Page 11 of The Sound of Him

It was Mica who stole Matt’s voice - or so we all assume. Neither Jake or Travis were present when the so-called incident began, but Jake caught the end of it. His official report had been simple. It included the date, the time, and the words “close call with obstructed airway, only about 45 seconds of complete deprivation, physical appearance fine apart from usual markings.”

On the phone that night, he’d sounded haunted as he painted the picture for me. He said it was the most fucked up birthday party he’d ever attended. I tried to comfort Jake, reminding him that the night was over. Matt was safely tucked away in the slaves’s quarters with Bryce Jacobson at his side. There was nothing more for him to do until morning, when he’d speak with Travis so the man could tug on Mica’s leash a little in warning.

He’d been calm enough by the end of the conversation to mumble, ‘I’m sure the kid will be fine.’

But the ‘kid’ hasn’t been fine at all. He hasn’t spoken a single word since. Even when masters had threatened him at first, promising horrific things if he didn’t manage to utter a word and following up on them until they eventually realized nothing they did would make the man talk. Even when he was alone with theother captives in areas of the house where Travis claimed there was no reason for surveillance, we never heard a word from him.

I’ve stopped following their medical updates now that I live among them, but I really fucking hope that the doctors here - Adam Singh and Devin Deacon - figure out a way to help Matt. It’s the least any of us can do, especially when Mica is one of the very few people who slipped through the cracks at the end of our operation.

If Matt knows his own personal monster is still on the loose, he must be terrified. Upset, at the very least. If I was him, I’d be -ah, shit.

Matt is now staring at me with wide eyes, his shoulders pulled up toward his ears and curled slightly forward. Probably because I’ve just been standing here like an idiot, looming in the shadowy hallway, not saying anything. Not to mention that his roommate Nolan is, strangely enough, downstairs with Maison right now, so Matt is without backup if I had nefarious reasons for visiting. For all I know, Matt doesn’t even remember briefly meeting me when he first arrived here and I’m nothing but a strange man who was lurking outside his door.

Jesus, yeah, terrified probably doesn’t even fucking cover it.

“Uh,” I say like an utter moron. “Hi.”

He blinks at me.

Right. Mute means he can’t answer. Also, as mentioned, he’s probably terrified.

“Hi,” I say again, officially deciding to go toss myself off the roof after this encounter. Or just never leave my office ever again. “I’m Ace. The tech guy. You might remember that I was there when you all first showed up? I was handing out bags. It’s okay if you don’t. You probably don’t. I haven’t been around much since then. I hang out in my office most of the time. I’m sort of a hermit. Which isn’t the point. The - uh - the point is that I’m the tech guy and not here to hurt you, okay?”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. One of his hands is gripping the door, slim fingers digging into the wood hard enough to pale his knuckles.

“I was just dropping off this bag,” I try to explain. “I didn’t want to knock in case you were sleeping. I was just going to, you know, put it down. Here. Outside the door.”

I hold up the tote like an idiot, relieved when his intense eyes finally move from me to it. That only lasts a few seconds, though. Then his gaze is locked back onto me. I can’t blame him for not wanting to take his eyes off of the threat, but it makes me feel wrong inside. Hot and twisted, a little.

No one has ever been afraid of me before. Not that I noticed, at least. Maybe some of the survivors were when they first arrived, but I was too busy with all of the chaos and my own memories to realize it. All I know is that it’s not a good feeling, to be feared. In fact, it’s pretty fucking awful.

I hate it.

“I’m really, really sorry. I shouldn’t be here. I can just put it down-” I cut myself off when he starts to reach his hand toward me. I hold perfectly still, watching as emotions play across his face over the short span of seconds it takes for him to get his fingers around the fabric handles.

His hand shakes, but his grip on the handles is as firm as the one he had on the door before. His look is just as firm when he fixes it on me, almost daring me to admit that this was a trick. He stares, waiting for me to laugh or pull the bag back. Maybe even waiting for me to punish him for daring to believe he’d be worthy of a gift like this, regardless of not even knowing what’s inside.

The determination and bravery vanishes the instant I let go, giving way to cautious confusion as he realizes it's not a trick. I force myself to take a step back in the hope that it’ll make him feel safer. He seems a little less wary when he clocks themovement, but he’s still nowhere near comfortable with my presence.

He’s gripping the bag’s handles so tight now that it must be painful. I push my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants to keep myself from reaching out and easing the grip. That’d be unprofessional on about ten different levels, not to mention likely traumatizing to someone whose bodily autonomy was just handed back to them after years of abuse.

It’s probably best I cut this short and get the fuck out of here.

“You might have noticed that there’s pre-stocked shampoo and conditioner in all of the bathrooms, but I figured you might appreciate something that’s actually meant for your type of hair. I know if I didn’t have the right stuff that it’d be a nightmare. Not that we have the same, obviously, but neither of us are white boys, you know? Don’t have that easy white boy hair.”

He blinks at me again before carefully pulling the two handles apart so he can peer into the bag.

There’s no reason for me to continue talking. My job is done. Overly done, at this point. No one else even saw my face when their bag was delivered, much less received a rambling speech.

And yet…

“I didn’t know what room you’d end up in, so I couldn’t pre-stock these, but I didn’t want to put them in your welcome bag in case they broke open and ruined your things, so I waited until you got settled and… well, now here they are.”

I rock on my feet, trying not to let my anxiety build as we stand in the growing silence. I should go now. There’s no reason for me not to go.

Except he’s looking wary again, which is the last thing I want. So maybe I’ll just, you know, explain myself. Real quick. Without rambling.

Don't fucking ramble,I tell myself.