Jethro

“YOU HONESTLY EXPECT me to believe you’re going to be able to do this?” Cut spat at my feet the moment I removed his gag. His tongue worked, dispelling the taste of being silenced. “Come on, Jethro. We both know you don’t have it in you.”

I didn’t answer.

Leaving him tied up, I moved toward the main attraction in the room.

Just like the guillotine had rested in the ballroom pride of place, the torturous device sat in this one. Dirty grey sheets covered the apparatus, looking part phantom, part ancient relic.

Cut shifted on the spot, his jeans rustling. “Jet, I’m still your father. Still your superior. Stop this fucking nonsense and untie me.”

Once again, I didn’t answer.

The longer I concentrated on what had to be done, the more I remembered my childhood lessons.

Silence is more terrifying than shouts.

Smoothness is more horrifying than sharp motions.

The key to being feared was to remain calm, collected, and most of all, with a finely balanced decorum where the prey believed they had a chance of redemption, only to take their final breath with hope still glowing in their heart.

He’d taught me that.

My father.

It was thanks to him I’d built a shell around myself and portrayed to the outside world I was strong and unflappable. While internally, I combusted with chaos and calamity.

Fisting the material, I yanked it off. The billow of moth-eaten fabric floated like wings as it settled elegantly on the floor. Dust shot into my lungs, dried leaves flurried in a vortex, and grit stung my eyes. But I didn’t cough or blink.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the implement of my childhood.

The rack.

My fingers shook as I stroked the well-worn wood. The leather buckles stained with my blood. The grooves of my heels as I kicked and kicked and kicked.

“No!”

“Stop your fucking bitching, Jethro.”

“Dad, stop. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Cut didn’t listen. “You did do something wrong.” His fingers bruised my ankles as he tightened the buckles. I kicked, doing my best to prevent the thick leather imprisoning me, but it was no use. Just like it’d been no use trying to stop him tying my hands above my head.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been here, nor would it be the last.

But I wished so much I could finally be better so he didn’t have to hurt me.

My ten-year-old heart punched against my ribcage. “I didn’t. I can’t help it. You know I can’t help it.”

Notching the leather one more loop, he patted my knee and walked toward my face. “I know, but that is no excuse.”

I lay horizontally, looking up at my father. His dark hair turned whiter with each year. His leather jacket reeked of long rides and hard excursions.

“Haven’t I been lenient the past few months? I tried to help you with kinder means. But that doesn’t work with you.” His face contorted with affection and disbelief. “Jet, you jumped in front of my gun. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“You were going to shoot it!”

“Yes, it’s food.”

“No, it’s a deer, and it felt fear.” I squirmed, wishing I could make him understand the agony of hunting, of watching an animal notice the gun, feeling it understand my father’s intentions and the wrecking ball of knowledge it was about to die. Animals were intelligent, beyond wise. They knew. They felt—same as us. “Can’t you feel them, Dad? Can’t you see how scary it is for them?”

“How many times do I need to tell you this, son?” His fingers grabbed my cheeks. “Animals are there for us to eat. We are all disposable and huntable if we don’t fight back. Screw their fear. Screw their panic.” His anger drenched his voice. “You. Are. My. Son. You will block it out. You will not embarrass me.”

Moving toward my head, the distinct thump of his hand hitting the lever sent blood whizzing through my veins. “Okay, I’ll stop. I didn’t mean it. I won’t do it again. I don’t want to be a vegetarian. I’ll hunt. I’ll kill. Just don’t—”

“Too late, Jet. Time for your lesson.”

The lever cranked, the leather tightened, and pain began in earnest.

The memory ended, slamming me into the present. My heart raced as fast as it had back then, making me breathless with panic.

Only a memory.

Why did I come back here? Why didn’t I choose an easier place?

Because this is where it all began. It needs to end here.

Fever drenched my brow as I glared at the rack. I’d lost count how many times I’d been subjected to its binds and stretching agony. Cut would leave me for hours to think about what I’d done, all while my joints popped and cracked.

Until the day he brought Jasmine along to share my lesson, of course.

We’d just been children. Trusting, gullible children.

Motherfucker.

Spinning, I marched toward my father and grabbed him by the arm. “Even now you look at me as if I’m a disappointment. I feel you, Father. You truly don’t think I’ll have the strength to do this.” Pressing my face close to his, I snarled, “Well, you’re wrong. I’ll do this because of what you did to me. Nila might’ve forgiven you, but I won’t. I can’t. Not until you’ve paid.”

Cut stood taller, rolling his shoulders in my hold. His bound hands couldn’t hurt me, but it didn’t stop him from trying with his voice. “You always were a pussy, Kite. But if you let me go, I’ll honour the inheritance. On your birthday, I’ll give you what you want. I’ll give you everything.”

I clenched my jaw, shoving my father against the wooden rack. “I don’t want your money.”

He stumbled. “It’s not my money. It’s yours. I was just the safe keeper until you were of age.”

“Bullshit.” I sliced the rope around his wrists—the same rope that’d been wrapped around Nila’s—and shoved him backward.

He grunted as his back slammed into the rack, his clothing smearing the dusty wood. He tried to shove off, but I pushed back. He lost his footing, sprawling over the contraption.

Without thinking, I looped the rope I’d just removed from his wrists around his neck and prowled to the other side of the single-bed sized platform. The twine hooked under his chin, forcing him to arch back, keeping him pinned and choking.

His fingers fought at the imprisonment, angry curses percolating in his chest.

I didn’t give him leeway to talk. I pulled harder.

The harder I pulled, the more his emotions grew stronger. I could ignore them...for now.

“Nothing you say can save you, old man. I’ve learned a lot from you over the years. Let’s see how much I remember.”

“Wait—” Cut gurgled as I tied the rope to a hook below the rim, keeping his neck throttled. He lay awkwardly, his legs dangling off the side. Moving around to his front, I grabbed behind his knees and scooted his bulk onto the table.

He couldn’t stop me, too focused on fighting the rope to breathe.

Once his body was in position, I grabbed his flailing arms. Fisting his right, I pinned it to the unforgiving wood above his head, wrapping the leather around his wrist and fastening it tightly.

“No, wait!” His voice wheezed, his fingers clawing at his throat.

He continued to pant while I remained silent, moving down the table to capture his right leg. The leather had turned stiff with age and blood, but I managed to wrap it around his ankle, shoving his jeans out of the way and fastening tight.

“Jethro—stop.”

I didn’t obey.

Meticulously, I drifted to the left side of the table. His left leg tried to kick as I crushed his knee against the table. I wrestled with him to buckle the strap. I panted with exertion but won.

I was weak. Tired. Sick from traipsing around the world and dealing with complications he’d caused.

Yet, I had enough strength to subdue him.

Our gaze met as I skirted the table, reaching for his left arm.

“Don’t.” His eyes widened as I forcefully removed his fingers from around his neck, slamming it unceremoniously against the wood above his head. Bending over him, his chest rose and fell as I threaded the leather around his wrist and finished the final binding.

All four points secured. There would be no running, no fighting back—completely at my mercy.

“Still think I don’t have it in me?” I looked down at him, pitying him a little. When I was younger, I’d always hoped he’d be lenient and let me go. I held blind belief he was my father and wouldn’t hurt me too much.

But Cut knew otherwise. He remembered what he’d done to me. He recalled every scream and beg. It was his turn now.

I patted his cheek.

His lips tinged purple as he sucked in a lungful of air. “Jethro...fucking obey me and—”

“I’ll never obey you again.” Wanting him to remain lucid for future events, I unwrapped the rope from the hook at the base of the table and removed it from his throat.

He gasped, sucking in air while an angry red line marred his bristle-covered neck.

Leaving him to breathe, I moved toward the table beneath the grime-smeared window. No reflection or view from the outside world was noticeable. The pane had turned cloudy with age, deleting everything but us and what was about to happen.

Cut’s emotions built until they threatened to eclipse my own. He wasn’t terrified—not yet. He still believed I wouldn’t be able to do this.

I’ll prove you wrong.

Grabbing the corner of yet another dusty sheet, I whipped it off to reveal a long table of nasty implements.

My heart clenched as my eyes fell on every tool. Most had been used on me. But a few had been used on Jasmine.

I shuddered, closing my eyes against the influx of memories.

“No, leave her alone!”

Cut didn’t obey. He finished tying Jasmine’s hands before twisting to look at me. The leather bit into my wrists and ankles, binding me to the table. But the fulcrum had been activated, switching the table from horizontal to vertical. I hung as if crucified.

I would see everything. I would feel everything. I wouldn’t be able to stop anything.

Jasmine’s bronze eyes met mine, her twelve-year-old face glowing with grief.

“Don’t. Please, don’t.” My voice battled with tears.

Cut marched toward the table to grab a tiny blade. “Seeing as hurting you doesn’t teach you how to switch off your condition, I’ve come up with a better idea.”

His boots clomped on the barn floor as he strode back to his daughter.

I fought. Fuck, I fought. The rack groaned as I threw my weight against the buckles. “Don’t touch her.” Jaz. My baby sister.

Pulling Jasmine to her feet, Cut wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her dainty black shoes were no longer shiny patent but dusty and scuffed. I remember the day she got those shoes. Mum had given them to her just for being the sweetest little girl.

“You have the power to stop this, Jethro.” Cut angled the blade against Jasmine’s shoulder, slicing through her pretty blue dress, revealing a sliver of skin. “All you have to do is focus on my thoughts, rather than hers.” He dragged the blade over her flesh, not hard enough to break the surface, but hard enough to make her flinch.

She bit her lip. Jasmine was quiet. When we played, she’d laugh and joke, but when she was afraid or in trouble, she turned mute. Nothing could get her to talk. Not the threat of the knife; not my pleas for her freedom. She stood there in her father’s grasp and didn’t say a word.

But fuck, her thoughts said so much. They screamed for me to help her. They hated me because I couldn’t. She battled with love for Cut and loathing his actions. She crumpled me like a piece of rubbish, giving me no hope of focusing on anything else.

Cut dragged the knife again, only this time a little deeper.

Jasmine’s flinch turned into a jerk, squirming in his arms.

“Stop. Don’t do it again. I get it. I’m not listening to her anymore. I only feel what you are.” Lies. All lies. But truth got me into this mess maybe falsehood could get me out of it.

Cut cocked his head. “What am I thinking then, boy?”

My hands balled as my joints stretched beyond normal capacity. Jasmine’s thoughts overpowered me. I couldn’t hear him. I didn’t want to hear him.

So, I bullshitted. “You like the power over her. You like knowing you created her but can take her life just as easily as you gave it.” I sounded older than fourteen. Would he believe me?

For a moment, I thought he would.

Then reality dispelled that hope.

“Wrong, Jet.” Cut used the knife again. This time...he broke the skin. Tears erupted from Jasmine’s eyes, but still she didn’t cry out. “I hate this. I hate doing this to my children. And I hate you for making me do it.”

My fingers grazed the blade he’d used, tarnished and abandoned on the table. I could cut him. I could make him feel what Jasmine felt. But I had a better idea.

Breathing hard, I bypassed the cat o’ nine tails and grabbed the large club. Resembling a billy stick the police used to carry, this one was thicker, heavier, ready to break limbs and turn bone into pulp.

I turned back to face my father. He lay prone on the rack, his eyes wide, white hair a shock of snow in the gloomy barn. “Remember this?”

He swallowed. “I remember what a fucking pussy you were when I used it.”

Memories tried to take me hostage of him beating me, bruising me—teaching me lesson after lesson.

“Only fair you get to see why I screamed, don’t you think?”

Cut gulped. “You knew all along I didn’t enjoy what I did. I did it to try and save you from yourself. You were my children. Didn’t I have a right as your father to use my flesh and blood to help my firstborn?”

I shook my head. “Using and abusing are two entirely different words.”

He sneered. “And yet, only two letters separate them.”

My chest hurt from breathing; my side burned from fever. I wanted this over. I’d made a commitment to make him pay, but I wasn’t there to drag this out.

I wanted to finish it.

I wanted Nila.

I want to forget.

“That doesn’t matter. You were still wrong to do what you did.” Striding toward him, I held the club over his face. “Look at this and tell me what you feel. Don’t make me work for your answers, Cut. For once in your godforsaken life, tell me the truth.”

His goatee jerked as he tucked his chin into his neck, repelling from the weapon. “You know me, Jethro. You know I love you.”

“Bullshit. Try again.”

He bared his teeth. “That isn’t bullshit. I do love you. When Nila returned to London and you took your medication, I was so fucking proud of you. Never been so proud. I had the son I always knew you were. Capable, courageous, a worthy heir to everything I’d built.”

“I was always those things, Father. Even as a boy, I did my best to make you see that.”

The wood creaked as he shifted in the buckles. “But it was overshadowed by your condition. It made you weak. It made you susceptible. I needed someone strong, not just to look after my legacy but to protect your future family. Was it so wrong of me to want to give you the life skills needed in order to fight what you are?”

“What I am?” I choked on a cynical laugh. “What I am is nothing compared to what you are. You talk about life skills and transforming me into a man. I call that disabling your daughter, emotionally crippling your son, and ripping apart the only people who would’ve loved you unconditionally.”

Cut opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

He stared at me, and the one thing I’d hoped wouldn’t happen came true.

His emotional rage petered out, mixing with nervousness that I was right. That he’d done the wrong thing. That somehow...he’d been bad.

Gritting my jaw, my arm flew back with ferocity. “No, you don’t get to think those thoughts. Not after what you’ve done.”

The club whistled through the air, striking his thigh with sickening power. The heavy pummel and resounding aftershock made my fever crest to unbearable heights and nausea to clutch around my throat.

Cut bellowed, his body jerking in the buckles as he writhed.

Being on the opposite end of a scene I was so familiar with twisted my gut.

His agony swamped me. The unravelling sanity. The nastiness inside him giving way to fear. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to cut myself so I could focus on my pain and not his. I wanted to run.

But I couldn’t.

If I tried hard enough, I could turn off my condition. I could return to what he’d taught me. But not today. I owed him this. I owed myself this. Together, we would purge everything I’d been. Everyone we’d hurt.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” I struck again, this time on his other thigh. The denim of his jeans protected him a little, but his cry boomeranged around the space.

A sour taste filled my mouth as self-hatred settled around my heart. I hated that feeling his pain meant I couldn’t enjoy it. I couldn’t appreciate the power as I delivered a dose of his own medicine, finally demonstrating what an awful disciplinarian he’d been.

His breathing stuttered as pain flashed through his system. I hadn’t struck hard enough to break bones, but he would have a hell of a bruise.

Striding around the table, I stroked the black club. The heavy rubber was dense and threatening. There would be no escape. “What did you tell me once? That I could cry and scream as loud as I wanted and no one would hear us...?”

His eyes glowed, meeting mine. Sweat shone on his forehead. His arms fought the buckles as his knees trembled from adrenaline.

“Answer me.” I struck his chest. The side of the club delivered with perfect precision against his lower belly. 

“Ah, fuck!” Cut’s spine bowed, his entire psyche wanting to curl up around his injuries and hide. Any sign of regret or shame at doing the wrong thing drowned beneath his sudden need for relief.

That I could deal with. Feeling another’s pain had been a by-product of my condition all my life. I’d never grown used to it. However, if I stood in a room with someone dying or mortally wounded, I would eventually become numb then catatonic from their agony.

The same would happen if I continued with my father.

I had to finish what I’d started before I slipped into insanity.

He hadn’t paid enough yet. He hadn’t learned what he needed.

I’ve withstood worse.

I could stomach delivering more punishment.

Tucking the club into my waistband, I stalked around the table.

Cut gasped, his eyes watering but doing their best to follow me. “What do you want me to say, Jet? That I’m sorry? That I regret what I did and beg for your forgiveness?”

He stiffened as my hands drifted toward the lever he’d used so often. Words tumbled from his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for asking so much of you when I knew you struggled. I’m sorry for hurting Jasmine. I’m sorry for what I did to Nila. Fuck, Jet, I’m sorry.”

“Not good enough.” Curling my fingers around the sweat-polished wood of the lever, I murmured, “I think we can do better than that.”

My muscles bunched as I pushed on the mechanism. The first crank sounded like the gates of hell opening up, groaning and howling as ancient wood slipped into motion after so long.

“Wait!” Cut wriggled as the leather slowly tightened around his wrists and ankles. “Listen to my thoughts. Pay attention. I’m telling the truth.”

The sad thing was he did speak the truth. He honestly was sorry. He burned with apologies and willingly took possession of everything he’d done.

But it wasn’t enough to be sorry. He had to wish he’d never done it in the first place.

Taking a ragged breath, fighting through my weakness and fever, I cranked the lever again.  The cogs and prongs slipped into place, welcoming each twist. Ducking over Cut, I pressed a little harder, pulled a little tighter. “Ready to grow a few inches?”

Cut squeezed his eyes. “Please...”

“You don’t get to beg.” I jerked the lever, pushing a full rotation.

The rack obeyed, separating beneath him, pulling Cut’s extremities into agonising tightness. The skin on his hands and feet stretched like an accordion played to maximum, turning his flesh red as it yanked him in two directions.

Cut screamed.

I pushed again.

The table fought Cut’s body, snarling against the unwilling tension, causing him to stretch beyond natural comfort.

He screamed louder.

My ears rang and my condition spluttered as too many thoughts collided in Cut’s head. I felt sick for becoming this monster—a beast willingly taking my father’s pain. But at the same time, I felt redeemed—as if I’d finally become the man Cut wanted me to be and only now deserved his praise.

“Tight enough for you?” My question was hidden in Cut’s groans as I pressed the lever once more.

The shifting parts of the rack obeyed, slipping further apart, tearing a few ligaments, cutting into my father’s flesh with its leather cuffs.

Cut didn’t scream again, but a feral cry fell from his lips. His face scrunched up as his skin shocked white with agony. His back arched, his shoulders pulled tight and toes pointing. His hands remained fisted, his fingernails digging into his palms as his body fought to stay together.

I knew what he felt—not because I sensed him, but because I’d been in the exact position he had. I’d been tighter. I’d been younger. His shoulders would be the first to give out. They would pop from position in order for his joints to fight a little longer against the strain. Once the shoulders went, other joints would follow. Depending on how tight the rack stretched, knees would dislocate, tendons would snap, muscles would shred, and bones would break.

This form of torture had been one of the worst used in medieval times—and not just for the victim in the rack’s embrace but for the victims watching it. The sickening rip of body parts giving up the fight. The horrifying pops of joints coming apart.

Confessions were willingly given just waiting for their turn.

Would I go that far?

Would I tear Cut slowly into pieces, tightening his noose until his limbs quit fighting and just disintegrated?

Could I be that cold-hearted and merciless?

Let’s find out.

My palms drenched with sickening sweat as I pushed one last time on the lever. The table cracked, the leather squeaked, and Cut convulsed with cries. “Fuck, stop. God, what d—do you want? Stop—”

“I want nothing from you.” Locking the table from loosening, I removed my hands from the rack. His sockets were at breaking point. For now.

It was amazing how nimble the human body was. An hour in that position and cartilage would slowly snap, tendons stretch, and bones bellow for relief. But once freed, the body would knit back together. It would take time to realign the spinal column and soothe the blistering tears inside, but the long-term effects would be nil.

I knew.

I was walking proof.

Cupping my fingers around the club again, I prowled around the table. Cut’s question resonated in my mind. “What do you want?” In all honesty, there was nothing I wanted. I had Nila—she was all I needed. But I wasn’t doing this solely for her. Jasmine mattered, Kestrel, even Daniel.

I did this for them.

Wrenching to a halt, I looked at my father. “You know what?  There is something I want from you.” I moved from his head to his feet. 

Cut tried to look down his body, but the pressure on his shoulders and arms wouldn’t let his head rise. “What...anything. Name it and it’s yours. You’re a good son, Jethro. We can forget this and move on.”

“You’re right in some respects, Father. I will forget and move on. But you lost that luxury when you stole Emma from her family and let Bonnie manipulate you for so long.”

Once this was over, I would deal with my grandmother. I would make her regret playing puppet master to her own family.

“Bonnie’s dead.” Cut sucked in a breath, his neck straining against the pressure in his joints. “She died of a heart attack just before you arrived.”

I froze.

Her death had been stolen from me. But perhaps, it was for the best. I already shook with rapidly fading courage. I already whittled beneath Cut’s emotions. I wouldn’t have the energy or bodily strength to take another life.

“I’m sorry.” For all my hatred toward my grandmother and her strict ways, Cut did love his mother and feared her in equal measure. I let myself feel what he felt. He hurt. A lot. He was penitent and self-condemnatory but not enough to warrant salvation. Beneath his pain, he still thought he was justified.

He was wrong. 

Holding up the club, I moved so the weapon was in his line of vision. “Remember who else you used this on?” I shuddered, fighting back memories of that horrible, fateful day. The day I realised he would never understand me, and I had to be strong—not for myself, but for my sister.

He’d taught me the final lesson in this place. The lesson that’d helped me remain true until Nila made me thaw.

Cut gulped. “Kite...wait.”

“No, you don’t get to give me orders anymore.” Smashing the club into my palm, I welcomed the sting. “I’ve waited long enough.”

Another thing about the rack—while tightening joints and stretching bones, it placed the human body into the perfect position of extra sensitivity. The natural cushioning of cartilage and fat suddenly wasn’t enough to protect such an elongated pose.

Before, the strikes I delivered would’ve hurt him but not murdered him. The pain would’ve been sharp but survivable. But this...if I hit him now, the pain would be a hundred times worse. A thousand times worse.

Barricade yourself. Prepare.

The simplest touch could shatter a kneecap. The gentlest nudge could snap an elbow. He was the most vulnerable he’d ever been physically. It was my job to make him as defenceless emotionally.

My heart chugged. I didn’t want to do this. But I would.

“I need you to know I’ll be with you every step. I won’t be able to turn off what you’re undergoing, but I’m going to do it anyway because this isn’t for me.” Spreading my legs, I prepared to swing. “I’m doing this for Jasmine. You’ll finally understand how your daughter felt that afternoon.”

“Jet, no, don’t, don’t—”

Cut understood what I did: I wouldn’t hold back anymore. I wouldn’t be gentle or forgiving.

Before had been the warm-up.

This...this was his true punishment.

“I’m sorry.” 

Swallowing hard, I let loose and smashed my father’s ankle with the club. The blow did what I knew it would. It pulverized his complex skeleton, shattering the talus and lateral malleolus. Biology came back; names of body parts I didn’t really care about popped into my head before giving way beneath my strike.

The room seemed to explode outward as Cut sucked in the largest breath then screamed his fucking soul out.

His screams flew to the roof and bounced down.

His screams rattled the window in its ancient frame.

His screams sent me hurtling back to the day I wished I could forget.

“Stop it!” I didn’t care the rack kept me immobile. I didn’t care blood seeped down my wrists from fighting the leather. All I cared about was a silently sobbing Jasmine at Cut’s feet. “Leave her alone!”

Cut breathed hard, swiping away damp hair from his forehead. This lesson had been the worst of them. He’d done everything he could to get me to no longer care he hurt Jasmine. He forced me to stay stoic and calm, hooking my heart rate up to a monitor so he could track my progress.

After the first few lessons, he couldn’t tolerate my lying. He struggled to know if he’d made progress or not.

He hadn’t.

No matter what he did to me, I couldn’t stop what was so natural. I felt what others did. I couldn’t switch it off. How could I when I didn’t know how to control it?

So he’d upped his efforts, forcing me to hunt with him and shoot hapless rabbits and deer. He threatened to hurt Kestrel. He brought Jasmine in to watch. For a time, he didn’t touch her. Just having her there made me work doubly hard.

In every lesson, she never said a word—merely watched me with sad eyes and hugged herself while Cut tried everything for me to mimic his inner calmness. To accept his ruthlessness. To become him in every way possible.

For a while, I willed it to work. I got better at lying, and Cut began to believe he’d ‘cured’ me. But then he hooked me up to the lie detector and heart monitor. And I couldn’t bullshit any longer.

Jasmine didn’t look up as she huddled at my father’s feet. He’d slapped her repeatedly; he’d used his hands rather than blades, forcing me to focus on his mind rather than hers.

Become the predator, not prey.

Embrace ruthlessness, not suffering.

Become the monster, not the victim.

The pinging of the heart machine wouldn’t stop shredding my hope and showing Cut just how hopeless I was. I couldn’t be fixed. It was impossible.

“Please, let her go.”

Cut swiped a handkerchief over his face, looking disgustedly at me. “I’ll let her go when you can learn to control it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can!”

“I’m telling you—I can’t!”

As we roared at each other, Jasmine scuttled away. The dust from the barn layered her pink dress, staining her black tights. It was winter and frost decorated the glass, billowing our breath with little plumes of smoke.

Keep him yelling.

The longer I kept him occupied, the more chance Jaz had to escape.

I glared at Jasmine, willing her to get to her feet and run. Run out the door and never come back. She nodded quickly, understanding my silent command.

Cut stormed toward me, grabbing my cheeks and shoving my face toward the out-of-control monitor. I’d always had an irregular heartbeat whenever there was too much emotion to contain. My heart felt others; it was only natural it tried to skip into their beat, to mimic their pulses.

“What the fuck am I going to do with you, Jet? Are you ever going to get better?”

My cheeks couldn’t move beneath his pinching hold; I did my best to speak without spitting. “Yes, I—I promise.”

“I’ve heard you promise before and it never comes true.”

Over his shoulder, I silently cheered as Jasmine shot to her dainty legs and tiptoed toward the double-born doors. So close...keep going.

“What else can I do to make you focus inward and not be so fucking weak all the time?” Cut prodded my chest where my teenage heart thundered. “Tell me, Jethro, so we can end this charade.”

Jasmine’s hands looped around the handle, yanking on the heavy exit.

Yes, run. Go.

The wood grunted like a beast hunting in the woods.

No!

Cut spun around. His eyes bugged as he dropped his hold. I couldn’t move, hanging on the rack as he balled his hands and strode to the table where things of nightmares rested. “Where do you think you’re going, Jazzy?”

She plastered herself against the door, shaking her head.

“Run, Jaz. Run!” I struggled. “Don’t look back. Just go!”

She didn’t.

She froze as Cut picked up a black club and advanced on her.

“No!” I squirmed harder, drawing more blood, more fear.

“I’m going to teach you to control it, Jet, if it’s the last fucking thing I do.” Cut swatted the club into his hand, making goosebumps scatter over my body.

Jasmine trembled as Cut towered over her. “You love your sister. Let’s see if you can protect her by focusing for once.” His hand rose, shadowing her face with his arm.

“Run, Jaz!” I screamed, tearing through her terror and kick starting her flight. Her fear kept her mute, but a sudden resolution filled her gaze.

She ran.

Pushing off from the door, she charged around my father and darted across the barn.

Cut spun, holding the club, watching his daughter bolt from him. Only, he didn’t let her go. He gave chase.

“No!” I couldn’t do a thing as he stormed after his child and wrenched his arm back to strike.

“Jasmine!”

And then it was all over.

The club struck her back.

The force sent her tumbling head over heels.

Her little shoes clattered against the floor as her skirts flew over her face. She came to a stop facing me, her little eyes glassing with tears, locked on mine above her.

For a second, she just lay there, blinking in shock, cataloguing her hurt. Then, the thickest, hardest, all-consuming wave I’d ever felt washed over me. Her pain drenched me. Her agony infected me. Everything she felt—her childish whims, her hopeful wishes—they all rammed down my throat and made me sick.

I vomited as Jasmine burst into tears.

Her screams echoed around us, slipping out the door, licking around the trees and rising to the crescent moon above.

I cried with her. Because I knew what’d happened as surely as she did.

Winter had watched this atrocity. Frost hadn’t prevented it. Ice had let it happen. And a blizzard began deep in my soul.

I couldn’t do it anymore.

I couldn’t handle my sister’s agony, my father’s despair, my own brokenness.

I can’t do this.

And neither could Jasmine.

Her tears stopped as suddenly as they began, but her eyes never tore away from mine. Her cheek pressed on the floor as her breath puffed cold smoke from bluing lips.

And she uttered the words I would never forget.

The words ensuring I stepped into an icicle prison and gave her the key. The sentence forever turning me into snow so I never, never, never had to feel what I’d felt that day.

“Kite...I can’t feel my legs.”

I howled in remembered agony, hating him all over again. He’d disabled my sister. He’d broken her back, crippled her spinal column. He’d irrevocably destroyed her life all because of me.

Me.

Fuck!

Blocking out his screams, I stormed toward the head of the rack and traded the club for the lever. While Cut trembled and shook in his restraints, I punched the mechanism, cocking it another rotation.

His broken ankle and limbs stretched further, eliciting more screams, more begs. The barn filled with sounds of popping and cracking. The gristle and ligaments finally gave up, breaking in increments.

I wanted to be sick. I wanted to wade through his pain, and for once, stop wallowing in others’ misfortune. But unlike the instant with Jasmine teaching me in one violent swoop to stop, I couldn’t.

“Jethro—stop. Please...” Cut’s voice interspersed with deep-seated groans. I wanted so much to give in and obey. But he’d committed too much. Done too much wrong.

He hadn’t paid enough. Not yet.

Shoving the club down my waistband again, I sat on my haunches and grabbed the small wheel below the rack.  I knew this machine so well. Too well. It’d become a regular enemy, and I’d learned how to use it from too young an age.

Cut had felt what it was like to lay horizontal while receiving pain. It was entirely a new experience to be vertical.

Spinning the wheel, I shut my ears off to Cut’s string of curses and pleas as the table slowly tilted upright, transforming from bed to wall. With every inch, Cut’s body shifted as the weight transformed from his back to his wrists. His spine remained stretched, his body distended, but now the new angle meant he could see me moving around. He was the messiah this time about to die for his sins, not others.

Feeling his eyes on me, I didn’t look up as I made my way toward the table of horrors. Gently, I placed the club back into its dusty spot and grabbed the cat o’ nine tails.

“Have you hung there long enough, Jet?”

My father’s voice roused me. My head soared up even though my neck throbbed. He’d left the clock on the stool in front of me, letting me count the time. Today, I’d been on the rack for two hours and thirteen minutes. Jasmine was still at the hospital. The doctors did all they could to fix the blunt force trauma to her spine. But they weren’t hopeful.

Nothing Cut did to me now would ever be as bad as watching my sister run for the very last time.

I’d made a promise never to come here again, but that was before Cut scooped me from my bed at daybreak and gave me no choice.

“Let me down.” I coughed, lubricating my throat. “You don’t need to do this anymore.” 

He came to stand in front of me, his hands jammed in his pockets. “Are you sure about that?”

I nodded, tired and strung out and for once, blank from feeling anything. “I’m empty inside. I promise.”

He gnawed on his lower lip, hope lighting his gaze. “I really hope this time you’re telling the truth, son.” His head turned toward the table. The dreaded, hated, despised table.

A thought clouded his face as he strolled over and picked up a whip with multiple strands with cruel knots tied in the cords. He’d threatened me with the whip before but never actually used it.

I tensed in the cuffs. My limbs had stopped screaming, but my joints were beyond moving. Cut knew how far I could be stretched these days without causing me too much agony.

After all, it was about keeping me immobile and sensitive, rather than ripping me into pieces.

“Let’s see if your lessons have been learned, shall we?” He dragged the whip through his fingers. “Call this your final exam, son. Pass this and you’ll never have to come in here again.”

He didn’t give me time to argue.

His arm cocked backward.

The whip and its knotted tails shot forward.

The first lick shredded my t-shirt, biting sharply into my chest.

A scream balled in my throat, but I’d finally learned. I’d learned not to focus on myself or my sister or prey or hope or happiness or normalcy. I’d learned to focus on him—my father, my ruler, my life-giver.

So I did.

Every strike, I took with pride because Cut felt proud of me.

Every cut, I accepted with gratefulness because Cut finally believed he’d earned a worthy son.

I listened to him and only him.

And it saved me from myself.

I gripped the table as a feverish weakness throttled me. I couldn’t do this much longer. Every part of me was heavy with sickness and toil. I’d proven my point. I’d made him suffer. I had to end this before I drove myself into a grave beside him.

Pushing off from the wood, I stalked to face Cut on the rack.

His eyes widened, locking onto the whip.

“Let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson, Father. Let’s see if you can accept what you gave me as quietly as I accepted it.”

My arm shook as the whip sailed over my shoulder. I paused as the cords slapped against my back, ready to shoot forward and strike its quarry.

Cut bit his lip. “Kite...”

I didn’t wait for more. “No.”

Grunting, I threw every remaining energy into my arm and hurled the whip forward. The knots found his shirt; they sliced through it like tiny teeth, blood spurting from his flesh.

And finally, his emotions switched from sadistic hatred, misplaced actions, and a lifetime of incorrect choices to begging and shaming and accepting everything in full measure.

His head bowed as I struck again, tears streaming from his eyes. Not from pain. But the knowledge he’d done this to people he’d loved. He’d willingly done this to his children. And there was no worse crime than that.

I’d finally broken him. Finally shown him the error of his past. Finally taught him what it was like for us. He paid homage to Emma Weaver. He said sorry to Jasmine. He repented toward Nila. And finally, finally, he submitted to me and my power.

His apologies layered my mind.

His regret boomed in his thoughts.

He accepted what had to happen.

We were no longer father and son, teacher and disciple.

We were two men cleaning up the mess we’d caused.

Two men alone in a world we’d created.

And we would both suffer a lot more before it was over.