"Are you sure everything's okay?" the person asked again.

"Yes, everything is fine. They're boys, you know how boys are," his father made up another excuse.

Tommy heard the muffled words of the person explaining how they also had sons and how they understood. Soon enough, the voice disappeared and the upstairs door was slammed shut.

Tommy heard his father stepping down the staircase - each step creaking beneath his weight. He was painstakingly slow, staring at the guy who was pressed against the wall with eyes that were so horrifying, Tommy had to look away.

His father snickered under his breath, and Tommy saw the guy rapidly shaking his head, trying to back away. Tommy closed his eyes, tilting his head away from the scene.

"I told you not to do that," his father stated maliciously. His voice sliced through the thick and heavy air like a knife.

Tommy screwed his eyes shut even tighter, his face scrunching as he tried so desperately to block out what was happening. He could hear the painful cries of the guy he had brought in, and all Tommy could do was tremble in fear. He wanted to look, but he was far too afraid.

"Thomas," he suddenly heard his dad address him, his voice strangely close. Tommy cautiously opened his eyes to find his father already knelt in front of him, his shaking fingers untying the knot to free his son. "Get upstairs," he growled.

"But daddy-"

"What did I say about calling me that?" his father bellowed. "What did I say?"

"I'm s-sorry," Tommy cried out. He glanced over his father's shoulder at the guy laying on the ground, a pool of dark liquid coating his skin as he drearily brought his eyes to lock on Tommy's.

Tommy gasped, but his father just grabbed his son's wrist and shoved him in the direction of the staircase. He stepped over the body on the floor and raced up the stairs so quickly, he almost tripped on the way up.

As he sprinted to his bedroom, tears uncontrollably cascaded down his heated cheeks. He scrambled into his bed, his heart pounding in fear and his little breath heavy as he buried himself into his comforter.

He brought the soft fabric up to his flesh for warmth. He listened to the helpless sounds of a stranger screaming in pain from downstairs until his eyes fluttered shut, and he drifted off into a deep sleep, dreaming back to the times when the basement was used for doing laundry with his mother.