Chapter Forty-Two
“This was not meant to happen!” Thomas raged aloud, pacing up and down the stone floor of the basement room. “No, no, no!” How could they have saved his Guillotine Lady? He’d timed it to perfection; they shouldn’t have made it in time to save her.
“I’m sorry, Father,” he cried aloud to his dead father, who was staring back at him from the mirror with disgust. “I know I should have planned it better. Please, you must forgive me.”
“I will never forgive you,” the voice of his father whispered in his head. “You are a disappointment to me. Such a great disappointment…”
“I know I am,” he replied, stopping and staring at himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror hanging on the far wall. “I will do better for my next illusions, Father. I promise you I will.”
“You are a fool.” The words came from his own mouth, but he knew it was his father talking to him, ever present, ever critical, ever disappointed. “You will never be the magician I could have been!”
“I know I won’t, Father,” he cried, staring at his father’s disappointed face staring back at him. “But I will do better. I will. I promise you.”
“You must not be so harsh on yourself, my dear son,” his mother said beside him.
His parents never left him alone. Now more than ever, they were present.
“But I failed, Mother. I failed both you and Father.”
“You will redeem yourself, my son, when you kill that whore of a daughter of the Maguires. Then the Maguires will end, and it will be our legacy that remains.”
“Thomas will crumble in the end.” His father’s voice was back, screaming at him from the mirror. “That girl is a far better magician than he will ever be.”
“No, she’s not!” Thomas yelled desperately to the reflection. “I promise I’ll be better than her. I will do better than she can, I will.”
“You deserve a strap to your back.” There was glee in his father’s voice. “You must punish yourself for your failure today.”
“You’re right, Father. I must do that. I must suffer a suitable punishment.
” Thomas walked over to the table and picked up his belt buckle before walking back over to the mirror.
Quickly, he shed his clothes until he was completely naked.
The scarred flesh from his previous beatings since he was a child was mottled all over his chest and legs.
“You don’t need to do this, my son,” his mother’s words softly whispered. “It was not your fault. It was hers!”
“No! It was his fault.” His father’s words spat out of Thomas’s own mouth. “He should have set up the illusion better so there was no possibility but success.”
“You’re right, Father, I should have,” Thomas agreed back at the reflection.
“You couldn’t have known that whore would stop you,” his mother said.
“I should have, Mother,” he replied. “And Father is right. He’s always right. I must atone for my mistakes and my sins. Now leave me!”
Then he drew the leather belt taut between his fist, the buckle glinting tauntingly back at him.
With a guttural hiss, he flicked it back and then sharply lashed it down across his bare chest. The leather snapped onto his torso, echoing off the stone walls like a drum.
Over and over again, he whipped the belt against himself.
Crimson welts bloomed across his pale flesh like the bite marks of a ravenous beast as blood started to drip down his ribcage, mingling with his sweat.
Again and again, he lifted the belt then lashed it down upon himself—a savage rhythm of self-reckoning—until his breaths became ragged and raw, the metallic tang of his own blood now thick in the air as he scourged his soul of his sins, hoping the punishment would appease his father.
“I think that will do, my son,” his mother said as she returned. “Your father would be content.”
“No, he needs more punishment.” His father’s voice echoed in his head, still not satisfied. He would never be satisfied even in death—Thomas knew that—but still, he tried. He stood there for another minute, repeatedly whipping at his flesh until he didn’t think he could bear it any longer.
“That’s enough now, my son.”
“I told you to leave me, Mother!”
“I will never leave you, my son. Now you must stop that, and return to your mission.”
He blinked. She was right, as usual. So he obeyed, and slowly, his fingers released their death grip from around the leather, letting the belt drop to the floor, the buckle clattering on the stone. He did likewise, collapsing onto his knees, caring little as the stones scraped against them.
“There, there, my son.” His mother’s voice was a soft croon, comforting him as little else in the world could. “You have appeased your father for today, and soon you will make him so very proud when you destroy Maguire’s daughter.”
“You’re right, Mother,” he said, smiling into the mirror and seeing his mother’s eyes reflecting back next to him. “She will die, but I will make sure she suffers first. Then both you and Father will be satisfied. And you will both be proud of me. I swear you will.”
“Of course we will.” His mother reached up and stroked his hair. And Thomas could feel her very presence right beside him. He could smell the rose of her perfume. “You are my clever, little boy. And you will make sure that she burns for the sins of her mother. Won’t you, my darling?”
“I will, Mother. I promise you she will burn.”