The boy - part five (freewrite)

This is the last part of the story. Go back and read the first, second, third and fourth parts if you haven't already done so.

The boy who was now no longer a boy squeezed the washcloths up into a ball. They were dripping unto his bare chest, but he remained unflinching at the strong scent of blood that flooded his nostrils. The washcloths were something he needed to get rid of and he would do so, regardless.
He carried them up the long, winding stairs and threw them down into the bathroom, letting the ice cold water run over them, filling the tub with a soft pink juice. He watched motionless, as the blood ran out of them and down the drain. He forced his hands into the freezing water and wrung them once. Twice. Until they were the closest shade they could ever be to clean.
He had done this many times by now. So much so that the washcloths had become a part of him, a reflection of the things he'd done. He left them hanging above the tub, to drain, to become clean, and he walked out down to the river. The old man was beside the river, as he often was now. He was staring into the running water that carried away all his sins. Or so the old man liked to think. The truth was nothing could take your sins from you. You carry those on your back, the young one thought but said nothing.
He knew better than to disturb the old man.
'Is it done?' Joshua asked, eventually, not looking at him.
'It is. Everything's clean, too, so you don't have to worry about it,' the young man, who'd once been a frightened boy said. That was long ago, he thought, in an age when he was someone else.
'Very well,' the old man nodded and with a brief gesture, sent the man away.

You make your own name, he thought as he walked. It had been his last job with the old killer, although neither of them had said anything. They both knew it was time. Besides, he had unfinished business elsewhere.
He recalled, as he walked, his first days at the house. Tired and afraid, certain that his father would look for him, so sure they were in danger. But danger never came and soon, Joshua started to seem friendlier. No, not friendlier, perhaps that was not the word to describe him. He had never been friendly as such, there was something cold hanging about him. But he had been kind. He'd taken care of the boy well, feeding him, guiding him. Putting up with the boy's little madnesses.
He would ask 'why? why? why?' because he didn't understand why his life had changed so drastically and yet the killer never got tired of him. Never yelled at him. He just looked at the boy with his strange, calm eyes and waited for him to calm down again.
In time, the boy learned not to ask. In time, the boy learned his own name.
'What's your name?' the man had asked. 'It doesn't matter. You no longer need it now. You can be anyone. You can make your own name.'
And so, he had. He'd created a name in the likeness of his saviour. A strange, broken mirror that somehow worked. Because the boy was a little broken too. So, they worked together and Joshua showed him everything he knew. It had been clear to the boy from the beginning the why. He was there because Joshua needed a successor, someone to pass his lonely job to. And who better than the son of the man who'd taken everything from him?
His first kill had been nothing significant although it seemed huge, even now. Whenever the man would speak of the boy's first kill, the boy would imagine something small like a cat or a squirrel, but the man only laughed at this.
'Why would I ask you to kill them? They've done nothing wrong,' he would say.
No, the boy's first victim had been a thin, wiry man when the boy was fifteen. He'd strangled him in one blow and after a few seconds that had sounded like hours in his mind, he'd stopped moving for good.

He saw now that the old killer had chosen well. He'd grown into a man who liked his job, who enjoyed what he did, and yet he didn't need it. Not like his father, who'd loved the violence. Oddly enough, the man he'd become now loved the peace of his kills. The final moment when the victim moved on. It felt relieving to him, in a way. Like they were free.
He was a careful killer, who knew how to respect his blade, how to be more than just a death, something his father had never understood. Something Joshua took great care to instil into the boy from a young age.

He was surprised by how easy it was to find his way back. Joshua had not offered to give him any directions and he hadn't asked for them. The house still loomed over his memory, like a tower of terror. The young man popped open the back door soundlessly, stepping into the house. He looked around and realized how strange it seemed to him, and yet how familiar. Just like Joshua's house had become familiar to him, after all these years, and yet still strange.
The furniture was much like he remembered it, old, broken and dirty. He couldn't imagine his father taking very good care of the house. He'd never been that kind of man. He remembered hating that furniture, as a boy. Dirty and poor, not like the houses of the other children, who had furniture from a set and carpets that matched the drapes.
The man felt the hate begin to rise in his belly, but he washed it down. He would remain calm, as he'd promised Joshua.
'What do you want?' the voice tried to seem strong but deep down, the voice was scared.Scared of this tall intruder with the strong arms and the dangerous eyes.
The young man turned on his heels and faced his father, who was now standing between him and the back door. He looked old, although the boy realized he hadn't expected him too. He'd somehow thought he'd look just the same as he'd left him.
And most importantly, he looked small. Not at all the terrifying giant he remembered.
'Hi, dad,' he said, his voice steady.
'No,' the old man's voice trembled. 'It can't be you...Andrew?'
The young killer shook his head. 'No, dad, not anymore. I'm not the boy you knew.'
To his shock, his father started to laugh. An old, mean little cackle that had always passed for a laugh, in his father. 'What are you talking about?' the old man asked, dismissing his son.
'My name's not Andrew anymore. I'm not the little boy who hid in the basement all those times.'
'And who are you?' his father grinned. 'If you're not Andrew anymore?'
'I am myself,' the young man said, hesitating only for a second. He found that after all these years, he still could not let go of his name. He could not allow his father that power over him, so he did not give his name.
The old man burst out into another fit of laughter waving his hand in the boy's face.
'See, I knew I was better off when you ran away,' he said, trying to catch his last breath.
The young killer remained still, staring down at the old man.
'So, why did you come back, Andrew who isn't Andrew anymore?'

He reached his hand into his coat and felt the fine blade ready, as always. 'For the boy who hid in the basement.'

The End (for now)

Today's prompt was 'washcloths'. Check out @mariannewest's blog and support the freewriting community!

Thank you for reading,

Photos are mine.