“Or perhaps you haven’t been pushed far enough. Be careful what you choose to mock.”
“My apologies.” I’m only playing along for Isa’s sake, nothing more.
He lifts his glasses and reads from the file in front of him. “It seems you requested the murder of Franco Scarpinato, but you didn’t directly carry out this session. Instead, you solicited your bodyguard to torture him on your behalf.”
“I wanted only the best to carry out his punishment.”
My apathy must finally be getting to him, because he eases back in his chair and huffs, eyes appraising, as always. “You fear becoming your father.”
“I’m sure I’m not alone in that thought.”
“Of course not. But your fears are concerning, as it relates to our study. If you won’t be honest, you could end up being a danger to yourself and others. We exist to provide an environment for you to carry out those sadistic tendencies. Unburdened by society, or morality.”
Just send me to hell already. If I was back at the office, I’d be on my second drink by now. This guy isn’t going to give up for as long as I have to be a part of this shit-show. That’s how it works with these scientists. They’ll beat a dead horse until it’s nothing but a mangled piece of flesh, if it means proving their theories. “I’ll confess that I have urges sometimes.”
Sitting forward in his chair, he sets the file aside and entwines his fingers. The intrigue on his face is what I’d expect of a priest getting offered a free hand job by a nun. “What kind of urges? Sexual, like your father? Or non-sexual?”
“Non-sexual.”
“And how do you deal with these urges?”
“Sometimes, I’ll cut myself. But mostly, I just … try to think of something else.”
“Would you be open to participating in a session? Nothing too involved. We have an older gentleman who comes in every so often. We think he might be developing an affinity toward some of the abuses. In exchange, his rent gets paid every month.”
I probably just signed over my human rights for a guinea pig with this confession. “How light?”
“A few cuts. Nothing too deep.”
Cutting myself has always been for the high, much like holding my breath under water, but Friedrich has always sought to turn it into something malicious and perverse. I don’t get off on watching other people bleed. The innocent ones, anyway. “I’ll consider that.”
“Excellent. Then, we’ll continue to observe. For now.” Sliding my file open again, he jots a few notes, underlining one that leaves me inwardly groaning: observation. “I have to give you credit. Considering all you’ve been through, and the history of sadism in your family, you demonstrate tremendous restraint.” Crossing his arms, he shakes his head. “How?”
“It can be a struggle at times, but I keep myself occupied.”
“Any sexual thoughts that might be considered more violent?”
My thoughts slip back into the night before, when I was buried deep inside Isa, the only violence in me from thinking what I’d do if anyone laid a finger on her, and going so far as to imagine severing said finger. “Not at all.”
He snaps the folder closed and places my chart on the desktop. “It’s a shame things didn’t pan out with Mr. Boyd. That he would offer his daughter for study, then just take off with the girl without any word. Doesn’t make sense. Never called. Never contacted us again. It’s been months now.”
“Shame. Perhaps he changed his mind about the program.”
“Perhaps. Obviously, his interests were never aligned with our own.”
“I guess not. Maybe we’ll hear from him again one day.”
The elevator door opens up onto the dark hallway of the catacombs, lit only by the few floodlights that line the hallway. Drink in hand, I stroll toward the room on the right and set my key in the lock to open the door. I whistle the notes of the song I wrote a while back, the one Isa plays for me on the occasions she tries to seduce me, and I flip on the lights.
Whimpers bounce off the walls as I make my way toward the cage that’s against the far wall, within which Boyd sits hunched over himself, naked and bruised from torture. Parts of his skin show patches of burns, and when he tips his head back, the stitching over his empty eye socket looks red and swollen.
“You’re picking at it again.”
“S-s-sorry.” His body trembles at my approach, and when I crouch down beside the cage, I tilt my head to the side and find bugs crawling over his last meal.
“Not hungry?”
Gaze lowered, he looks away and shakes his head.
“That’s too bad.” With a sigh, I rise to my feet and nab one of the long metal poles that’s hanging on the wall beside other tools. When I grab the mag torch from the counter, and light it to warm the end of the rod, his whimpers intensify, and he moves toward the opposite side of the cage. “A while back, when we first began these little sessions, you called me a sadistic bastard. Remember that?” In the blazing flame, I twist the end of the rod, until it begins to glow orange.
“I’m sorry. I’m …. I didn’t mean to.”
“No, no. It made me think. In fact, I’ve been thinking of what you said ever since. Tell me, Patrick. Do you know the difference between a sadist and a psychopath?”
He shakes his head, his bare feet scraping against the cement as he kicks himself farther back.
“I didn’t, either, at first. But in recent weeks, I think I’ve finally come to understand. The difference is very simple: empathy.” I set the torch on the countertop and dial off the flame. With the end glowing hot, I make my way back toward the cage and crouch down beside it. “I didn’t think I had it in me to personally kill another man. My father made it sound so easy, and I was certain, my whole life, the bastard was a psychopath. But that’s the thing. It’s not about empathizing with the victim. In this case, it’s empathizing with your victim, Patrick. All I have to do is imagine Isa tied to that filthy fucking bed. Your hands on her. Your breath in her face. Suddenly, I have all sorts of fucking feelings. Deep-seated feelings. Anger. Rage.”
The tremble of his body rattles the cage against the stone wall.
“So, here’s the deal. I’m going to give you a choice this time. We can keep this up for as long as you like, or I can plunge this rod right through your throat and watch you sputter for breath for the last time.” I click the end of the rod against the cage, smiling when he twitches. “Your choice, Patrick.”
It takes a few minutes before he finally looks up at me, and when he does, the decision written all over his face makes my heart swell.
Epilogue
Isadora
Four months later ...
Blindfolds are the most frustrating thing when at the mercy of Lucian Blackthorne. I never know what I’m in for.
Who am I kidding? I never know what I’m in for, even without the blindfold.
The leather seat, warmed by the heater, is a welcomed comfort, with the temps having taken a dramatic nosedive in recent weeks. What I’d guess is the Bugatti’s engine hums along at speeds I couldn’t begin to calculate. Which is probably a good thing, with Lucian behind the wheel.