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Lucian
A blinding light reflects off the hallways on my way toward the room at the end. The low droning sound of classical music plays over the speaker as, adjusting my cuffs, I come to a stop before the door. I open it to find my mother strapped to a bed, her hands and legs bound by restraints. She turns her head to the side, her expression softening at the sight of me.
“Lucian! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here, dear. I’m ready to go home now.”
I don’t say a word as I stare down at her. The wound at her throat, where she dragged the blade, has healed to a grisly scar. Dark rims around her eyes tell of little sleep, and the straggle of her unkempt hair makes her look like she belongs in a straitjacket.
At the approach of someone from behind, I turn to see Friedrich enter the room, wearing his white coat, hands tucked in the pockets. He stands beside me and sets a hand to my shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of her.”
My mother’s eyes harden to fear, her brows pinched tight. “No. No, please. I want to go home.”
With a light squeeze, Friedrich exits the room, leaving me alone with my mother once again.
“You tried to kill yourself.” The flat tone of my voice is as devoid of emotion as my heart when I stare back at her. “Why is that?”
Gaze shifting from mine, she seems to think about it for a moment. “The way you looked at me. I’ve never seen such a thing in my life. Not even from your father, as cruel as he could be.” When her eyes meet mine again, they flicker with fear. “Like death would’ve been better than what you intended to do to me right then.”
“And is it, mother?”
Mouth open, she trails her gaze over the mostly empty white room, and her lip trembles. “Is this death? Purgatory?”
“You tell me.”
Tears well in her eyes, and she breaks into a sob. “I’m sorry. For what I did to you. You have to forgive me. You have to. I’m your mother.”
The tears, the weakness in her voice, the frailty of her appearance, like she might snap any moment, they have no effect on me. Not when all I can see is my son’s sleeping face, lips blue with the death she gifted him. The truth is, had she not slit her own throat, I could’ve very well done it myself. “I’ll never forgive you for what you stole from me.”
“I’m better now, though. I’m not angry anymore. Lucian, please take me home.”
“This is your home now.” There isn’t an ounce of empathy left in me for this woman. That she could so easily snuff an i
Eyes wide, she pants, tugging at her binds. “What did you tell them? What did you tell them about me, Lucian?”
“What do you think I told them, mother? That you’re a child killer.”
I sit across the desk from Friedrich, watching him jot notes into my medical chart.
Adjusting his spectacles, he looks up, holding the pen poised. “For years, we’ve watched you very closely. You neither show interest, nor choose to participate in any sessions. You’ve shown no history of abuse, as far as we know, and the maid you hired to fulfill your sexual needs reported no deviances, or unusual requests.”
“Perhaps the gene for sadism only extends over a certain number of generations.”
“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 i
“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.