Chapter 26
Freak
“Let’s move along now,” Daddy says.
The cage hinges screech. Chills rattle over my skin. Using his finger, he tilts my head. Our eyes meet, and I blush.
Tender pink skin freckles his face; most of the acid burns are healed now, leaving behind scarred flesh. The largest burn is open; the center is white and damp, surrounded by an area of angry red flesh.
But Daddy always forgives me and takes me back. He accepts me for who I am.
He winks. “Do you want a chance to please me?”
I nod eagerly, and my clit throbs. It’s like my insides are dancing for his pain, a performer being directed by a gun. My lips fall open, ready for his cock, the confirmation I’m worthy of his time. I need his cum more than I need to breathe.
He stills, scrutinizing me.
I need him to do something. To say something.
To do anything. The thoughts come when it’s silent.
The thoughts tell me this is wrong. I’m not supposed to desire the man who killed my mother, and I’m definitely not supposed to desire my father.
I’m not supposed to willingly please a man who keeps me in a cage.
I’m only doing this to survive. I just need to live long enough to do this. And I must do this.
I’m not even sure what this is anymore.
“Are you ready for your final test?” he asks.
I nod. A shiver jolts through me. There’s an odd comfort in relinquishing everything to him. And now, I don’t even have a legal name. My entire world revolves around him.
And now, my father finally wants me.
“Get dressed.” He unlocks my restraints, then throws a loose cotton dress on top of me. “We have business to take care of.”
My heart leaps in my throat. I sit up slowly, holding the dress up by one of the strings. Soreness spasms through my limbs, but I get dressed as quickly as I can. Being kept in the same position for most hours of the day has been bad for my muscles, but I need to prove myself to Daddy.
The promise of business—the potential of leaving the asylum with Daddy—excites and terrifies me. I don’t know why he wants me to go with him, but I’m ready to do whatever he wants.
I flatten my hands across the dress. It scratches against my skin. I’m not used to clothes anymore.
Did he keep my clothes? The pill container?
Would I even use the pills now?
This is my chance.
A flicker of doubt waves over me. Leaving the asylum gives the best chance to avenge my mother, and yet the potential seems so far away.
I shake my head. I’m not just his freak. My name is also Violet. I have the poison. Once I find it, I’ll feed it to him. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll get another knife. A gun. I will get my father. I will finish this.
Get him?
Finish what?
It’s like my mind can’t fathom the actual words anymore.
Outside of the facility, Daddy escorts me through the parking lot. Trees sway in the breeze, light pink flowers dust their branches, and their pungent, crisp floral perfume stings my nostrils. I sneeze. I’ve never been sensitive to the seasons; being indoors for so long must have changed me.
“It must be a lot to take in,” Daddy says. He offers his hand, and I take it, letting him guide me. “You must be careful, my love.”
I clench at those words. Sunlight warms my skin.
As I glance around, I see regrowth, rebirth.
Dandelions crowd the cracks in the cement, some yellow, some with white feathery seeds, and other buds completely closed up, flowers in different phases of their life cycle.
One day, they’ll all blow away, seeds carried in the wind to find a home in new soil.
It must be spring.
That means months have passed.
Daddy opens the door of a black sedan. He buckles me into the back seat.
As he drives the car, stale air filters into my nose, and sunlight flashes across the windows. For a split second, I see my reflection: my silhouette is dark, the inside empty and black. If I really studied myself in a mirror, would I recognize myself anymore? Am I really Violet?
Or am I just his freak?
The car idles outside of an apartment complex. I blink rapidly at the brown and white building. I can’t place it. Have I been here before?
“This used to be your home,” Daddy explains. “You lived here with your boyfriend.”
My boyfriend? “You?” I ask.
“No, sweet one. We will never be lovers. That would imply equality and exchange.” He laughs. “This boyfriend was before you met me. He was named Benji.”
The boy with the curly hair and the crooked nose. I lived here with him. How did I forget? It’s like my brain can’t grasp onto anything.
Benji was nice to me, wasn’t he? He said he loved me. That he’d do anything for me.
Then he left.
Did he really love me?
“Would you like to go inside?” Daddy asks. “See if your old boyfriend is still there, ready to take you back now that you’ve been properly trained?”
My jaw tightens. I try to process the offer. If Daddy is seriously asking, would I actually want to return to my old life?
Benji didn’t love me. He loved the idea of me. The shell of my existence. The promise of what I could be. He never loved who I was on the inside. He didn’t even come to save me.
He tolerated me.
Daddy’s cruel mouth twists into a smile. My stomach churns, truth blasting across my mind: Daddy doesn’t love me either, but he’s seen every dark part of me.
And Daddy will never leave.
“No,” I whisper.
Daddy silently drives the car again.
A minute later, we stop outside black-pointed gates. Weeds flower the cracks in the sidewalk, and bouquets dot the grass. Graves litter the enclosed space.
Blood rushes to my ears.
My mother. She’s here.
She was here.
She left.
Again.
Pain ricochets between my temples.
I can’t face my mother like this. Not anymore.
“Daddy, please,” I beg. “Not here.”
“Go see her grave,” he commands.
“No, please—”
He bolts, his movements jagged as he exits the car and rips the back door open.
My throat aches. I’m about to cry. “Please—”
“For fuck’s sake.” He yanks on my arms. “Get out and look.”
The world whirls around me as I stumble out. I don’t know why I resisted him. I should be good for him.
I have to be good.
I have to do this.
The grass is green now, and the blades are freshly trimmed. The groundskeeper must mow frequently now that it’s spring.
Grass covers her plot, and her tombstone is missing. Her grave was filled, then.
Another part of my life completely erased.
Tears slip down my cheeks. It’s better like this. If I don’t have a biological mother, then my obsession has been erased, replaced by a man who controls my entire being. Daddy is my god, my outlook, my ritual, my life.
I don’t need my mother anymore.
I swallow hard, keeping the sobs inside. I can barely remember my purpose, the reason I came to the Ambrose Asylum; it floats inside of me, broken apart by dark waves.
We drive again. The empty fields pass by.
My name is Violet, I tell myself. And I’m going to get him.
Get him? Who?
How?
An hour later, we park in front of an old, Victorian-style house with brown panels and dark gray trim. Black shutters cover the windows, and the house is angled, the entire front yard cast in shadow.
Dry, brittle grass covers the lawn. A withered rose garden stands lifeless next to the house. Each flower is a dry husk of what it once was.
Like me.
Daddy circles the car and opens the door. He offers his hand, both meant as a polite gesture and as an offering.
We must be at his home.
I take his hand. He leads me inside and through a hallway. The red rugs underneath our feet sink under our weight like they’re bloated with water. The damp stench of mildew wafts between us; it reminds me of the faint moldy aroma that lingers on Daddy’s skin.
He opens the door to a closed-off dining room with an oblong table. He points at a chair.
“Sit,” he says.
I obey, then I stare at the wall.
I’m alone.
Alone.
Alone?
That means Daddy trusts me to behave.
I should behave.
I’m supposed to get him, right?
I should be searching for something. Was it medication? A weapon?
No. I should be searching for an escape.
I should—
The door opens. Daddy carries a tray with a steaming bowl. He places it in front of me.
The mild scent of salt floats up from the liquid. Chunks of gray meat dot the soup’s surface, a leaf of cabbage limp underneath it. A spoon rests next to the bowl.
It’s been forever since I’ve eaten actual food. Is this my test?
“Eat your dinner, now. You have a busy evening ahead of you,” Daddy says.
My chest expands. This isn’t a test at all.
He’s taking care of me.
I dip the spoon into the broth, then bring it close to my lips and blow on the steaming liquid.
My skin warms under Daddy’s gaze, heated by his constant observation.
The soup coats my tongue; it tastes like a cup of warm ocean water.
Maybe it’s not bad. Maybe my taste buds have changed.
Maybe the chalky, bland shakes at the asylum have completely ruined my palette.
I swallow the soup. The liquid heats my insides.
“Good,” he says.
Encouraged, I take another spoonful, this time with meat. It’s softer than I expected; the texture is similar to meat from canned soup.
Maybe that’s all this is: a can of soup. It’s not a test, nor is it a sign he wants to take care of me.
But I want to be good. I need to do what he says. I need to eat it.
I chew, then swallow. I’m not sure how my body will react to my first real food in months, but Daddy knows what’s best for me; I don’t need to worry about myself anymore.
Yes, you do, my brain screams. You need to get him—
I keep eating, drinking, and chewing while Daddy watches me. After the last spoonful, he takes me to another hallway lined with a red, stained runner rug with an opulent design. Underneath it, mold darkens the edges of the black carpet.
He leads me deeper into his house.
A stench seeps into my nose, its strength growing with each step: stale urine and mop water.
White webbing weaves in the corners of the walls, and worm-like larvae creep across the white strands.
Tiny black capsules, shaped like tear drops, hang from the ceilings.
Cocoons. They don’t have to worry about predators here.
A moth flutters past. Daddy smirks.
“Tell me, freak,” he says. Our footsteps thud on the floor, and he cups my hand, his warmth encapsulating me. “You declined to see your old boyfriend. You resisted visiting your mother’s grave. What’s changed?”
I grind my teeth, my bones quivering. I’m supposed to get him, I think. I’m supposed to finish this.
But what does that mean?
Someone—maybe my old boyfriend—once warned me I shouldn’t let this obsession control my life. Even back then, I knew that was right. An obsession like this could ruin me.
And it already has.
“I’m done,” I whisper. Power tumbles in my chest. I rasp: “I’m—I’m—”
Daddy squeezes my hand, reassuring me. “Take it slowly, then answer me.”
I square my shoulders and face him. My eyes burn. I keep my chin high, but I don’t let the tears fall. I have to say it.
“I’m done with her,” I say. “I don’t need her or my old boyfriend. I never did.”
“Then what do you need then, sweet one?”
You. You. You. It’s an instinct. My purpose.
I’m going to get you.
I’m going to end this.
But I want you.
I need you.
A smile creeps across Daddy’s lips. My nervous system freezes in place.
“You only require my approval now, don’t you?” he asks.
It’s like he can read the thoughts directly inside of me.
I relax my fists, then I nod so hard, my head hurts.
Daddy loosely places his hand on the door handle in front of us. “Then this final test won’t be difficult for you.”