No, it couldn't be. How did he...? One minute he was at the lawyer's office and the next...
Rue was actually there, there in the hell house that he swore he would never return to, if but to see it demolished and rebuilt one day. Rue was barely keeping it together and the only way to get through this was to put his feelings aside. There was a time and a place for them, but it wasn't now and here. He had to figure out what was going on.
He traced his fingers over an old photo of his grandparents. His movements left traces in the thick layer of dust that covered every inch of the old house. There was no love lost, no feelings of loss as he gazed upon their faces. They weren't his family nor his mother's. They simply shared blood. To some that may count for something, but not to him.
His grandfather had been a man of few words, and he had let his wife call the shots and speak for him. They'd been married for so long that they were practically the same person anyway, so whatever she said, he agreed with. He was of average height, but next to his grandmother he actually looked to be a little shorter than her. He tended to hunch in her prescence. He had been much wider than her though. He had always had a large frame but from a young age he had lead an active life, so he was built strong, like a brick.
Rue could still remember how big his grandfather's hands had been. To his childhood self, they had seemed like they were big enough to wrap his fingers around his waist with one hand. He had been a small child, and that had made his grandfather even more intimidating. He wore a thin moustache that he'd twist up on the sides and he had no eyebrows. Apparently he had burned them off during his service and they never grew back. His hair was short and he combed it over the bald spot that covered most of his head. His comb over always shone as he used some thick hair wax to put the dark strands in place. It looked like stripes of shoe polish that had been smeared across his scalp.
The dark-haired woman in the photograph stared back at him with her cold gaze, unsmiling. He knew it was just a picture, but the involuntary step back and shiver came anyway. The last time Rue had met her and his grandfather, she had been fifty-six, but she had looked to be in her early forties at the time. The photograph must have been taken many years after that, as she was older than he'd ever seen her. Yet her skin barely had a crease, let alone any crow's feet. Though perhaps that was because she never used to smile. She could've been pretty, if not for the condescending grimace that her taut, pale face had been set in since the day she was born.
Rue felt some pity for his great-grandmother, even though they had never met. He couldn't imagine having a child that had come into the world looking like she was judging everyone, and who made it clear that she was, from the moment she could speak. His grandmother had been cruel all her life and the only thing he could say in her defence was that she directed her hatred toward everyone and everything, not just her unfortunate immediate family.
She'd been a meticulous and obsessive woman. Every second of her life had been organised and planned down to the smallest detail, and always had been. If something didn't go according to The Plan, she either had a fit, forced it to bend to her will or cut it out of her life forever. Both her own mother, her daughter and Rue had been subjected to the latter.
Her appearance reflected her immense need for control and order. She had a few grey hairs around her temples and hairline, but they were mostly visible when she wore her elaborate pulled back hairdo. Rue wouldn't put it past her to have slept in it. There was no way it could be comfortable having your hair pulled back so tight, and it made her skin stretch and strain even further over her sharp cheekbones. It looked like one day they'd pierce through. Perhaps that contributed to her permanent foul mood.
To her, however, her appearance was a sign of her discipline, and she would firmly deny any discomfort it brought her, as that would mean admitting to a weakness. Weakness was not allowed. She was a firm believer that acts of weakness would attract the devil and soon enough the person in question would lose themselves to sin. In fact, to her it was a sin to give in to desires or do anything simply because it was enjoyable. Sugar was not allowed in her household, and she even saw fruit as solid blocks of sugar. She didn't allow any kind of cooking fat either. That too was seen as an indulgence.
When cooking, she would measure her own food and everyone else's, first using both her kitchen scale and then as a final step, she used her ruler as she was placing the food on the plate. There had to be a perfect balance between the different food groups served and therefore she placed each food group in a triangular shape with a certain angle. When she was done, they formed a full circle.
There would be no pots or pans on the kitchen table and no one got to serve themselves. Supper was served at 5 pm and there would not be any more food served that day. You ate what was on your plate. If you weren't full, that was on you. The food was kept in a locked walk in pantry, and no one had the key but her. She wore it on a chain around her neck and she never took it off. She even wore it to bed, under her nightdress.
She was always dressed as if she was about to go to a meeting in court. Never a hair out of place, a tear on her tights or a stain on her skirt. That would be unthinkable. The woman could not stand anything that was the least bit out of place, especially not when it came to appearances. Appearances was everything to her. From lifestyle choices, to clothes to hair.
She was a firm believer that letting one's hair loose was something you only ever did in the shower or at the hairdresser's. Even then, she would avoid it if she could. She would wash her hair before going to hairdresser's and then count the seconds her hair was down while it was being cut. She would not be able to relax until it was back into her usual do. Luckily for her, her hairdresser knew this, since she had gone to the same one for over thirty years. Given that the request had remained the same each time, they had the routine down, She never had to be there for more than 20 minutes, including the time at the register.
To her, wearing your hair down was the same as being disheveled and that was a clear sign that you were on the wrong path in life. "Only hobos, whores and hippies wears their hair down." That was something she had told her daughter on the daily throughout her childhood.
Rue remembered that his mother kept her hair only as long as she could without being able to put it in a ponytail. That way she made sure she never went a day without wearing her hair down. Rue smiled at the memory, and the pride for his mother's gumption brought a fond warmth to his chest.
Rue's mother hadn't spoken about his grandparents much, but what she had told him made it evident why she didn't speak of them more. He'd caught on quickly that his grandparents was a topic that was not to be breached. He loved his mother and he did not like seeing her upset. Whenever the subject came up, she'd become fidgety, scared almost, and her face would take on an ancient, solemn expression, as if she was an old woman looking back on her long life. He remembered that even his young childhood self had come to realise that pain ages you, and that his mother had had no shortage of it in her short life.
It was true that Rue couldn't think of his mother without feeling the familiar stabbing ache in his chest, the uncomfortable lump at the back of his throat and the stinging in his eyes. It had been years since that nightmare of a day, but he still lost his breath sometimes when he remembered that he was living in a world that his mother was no longer a part of. He couldn't take it in; his heart and his mind refused to let him. All he could do was keep himself busy and focus on other things in life. He was more or less tiptoeing his way through life, carefully avoiding anything that would remind him of what was no more.
The saying goes "It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all", but Rue had never gotten to the point where he could feel the truth in that. He wasn't ready to say goodbye to his mother, be content with his memories of the time they'd had together and feel only grateful that she'd been his. Of course he was grateful, but he was also angry. Not at her, in fact, not at any one in particular. He was just angry that he didn't get to keep her longer. He needed her then and even now, over a decade later, he still felt the gaping her hole that her absence left in his heart. The truth is that it was easier for him to feel the anger. Anger was something he could deal with. But he knew deep down that if he sat with himself long enough, and truly allowed himself to feel what he felt, it would become painfully evident that the anger's real name was sorrow.
Had he not had his art, that kept him in a state of creation most of the time, he wasn't sure he'd have been able to cope with the loss. And if he hadn't met his friend, he knew he wouldn't be here today.
As Rue was about to go upstairs he heard something behind him. He turned around with his hand still on the railing, but he couldn't see anything.
"...ue. Rue!"
It was Mica. Mica was calling for him. As soon as Rue realised that, the walls disappeared around him. The railing underneath his hand wasn't there anymore. Instead he was floating, drifting and he couldn't see anything. It was just dark, misty and cold. All of sudden he felt so very cold. He breathed and he could feel just how cool his breath was. He tried to move but nothing happened. His eyes wouldn't open and he couldn't feel his own body. Not his arms, legs, hands, feet - no matter what he tried to move, he couldn't feel it. It was as if his body wasn't there.
Had he died? Was that it? Was he now a lost soul, just roaming the earth in search of peace? No, he couldn't be. He just couldn't. He had so much he still wanted to do. He wasn't done yet. Rue was not done living his own life.
He fought tooth and nail against the darkness, screamed and shouted at it. There were profanities uttered that he hadn't used since he lived on the street. His mum would've been proud. He would have hit the darkness, if only he had an arm to hit it with. True enough, it was shapeless, but he would have gone at it all the same. For that he would need hands though... wait, his hands... He could feel his hands!
He felt his limbs one by one until he found himself having regained contact with the whole of his body. Scared it wasn't real, that it was just another mirage, a sensory illusion, he kicked and flailed his arms. Or at least he attempted to. They wouldn't move, but somehow he did. All of him. His whole body turned and hit something hard. On impact his eyes flew open and as they did, he could see. It was a little blurry at first, but then he saw a dusty floor, a chafed chair leg and a pair of feet dressed in fancy, overpriced dress shoes. Wait, he had seen those shoes somewhere before. That's right. It was Mica. Mica was here. Rue had made it back and he rejoiced in his mind.
"That... I imagine they would've heard. Shit." Mica sounded hoarse and strained. He was scared, Rue realised. And whatever scared that large man would undoubtedly be even more of threat to Rue.
"I'm glad you're okay, kid. Wait, I guess I should've asked you first. Are you? Are you okay?
I imagine you'll be feeling off, groggy and well, you are lying on the floor, so you must be cold. I'm not sure what they gave you, but whatever it was, we're taking you to a hospital after this. You were out a long time."
Rue smiled. He couldn't lift his head, so he couldn't see his face, but he was glad to have Mica there with him. His wrists were tied to the lower part of the back of the chair and his legs were tied to the chair legs. It hurt. It hurt a lot and he wasn't sure his arm was okay. It felt like his shoulder had dislocated and he was doing his best not to cry. His wrist was bent in a weird angle underneath himself and the chair. Rue's thoughts immediately went to his work, then Rick and then Arlo.
The tear ducts weren't listening to him anymore. It was a struggle not to lose himself to the sheer panic and fear that was dragging him down. Then again, he had already been scammed, drugged and kidnapped. He was now lying on a filthy floor with what was likely the beginning of the black eye of the century, so what were a few tears compared to all that?
"I... it hurts, and I can't see much in this position, but I th-think I'm o-okay" he was beginning to shudder and his skin felt wet.
Mica didn't respond but Rue didn't notice at first. He couldn't get the restaurant out of his mind. When Rue did notice, Mica had been quiet for a couple of minutes.
"Mica?"
"You're not okay." Mica mumbled to himself. His eyes refocused as he kept blinking, hoping he was seeing things. He wasn't. Rue was lying on his arm and the bone of his wrist was protruding from his skin. From it, the blood was dripping and soon there was a steady stream going. There was a cut on his cheek and that too was bleeding. The young man must still be under the influence of whatever they injected him with or he'd be screaming the house down. For his sake, Mica felt glad he couldn't feel the full extent of his injuries yet. But the blood... high or not, soon enough he would feel the anemia hit. Mica just prayed they'd made it out of there by then.
Mica shook his head and tried hard to keep his voice even. "I need to tell you something and I need you to stay calm, Rue. You are..."
Before he got to finish what he was saying, the lock made a sound.
"Well, well, well, someone's been naughty..."