Jethro #3
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.