Chapter 27
Freak
My pulse thuds in my chest. The final test hasn’t begun? This is the final test?
Daddy opens the door.
White walls. Disinfectant covering up decay wafts through the room. Several metal chairs with off-white cushions are spread throughout the space, and each one has a woman strapped to it with belts. IV bags are connected to their wrists.
Thick, gauzy diapers cover their genitals, leaving the rest of their bodies exposed. Their heads tilt at odd angles like they’ve fallen asleep sitting up.
Bile crowds the back of my throat. My limbs shake. Who are they? What are they doing here?
And what is he doing with them?
In the center of the room, a woman lies on a gurney. Her chest rises slowly, yet rhythmically, as if in a deep sleep. Gray hair threads through her harsh black strands, and a thin nose dots her face. Her eyelids are half-open, revealing the bottom half of dark irises.
My body flares, confusion and sorrow racing inside of me. My fingers curl, and the urge to hide in the fetal position dances in my chest. I spin around and search for the knowledge my thoughts—the conclusions I’ve come to—are completely wrong.
My eyes land on him.
Daddy’s expression is stoic, cast down on me. Waiting.
I know what this is. I know who she is. But I need to hear the words from his mouth.
Otherwise, I won’t believe myself.
“What is this?” I ask in a hoarse voice. “Who is she? And the rest of them?”
“You may be done with your mother, but this time, I’m giving her to you,” he says icily.
My hands vibrate at my sides, and my shoulders are heavy, weighted down by the possibilities.
It can’t be her. She’s not my mother. I visited my mother’s grave every day for years.
“That woman is breathing,” I say. “My mother is dead.”
“She’s every bit as alive as you are.” He gestures toward the bed like a teacher ushering his students to their next class. “Go on, my sweet one. Go see your mother.”
I stare at my bare feet; dirt covers my ankles. I should’ve stayed in the cemetery and refused to move ever again.
But then Daddy would have been mad at me. And he would have carried me here. And if I don’t do this—if I don’t meet my mother—I’ll make him angry, and that will crush me.
Suddenly, I’m kneeling by her bed. I swallow hard, then throw my hand on her shoulder.
She’s warm. Alive.
She blinks.
But she doesn’t move.
I used to dream of what it would be like if I had known my mother before she died. I used to cry myself to sleep because I knew there was nothing I could do to go back in time and stop her from taking those drugs. Then I used to fantasize about killing the man who murdered her.
But she’s here. He kept her.
Why did he keep her? Why does he still have her? Does he want her too?
Fire races through my blood vessels. I don’t know what I’ll do if I find out he’s been using her body this entire time when he could have been using me.
I jerk her shoulders. “Mom!” I shout. “Wake up!”
Her eyelids flutter; her pupils are dilated and flat, a baby doll closing its eyes as it’s laid down. She’s not present in her own body.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice cracking. I whip around, facing Daddy. His lips perk at the corners. Confusion cooks my blood. “What did you do to her?”
“I’ve been experimenting with different forms of psychosurgery for decades now, and I’ve recently begun working with a computer scientist to transform a woman’s awareness.” He lifts his chin. “My assistant—Oliver, you know—has been such a helpful influence in making my dream a reality.”
My brow furrows. I keep my hand on my mother’s shoulder, hoping the physical contact will ground me, keeping me inside of my own mind.
I’m Violet. Violet. Violet.
“Your dream?” I ask.
“Back when I was working with your mother, I was alone in my research. I had been experimenting with different patients; if the paperwork said they were dead, then what did it matter if I accidentally killed them while trying to create my perfect toy? No one goes through the trouble of following any patient too closely at the Ambrose Asylum, even more so once I took over. Our patients rarely leave anyway.”
Black dots spot my vision, and dread fills me with lead.
If I hadn’t cared, if I had stayed complacent, if I had accepted my mother’s death from an overdose like a normal person—I wouldn’t know my father botched a psychosurgery that made my mom permanently unconscious, but I’d still have my sense of self. I’d still be my own person.
My core, my ribs, my fucking heart hurts. She’s alive. She’s here. And if she was never in that grave, then that means she’s been with Daddy, living in his house this entire time. He’s been taking care of her and the other women in this room.
I will finish this.
I will get him.
“Over the years,” he continues, “we’ve perfected a microchip capable of controlling different regions of the brain.
You will have the latest version of the chip.
” He taps his temple. “You see, this next version of the microchip fully controls the motor cortex and Broca’s area.
The person will be able to move, but not without outside control.
And speech?” He chuckles, and it’s like a funeral bell echoing across an empty town.
“You will never have to worry about losing your voice again. It will simply be nonexistent.”
My breath is ragged in my chest. The white walls become a whirlwind sucking me down beneath the surface. What is he talking about? A microchip that controls different parts of the brain? He can’t be serious.
Can he?
My knuckles whiten. “Y-you’re going to make me like her? No. You can’t.”
As I step backward, a metal tray gleams in my periphery, next to my mother’s head. There’s a scalpel. A speculum. A circular, metal collar big enough to fit around a small neck. And there’s a small orange container with a white top and a torn label. A pill bottle. My pill bottle.
The poison.
I can’t force him to take the pills right now, but I can do something.
I lunge for the scalpel, accidentally cutting myself in the process. Adrenaline rushes through me, buzzing through my limbs. I adjust my hold on the bloodied blade.
“You won’t do that to me,” I warn.
He steps forward. I slice the blade through the air, but he clutches my wrist, stopping the motion instantly.
My breathing stops. His nostrils flare as he tightens his grip on me.
The blood pools in my hand, pressure building in my fingers as the edge of the blade cuts into my palm. Blood—my blood—drips on the floor.
“You don’t want to hurt me, sweet one,” he says.
The pain. It’s too much.
The scalpel clinks against the tile like coins in a jar.
And I sob.
“For fuck’s sake, you tried using a knife at the cemetery as well. Haven’t you learned?” Daddy snickers. “Using a knife doesn’t work for you.”
My pulse pounds in my temples, and my skin flushes. He lets go of my wrists, and I pull my hair, ripping out the strands.
“You can’t do this!” I scream.
“I can, and I will,” he says. Clamminess envelops me. I’m boiling and freezing at the same time. Clumps of hair fall to the floor, littering the bloody tile.
“Let me be clear, freak. I’m not going to turn you into her.” He uses a wet, bloody hand to move my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I’m going to make you so much better. First though, you’re going to prove you’re loyal to me. You will prove you are no longer tied to her.”
My chin trembles. Loyal to him?
That means rejecting her.
Abandoning myself.
But I have to do this. I have to—
“How?” I whisper.
“You’re going to fuck her.”
Fuck her?
I shake my head violently, my brain scrambling with each thrust of my head. “Please, Daddy,” I beg. “No. Don’t make me. Don’t—”
He slaps me. I gasp. His hand snakes between us and under my dress, his fingernails biting into my clit.
I’m instantly wet.
It doesn’t matter what my mind wants. Any time he pinches, stabs, or hurts my clit in any way, my body immediately melts to him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
“Why don’t you start with something easy?” he murmurs. The pressure on my clit increases as he twists his hand. His fingers part my folds, skimming across my slippery skin. “Suck her nipples like you did before I took you away.”
Like I did when I was a baby? When I needed her milk? Was she like this back then? A person in a non-responsive state, being used as a food source for an infant?
The idea of doing that now, when I still have a choice? It—
Daddy fists my hair and shoves me. My mouth smashes to her breast.
“Suck her fucking tit,” he bellows.
I close my eyes. I don’t have to do this.
Do I have a choice?
I open my mouth and press my lips to her breast.
My tongue swirls around the nipple, and it hardens between my lips.
Pleasure unfurls inside of me, spreading its petals and roots, digging into the earth of my soul.
There’s nothing she can feed me, but his commands nourish me.
It feels good to obey him. When he comes behind me and rubs my clit, I moan against her breast.
“The pathetic twat is finally drinking Mommy’s milk,” Daddy mutters. “Now, be a good cunt and fuck her face.”
My lips tremble.
I can’t.
I try to say the words. To remind myself of the mantra I’ve held onto, my only lifeline in a place where I’m doomed to disappear.
My name is Vi…
But I can’t finish the mantra. Why? Why can’t I finish the sentence? It’s like I can’t remind myself of who I was because everything has changed. Even if I say no, even if I resist, Daddy will force me to do these things, and he’ll condition me to like it.
And I want to obey him. I want to erase my loyalty to her. Won’t it be easier to forget those thoughts, the guilt, and the failure? To destroy the reasons why I started this in the first place? To belong to him and only him? To finally accept what forever means?
Maybe I can do something else first.
Maybe I can get her this time.