Siren Suicides (Second Edition)

Chapter 12. Padded Cell

I have to keep trying, even if it means dying in the process. I will know that I did everything I could and will pass in peace. He lets go of the wall and takes a step toward me. His eyes are empty. Finally, I know why. Papa, I won't give up on you, I swear. I know everyone has in the past, and I'm sorry. I give you my word. I'll fight you, just to make you see that I mean it for real, okay? I don't know if he got my message or not, as he closes in on me. There is only one way to fight his emptiness: by reflecting his emotions.

He squats next to me and raises his hand.

I recoil on instinct but arrest it before closing my eyes, relaxing my facial muscles as much as the gag allows. I'm glad I do because, instead of slapping me, he gently traces the rivulet of tears on my left cheek, from the bridge of my nose to the wetness on the floor. This unnerves me even more than being slapped.

"There, there. Quiet now. So nice to have you back." His voice comes across as soothing, his face blocking the lamp.

I shrink out of habit.

"You all right?" he asks.

Like you care. Stop this game, for once, and tell me how you really feel. Come on.

His face wavers with a hint of fear, and then it's gone. I smile, if you can call stretching cheek muscles on an already ripping mouth, burning behind tape, smiling.

He leans a bit closer, mouth tight.

"Sorry, I couldn't quite hear you. What was that you said?" His hand is curled over his ear, his favorite way of intimidating me, by asking me to repeat something that is obvious and making me feel like a fool. It doesn't work this time; I ignore it.

He looks out into the distance, through the wall, focusing on something miles away from the cell we're in.

"My dear Ailen, I need to tell you something important, and I apologize it has to happen in this...fashion." He glances at me, indicating my position on the floor.

"It seems as if my other attempts to explain why I'm doing this have not worked, which is a pity. What you don't understand is that your future is at stake. And, because we're a family, my future is tied to yours. I'd like to make sure that you get the message."

I glean the bottom of his shoe, made of the finest Italian leather, as he kicks right into my gills, swift and precise.

Smack!

I hear the sound of impact, like ripping paper, and yelp into the cotton. It hurts like hell. No, worse. It hurts like cutting open a wound that just started healing, over and over and over again.

I pant hard, snorting in effort, and manage to contain my agony without screaming, reveling in my mastery of suppressing the pain.

My father just stands and looks. Cold and calculating.

There is sickness in this, twisted and disgusting, yet I'm enjoying myself very much, perhaps rising to a level of masochism that can only match my father's.

Mirror his feelings, Ailen, mirror them. It's exactly what I do, turning my head to look, to show him that he can kick me all he wants, that perhaps I'm enjoying it as much as he does, curious to see what it will do to his psyche.

I see the sole of his shoe one more time.

Whack!

Stars explode in my field of vision and a rod of hot metal pierces me from neck to toes and back up, making me excrete whatever leftover water I have in my system through the skin in a layer of sticky moisture.