Only problem is, none of the so-called doctors who attempted to cure me have ever really walked the line between life and death. If they had, they’d know panic and fear doesn’t exist there.
The buzz of an insect tickles my ear, and I bat it away. It flies past again, the vibrating hum louder than before, and I flinch. The hum turns to hissing. The incessant hiss of the moths in their cages. So loud. I slam my palms against my ears, screwing my eyes shut to block it out.
The squealing intensifies turning to screams. They’re screaming. High-pitched torment raking through my eardrums.
I open my mouth to call for help, but I can’t. If I do, they’ll think I’m not well again and send me back.
“Stop,” I whisper. “Please stop.”
The hisses die down inside my head as I imagine the black moths settling back to the corner of their cages. I open my eyes in search of them, certain they’re here with me, while I breathe through my nose to calm the rapid thrumming of my pulse.
There’s nothing but darkness—until the door clicks, and the light from the hallway slices into my room.
My father’s silhouette fills the space, where he stands half in and out the door. “Feeling better?”
Of course not. I’ve had things done to me that will never leave my head, all in some grand scheme to reprogram my brain. To make me forget Solange and everything she taught me.
I don’t tell my father this, just shrug and nod. “Getting better.”
“Good. I want you to come with me.”
There was a time those words terrified me, but I’ve since grown numb to things like that. Words. As many times as he’s punished and humiliated me, they can’t compare to the pain that has now become a permanent part of me. A layer of flesh on the outside that I won’t let penetrate my skin. Instead, I stay anesthetized to it all, and it’s as if it never happened.
I follow my father to the elevator, where he uses his ring as a key to access the catacombs. We arrive at the door of the same room he took me to before, only when we step inside, my guts twist on finding two men waiting for us.
One, I’ve never seen before. He lies strapped to the dentist-looking chair, his eyes blindfolded, body stripped down to nothing but his boxers and socks. I guess him to be late forties, or fifties, judging by his salt-and-pepper hair.
The sight of the other man sends a tremble through my body, and every muscle tenses up when my father nudges me toward Dr. Voigt.
“I’ve told you of our study, Lucian. Now you’ve met the good doctor. He’s the leader of Schadenfreude. A highly respected expert on the topic of epigenetics.”
The familiar man’s lips stretch with a smile, and he opens his arms as if to welcome me. Only weeks ago, he wouldn’t spare me so much as a simple explanation for the torment he put me through, treating me like nothing but a lab-rat, but now, it’s as if the bastard is happy to see me.
“Ah, Lucian, my boy. You’re looking healthier.”
Healthier? I’ve not had the energy, nor inclination, to do anything more than stay in my room all hours of the day.
“The pain you’ve suffered will carry with you into the next phase of our studies,” he adds, clasping his hands together as if this is exciting news for him.
“Next phase?” Gaze flitting toward the man on the table, I notice the quiver of his arms that rattle the metal fasteners of his restraints. It wasn’t long ago that I was strapped down like him, uncertain of what I’d be forced to face that day. What torments the ‘doctors’ and ‘nurses’ would inflict.
“This is Robert Tackas.” Dr. Voigt stands behind the headrest, looking down on the man. “Tell us why you sought out the collective, Robert.”
His tongue sweeps over dry, cracked lips, and his Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow. “I, um … have debts. I need cash, or I’m going to lose … my home.” Mouth quivering, he’s obviously trying to hold back tears, but the wobble in his voice betrays him. “My family.”
“We’ve agreed to pay him the sum of money he’s requested at the end of his session today. With it, he will be able to pay his mortgage, buy food for his family, get back on track.”
“What session?”
Dr. Voigt lifts his chin while staring down at me, and the urge to turn away from him throttles my courage and tells me to cower. But this is my home. In spite of the fear hammering through me, I hold his stare, as he backs himself to the wall behind him. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he grabs one of the objects from the wall: a long stick with leather, knotted braids spilling from the tip of it. I recognize this tool as one of many he used on me in my time at the institute. A flinch of my eye echoes the memory of those braids cracking against my skin, bruising my very bones.
Striding back toward us, he runs his fingers through the braids and smiles.
“Cat o’ nine. Nine braids, nine lives. Do you know how it gets its name?” Allowing only a brief pause, he continues, “Egyptians believed that when beaten with cat hide, a victim gained virtue from the whip.” He shoves the object into my chest, and with a frown, I shake my head. “Your father thought this might be a good opportunity for you to learn our ways.”
“What ways?”
He jerks his head toward Robert. “Fifty lashes. As hard as you can.”
“No.” Looking back at my father only weakens my resolve, as the man stares down at me, his lips peeled back with disgust.
“I’d hate to think you’ve grown soft since our therapy sessions, Lucian. You know firsthand what this whip feels like against your flesh. You survived.”
“With not even half the lashes.” My gaze flits to Robert, who seems to tremble even more, and back to Dr. Voigt. I remember every strike that came down against my skin. The way it bruised and cut into me. “I won’t do this.”
“We’ve watched you over the years. Every fistfight at school. Every expulsion afterward. You bear this inner battle between good and evil, but what if this is your calling, Lucian? What if you are genetically primed for this behavior?”
“Every fight was self-defense. I don’t go out of my way to hurt others. I won’t.”
Dr. Voigt’s lips flatten, and he sets a hand on Robert’s bare shoulders, causing the man to twitch at his touch. “I’m sorry, my friend. We can’t help you.”
The man shifts as if his body is suddenly possessed by panic. “Please. I’m begging you. Please do this. I need the money. My family needs this money.”
A snaking sensation crawls beneath my skin as I listen to the man plead for his punishment. Like I’m the bad guy, all of a sudden, for not wanting to dole it out. I frown down at him, my head swimming in confusion, right and wrong clashing inside my skull.
“It’s disgusting, isn’t it? How we’re willing to suffer for something so common as the paper and the ink that separates the wealthy from the poor. You wouldn’t know that feeling, Lucian. From birth, you were born into wealth. You know nothing but comfort and security. You’ve never known hunger. What it feels like to do whatever it takes to feed your starving family.”
“Why not just give him the money, then?”
“Do you have any idea how many of them come to us? Begging for mercy. A handout? What makes him any more deserving than the others?” He rubs his hands over the man’s shoulders. “This way, we get something in return, at least.”