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stormsandfoes · 19 days

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A Slow Descent

Thomas Hewitt/ Original Female Character

A retelling of TCM: The Beginning focusing more on Thomas' descent to madness, but with a bit of romance.

Chapter tags: Monologuing, Thomas POV

Author Note: This will be a very, very slow burn. Please pay attention to chapter tags, just in case you have any triggers.

Chapter One: The house with the red walls.

It’s on his way home that Thomas notices that the house on the corner of the path is no longer empty.

He’s frustrated, no matter how many times he goes back to the Slaughterhouse, he finds the door sealed shut, the gates at the back chained close. He doesn’t know how to read that well, but he knows that as long as the sign stays up, he’s not supposed to come back.

Momma told him that morning that he was just wasting his time- getting up so early and walking all the way across town for a job that he no longer had. But what else was he supposed to do? For years he had done the exact same thing. He’d wake up, eat the porridge she sometimes made him then made his way over to the Slaughterhouse in the other side of the town. He’d work eight hours, tearing meat from bones- cutting down pigs and beef- whatever they threw at him. He was always the first one in and the last one to leave.

When he got home Momma would kiss him on the cheek and ask him how his day had been, taking the bag of raw meat he managed to scavenge from his hand. She’d send him up to wash up- telling him that dinner would be done soon.

Now she looks at him like he had done something wrong. Like she was mad at him. Sometimes when he pushed open the front door, she wouldn’t even lift her eyes from her knitting.

It hurt, knowing that he made momma so angry that she didn’t want to look at him. He wanted to make her happy again. Maybe if he stood outside long enough, someone would see him, see that he wanted to work. They’d realize that they made a mistake- the barn would open again, and he’d go back to butchering.

It never did though. No one ever came out. No one ever noticed him, waiting.

He was tired by the time he decided to head back home. Angry and sore at once again being ignored. He was hungry- the summer sun stole all his strength. Even if he did nothing but just stand there and wait.

But he knew that there was nothing left at home. Momma had scraped together the last of what they had yesterday- flour dumplings boiled in a broth of scraps. It had done nothing to fill his stomach. Any of theirs. There was nothing waiting for him at home but his bed.

He thinks about turning back and waiting a bit longer. Maybe this was their way of keeping him out, of punishing him for messing up. He was scared that the moment he turned his back on the barn- everyone finally stopped hiding and laughed at him for being an idiot.

They probably didn’t like that he took home the scraps at the end of the day. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to and that’s why they wouldn’t let him come back in. Uncle Charlie had told him that they had closed it down because people in town were getting sick- but what did he know? He spent his days in the middle of town, spending what little money they had. At least that was what momma liked to scream at him when he came home drunk and with empty pockets.

He’s almost tempted to but he wants to go home. Wants to fill his stomach with water- with whatever momma scraped together tonight. He’d stay longer tomorrow. Maybe he could take Charlie’s bolt cutters with him. Even if there was no one inside- there were a few freezers in the barn, maybe he could find something in one of them. Something that would make Momma look at him again.

He's halfway home- the road turning into nothing but a worn-out dirt path that splits into left and right. One side lead into the forest- Momma didn’t want him going that way- while the other side ends at home. Both sides are empty. No one but them live this far out. They had a neighbor at one point, but she ate herself to death. Monty had found her, face down in a plate of biscuits. Momma had been real sad at the news.

There were houses though. Abandoned long before he had been born. He liked to think what it’d be like to have neighbors that would wave at him when he walked by. Or maybe they’d ignored him- act like they were too busy to notice him.

He imagines that the farms in between each of them would make this walk feel less like a chore he had to do and more like a choice- like those people on TV who bragged about how they liked to walk after dinner. But everything around him was dead- shriveled up from the sun that never seemed to want to go away, not even at night. He’s walked this path hundreds of times, he knows that nothing was ever going to change.

It’s for that very reason that he stops as soon as he gets to the fork where the road splits. Before the woods begins to thicken into a dark, twisted mass of dead trees- too far for him to see clearly now that the sun had disappeared and the early darkness of night began to settle, but close enough that he can see just enough- there stands a small, faded red house. He’s looked at it so many times that he’s lost count, but one thing never changed; he never saw anyone come in or out of it. Until now, when he watches a woman pushes past the front door and makes her way to the faded moving van parked on the lawn. He can’t make out a lot of her details, but she has skin darker than his and hair shorter than his. He doesn’t stare for long, as she disappears behind the truck.

He liked the dark. In the dark no one really noticed him. It was like he wasn’t there, liked he was a part of the shadows, the darkness itself. He could stand there and watch, and no one would ever notice him. Like him, the dark made people uncomfortable, they tended not to look at it too much. It’s why he doesn’t hesitate to move closer- steps silent as he finds himself growing curious.

The woman appears again, carrying a bag on her shoulder and a box that’s too heavy for her. He can tell by the way she’s leaning to the side a bit, her steps staggered. She doesn’t hear him as he steps onto her dead yard. No one ever does.

Part of him doesn’t like this- momma said the town was all dried up and there wasn’t anyone but them left, even the Sheriff was packing up and moving North. Kingsland was nothing, had nothing- and he liked that. He liked that it was just them. That maybe this meant that he could finally go out into the town square. He wouldn’t have to worry about anyone else seeing him or calling him those names that he hated.

A smaller, quieter part of him, though, found this exciting. Sometimes he got tired of Charlie and Monty… sometimes even momma was too much. With her shows and her nagging. Sometimes, when he was down in the basement scrubbing his apron or punishing himself for making a mistake- he wanted someone to come down there and tell him that it was okay. That he was okay. He didn’t want momma to do it. Momma had to do it; she was his momma after all. Uncle Monty and Charlie yelled too much, never like everyone else, but he didn’t like it anyways.

He wanted a friend. Like on TV- in those black and white shows Monty watched all the time where no one screamed at each other, and they all ate together at the end of the day. Maybe she could be his friend. Maybe she wouldn’t scream when she looked at him. Momma said that there were people out there that would see him for more than his disease. The people of Kingsland were too simple and small minded to know better. Momma always liked to see the good in people, but sometimes he thought that maybe there wasn’t any good in them to see.

The woman goes into the house- the door creaking shut behind her, but he can see her behind the curtains of the window, bending down and setting a everything down on the ground. If Momma was here with him, she’d tell him to march on over to her door and offer his help- and maybe he should. But he didn’t want to. He just wanted to watch.

It doesn’t take long for the woman to come back outside. Instead of grabbing more things she stands in front of the door and stretches, her arms raising above her before she moves side to side. He finds it funny- how she twists and turns. Just like those women on the exercise shows momma used to watch.

He wanted to get a little closer to her, but if he did, he wouldn’t be able to hide any more. She wasn’t like Charlie- who kept the porch light on at night, worried that someone might try to break in. She kept hers off. Maybe she didn’t know that she was supposed to do that. Didn’t her own momma warn her that the dark was dangerous?

Silly woman. He’d have to warn her next time.

The woman stops her funny little movement- saying something that he can’t hear, before she pushes her hair out of her face. It’s almost as dark as his, sticking to the sweat on her forehead. For a second, she turns, and her eyes meet his. He feels that feeling again- that same one that he used to get when he was forced to go to school even though no one there was nice to him. It’s almost like fear, when his stomach drops, and his heart begins to race in his chest but different in a way he couldn’t describe. But as soon as he meets her eyes she looks away- turning her attention back to the truck and he feels that tension in his shoulders roll down his back.

She hadn’t seen him. Good. He didn’t want her to see him. He would have scared her and then she wouldn’t want to be his friend. The town would take her before he had a chance and she’d be like everyone else- too disgusted to get close.

He waits until she’s back inside the house to turn around and leave- his steps heavy and quick as he makes his way back unto the path before she comes back out. He’d come back tomorrow- maybe he’d even bring momma. Momma could always tell when someone had a kind soul.

He thinks about the woman as he walks home, his hunger forgotten. He thinks about all the things that he’d be able to do with his new friend- all the things he could show her. Teach her.

He wouldn’t have to spend his days in the basement or in his room or in the barn in the back, helping Uncle Monty fix things that were going to die regardless of how hard he tried-knowing that nothing outside was meant for him. Maybe she’d want to go home with him, and he’d get to show her the things he was proud of. Maybe she would invite him over for tea like Momma with her sister. Though he didn’t like the stuff, he already decided that he would drink it for her.

Charlie and Momma are standing on the porch by the time he reaches the house, the sun long gone and the sky pitch black. Momma’s nervous again- he can tell by the way she keeps squeezing her skirt.

“Oh, Tommy,” she says, rushing down the stairs and towards him. “Where in the lords name have you been?” She’s grabbing at him; her hands find his shoulders as she takes a shaky breath. “I was just about to send Charlie over to look for you!” she brings her hands- soft and warm and hard from work all at the same time- to his head. She smooths his hair down before cupping his face- right over the leather mask that he wore whenever he stepped out of his room. “You scared me- had me thinking that you ran off on me.”

He wants to tell her that he would never do that, that he just got distracted. He wanted to tell her about the woman moving into the red house way up the road, but he had never been much for talking- muscles too weak to form anything. Instead, he cups her face the same way she did his- his hands too big and clumsy, almost knocking her glasses off.

Momma seems to relax, nodding her head as if she read his mind. She always seemed to know what he meant. She used to say that he could flex his pinky and she’d know whether that meant he was hungry or tired.

“You can’t be scaring me like that, Tommy. I’m too old, think of my poor heart.” She gives him one last squeeze before pulling away. He drops his hands as well, letting her take a step back and wipe her glasses on her apron. “Go get up on upstairs and freshen up. I’ll warm up your supper.”

The reminder of food makes him realize that all this time his stomach had been twisted into knots. He had filled his head with thoughts of the woman that he had almost forgotten that he didn’t have a job anymore, that there was no food left.

He had been ready to come home to Momma telling him to fill his stomach up with water and head on over to bed. She must have noticed his confusion- how had they gone from having nothing this morning to suddenly having enough to put together supper?

“Monty traded his rifle for some scraps over at the farm… didn’t get a whole lot of them, but its enough to fill our stomachs for a few days if I stretch it right.” Momma’s mouth twisted down as she talked. She never liked begging. Especially begging for food. Said it reminded her of bad times where she did really bad things.

God forgave her though, but maybe his forgiveness only lasted so long?

Charlie scoffed from behind her, rubbing his cigarette on the step he sat at before slipping it into the pocket of his jeans. “Shit ain’t enough for the day after tomorrow.” he says, angry. Uncle Charlie was always angry though. Momma told him it was a side effect of the war, of all the bad things done to him. “It don’t matter how thin you stretch it- it’s gonna run out and we’re gonna starve.”

Momma didn’t like it when people cussed in front of her, but this time she doesn’t say anything about his foul language- instead she wrings her hands together in front of her. “It’ll be alright,” she says, but for some reason he doesn’t believe her. “We’re going to figure this all out.”

Another scoff from Charlie, who stands and brushes invisible dirt from his jeans. “There ain’t no more jobs left, not for people like us, and kindness isn’t endless- we’ve all gotta eat.” He spits against the porch before heading back inside the house. Behind him the door rattles against the frame, not closing properly.

Momma shakes her head, rubbing her hands so tight that they’re almost translucent under the yellow light on the porch. “Don’t listen to him, Tommy.” Her voice is hard and shaky. “We’re going to be fine. God’ll hear my prayers- he won’t let us go hungry.” She stops rubbing her hands, bringing one up to his shoulder and pinching the thin cotton of his shirt. “Go on and get inside now.”

He grunts, a harsh noise from low in his chest and does as he’s told, walking up the steps until he’s in front of the door. He doesn’t hear her follow him- turning around to find her standing still, her head tilted up to the dark sky. Another grunt- this one softer, more of a whine. He wanted to know what she was doing.

“Go inside, Tommy. I’ll be just a minute.” She says, her back still to him.

This time he lets her be, closing the storm door behind him. It’s hotter inside the house than outside- the leather across his face making it even harder to breathe as he climbs the stairs, boots loud against the aging wood. His room is on the second floor, the very last door. It used to belong to Momma- but the older she got, the harder it was to go up and down the stairs, so she took the one on the first floor, the one he had used as a child. This one had a bathroom attached to it. Small and cramped- but most things were small and cramped for him.. He was a big man, bigger than Charlie. Biggest back at the slaughterhouse.

Sometimes, Uncle Charlie liked to tease him and say that it was the reason that so many people were scared of him. But he didn’t like it when he said that to him- he didn’t want to be scary.

He’s taking off his boots and setting them at the edge of the bed when he thinks about the woman again. He thinks about how she’s all alone in her house and how sometimes, even with Momma and Charlie and Monty, he felt alone too. He hangs his apron in his closet- momma didn’t like it when he left it on the floor. It smells like sweat and soap and the Texas heat- different than when he had been allowed to butcher. He would have had to give it to momma then- or taken the bucket and soap out to the back and scrubbed it until the water no longer ran red. He didn’t like doing that, didn’t like how he’d end up cutting his knuckles open on the washing board- the smell of detergent staining his skin no matter what other chore he moved on to.

He heads to the bathroom to wash his hands- undoing the straps of leather on the back of his head and sliding his mask off. He didn’t have to worry about seeing his reflection- he had taken some of Monty’s paint and coated the mirror with it. Every now and then, pieces would flake off from the steam of his shower, but he avoided looking at those tiny little pieces, scared of what he’ll see.

He doesn’t like touching his face. Doesn’t like the feeling of it under his fingers. The way his skin seemed to be curled into itself, pulled tight and sore from the leather that rubbed against it, parts of it dipping into itself, as if he had taken his fingers and pushed his skin inside and it never fixed itself. But he has to do it- rubbing the bar of soap between his hands before scrubbing at his face- careful not to press too hard, the skin delicate. Momma had taught him how to do it, her fingers warm and soft against his scarred face before she ran the corner of his towel under the water and used it to wipe the soap off. But it’s been years since she last had seen his face. He didn’t like taking his mask off in front of her anymore.

He hears momma yell for him as he’s retying the straps at the back of his head. He doesn’t bother putting shoes on, leaving the towel hanging off the side of the sink as he makes his way down to the kitchen. Uncle Monty is still watching TV- a bottle of beer in his hand. He didn’t understand how he could just sit there and do nothing but watch the black and white screen for so long. Every now and then there would be a show that he thought was interesting enough to join him on the couch- but if Monty wasn’t working, he would sit here, watching whatever played.

“Come eat before it gets cold, Tommy.” Momma waved him towards the kitchen, pointing at the table she had set for him. He left Monty in the living room and made his way into the tiny kitchen. There was a bowl of stewed tripe waiting for him, steaming from momma having warmed it up. As soon as he eyed it- his appetite disappeared. He hated tripe. Momma knew that.

“I know what you’re thinking, Tommy, but you’re going to have to eat it.” She pats his back as she talks, sucking her teeth when he shakes his head.

“Either you eat, or you go hungry then!” she huffed, slapping her kitchen towel on the table besides the bowl. “This is all we have- we don’t have the luxury to be picky about our blessings.”

He knows that momma has a point- but he didn’t want to. He hated tripe. Hated how chewy and almost furry like it was in his mouth. No matter how momma made it, it never tasted good. The taste always lingered in his mouth and on his clothes. He groans- a slow, garbled noise from the back of his throat as he straightens up and shakes his head.

“Fine!” momma says, raising her voice. Her face is red as she snatches the bowl up and walks towards the fridge. “But you ain’t going to eat anything until this here bowl is empty, you hear me!” Momma opened the fridge with so much force that what little was inside shook.

He didn’t want to upset her, but sometimes he was just too stuck in his way to do anything about it. This wouldn’t be the first time that he went to bed with his stomach empty- gnawing on itself until it ached, and he had no choice but to give in and eat or ignore it until the pain became something dull and manageable. But right now, the scent of stewed tripe thick in the air, he was alright. With a huff, he grabs the glass of water that she had set out for him alongside the stew and chugs it down. It spills down the side of his mouth and onto his shirt, but he doesn’t care enough to slow down, dropping the glass on the table and stomping out of the kitchen, ignoring the way momma yells at him for being a slob.

He wanted to head back towards the woman in the red house. He wanted to see what she was doing- maybe she had made dinner and would invite him over to eat when she saw him standing outside. But Charlie had told him once that he couldn’t be doing that- couldn’t just stand off to the side of someone’s house and watch them.

He had done it once- with someone who used to work over at the Slaughterhouse. He had been young back then, nervous and all alone. The boy was about his age, though small and missing too many teeth. The boy had been nice to him on his first day- showing him where he could get an apron, so he wasn’t going around spraying blood and gore on his clothes. And that was all it took for him to cling onto the boy. He had followed him home that night after work, standing outside his house and watching through the window as his momma gave him a kiss and he sat down for dinner. He hadn’t realized that he had been there for hours, standing still and watching- imagining the boy inviting him inside to play. His momma had found him when she stepped out to throw away the garbage and he could still hear her scream, dropping the bag and running back inside.

He had been too scared to run off- accidentally pissing himself as he just stood there, heart racing as he watched the boy and his momma run around the house, shutting windows and pulling curtains close.

When the Sheriff had arrived, Uncle Charlie had thrown open the passenger door and stalked towards him, cussing so much that his face had turned red. He had used the bad words other people liked to call him, backhanding him across the face for embarrassing the family like that.

Throwing him in the back of the Sheriff’s car- he had made his way to the door, taking his hat off and bending his chin against his chest. He didn’t know what they talked about, but he never saw the boy after that. The Sheriff let him go with a warning- shaking his head as he dropped them off.

So as much as he wanted to see the woman again- he knew that he had to wait, otherwise she would disappear like the boy, and he’d be alone all over again.

He would see her again tomorrow. He just had to be patient. It’s hard- but Momma liked to say that patience always brewed the sweetest blessings.

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