Chapter 15 Correction and Abuse
“…can be quite cruel, can’t she?”
I’ve been staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours.
My mind is lost in a thick web of fog and spinning. It’s as though I’ve survived a natural disaster. Mass casualties. My body thrown around in a tornado. Swallowed into a hurricane. Tossed back out to fall to the earth and shatter all my bones in one fell swoop.
“You are so quiet.”
Red spots splotch my vision, runny and warm, but I make out that shiny forehead with my father’s name as a raised, pink scar.
I’ve heard the stories. We all have.
“My name is Abbott,” he says as if I should already know this. “A rather accomplished correctional savant. And you met my grandmother, Agatha.”
No. These are not your names.
My eyes stretch wider.
Abbott. Agatha. I commit this to memory, even in my incoherent state. I don’t want to mess up and say who they really are.
“And what is yours? It’s polite to speak when spoken to,” Abbott adds with a speculative tilt to his head.
We’re using fake names, then?
“Audrina.”
Abbott smiles. The tug of thin, chapped lips snags my attention. More scars. That of sewing someone’s mouth shut. Good God, my father really did that. Not rumors. Those stories were true.
“What an elegant name.”
I hadn’t noticed before, but Abbott is blotting at my bloody, swollen face with a wet rag. His other hand is twirling a strand of my long copper hair, holding it close to his nose. I can’t tell if he’s been smelling it or not.
“You smell delightful, dear child.”
That answers that.
“Are you going to tell us why we’re here? Or is it still a fun little surprise?” Niklaus. He sounds calm and bored, but I know him better than that. His words are edgy. Agitated. Silently boiling.
My eyes, though blurry and throbbing, shoot over to his chair against the wall. His cold, stormy blue eyes meet mine. He doesn’t seem concerned for me. More like he’s cataloging my weaknesses. Not sure what I was expecting. The evil fucker probably enjoyed the show.
Abbott inhales sharply through his nose. “And what’s your travel companion’s name, Audrina?”
I slide my gaze between the two men thoughtfully.
Did the old woman beat the humor out of me?
Mmm, no. I remember the tutor Niklaus woefully despised for telling our class he had a speech impediment when we were six.
He smelled like onions and his thin hair would stand straight up without any effort at all.
What was his name?
“Barnaby.” I smile then wince. My cheeks are broken. My face is inflamed and pulsating with an unbearable ache.
Niklaus lets out a small, irritated chuckle.
“Please tell Barnaby, it is not polite to speak when no one was speaking to him.”
“What do you want with us?!” Niklaus roars, yanking on his restraints.
I flinch at the sudden outburst.
But Abbott does not acknowledge him. He simply continues to blot the blood on my face, gazing at my features with wistful eyes.
The invasion of space is starting to make my skin crawl, especially as he leans his face in, and I’m reminded of how close my father once was to embed those deep scars into Abbott’s milky white skin.
“You’re probably wondering how I received these scars, hmm?” he asks.
I dart my eyes away. Is that a trick question? Is he not embarrassed by them?
“Don’t be shy. You may ask. I love educating meek, frail young women,” Abbott adds.
Niklaus barks out a laugh. “Meek.”
“How did you get the scars?” I ask cautiously.
“My grandmother and I are tasked with a very crucial line of work. Correctional, if you will. Reform…” He taps his chin and looks off to the corner of the room.
“Experimental conditioning. We take what is already in the mind and rearrange it. Repurpose it. Find new heights it can climb. New wires to cross.”
Yes, so I’ve read.
“I had a subject who grew quite weary of this process. That is the trouble with lesser minds, you see. He wasn’t fond of my greater calling to educate those who are found lacking in intellect.
” Abbott has stopped blotting my face. Now, he caresses my cheek.
I do my best not to shudder under his clammy touch.
“So, your subject was unintellectual then?” Niklaus sounds amused. We both know he’s talking about my father. A man who was a genius. Could outsmart anyone.
Abbott ignores him. “This young man was deeply disturbed. A sadistic monster, even at such a young age. All I ever tried to do was help him. Explain his conditioning. Explain the crippling hallucinations. The inflicted night terrors. But I suppose that’s where I went wrong.
One day, like a wild animal, the sick individual strapped me down and carved his name into my forehead with a dirty knife, then sewed my mouth shut. ”
“Dessin,” I read the name out loud.
My throat seizes mid-breath as a long, skeletal hand hooks around it—fingernails like splinters biting into the sides of my neck as it chokes me. Air and sound are cut off in one crushing grip.
“Listen here, meek girl.” Abbott gets in my face, pointing his spindly finger at me. “Don’t you ever say that ugly name. I give it no life!”
“Hey!” Niklaus barks, losing his amused tone and gaining a tenor that is alert and gruff.
“You hear me? Never! That name is grotesque! Vile! I hate that name. No one speaks that name.” He seems to catch himself at a moment of dishevelment. “There now. Even scholars have limits.”
My ears ring over the sound of Niklaus shouting.
“Do I make myself clear, young lady?”
Abbott’s complexion has flushed from a sickly pale to a blotchy, boiling red. His freckles are nearly swallowed by the bloom of color spreading fast.
I nod against his tight hold. My vision fades at the edges. Splashes of white light blinding me. My sore body thrashes on the mattress, convulsing for air.
He releases me reluctantly.
“Are you all right?” Abbott clucks his tongue and sighs. “Ah, that’s certainly going to leave a bruise. Shame. Very pretty neck too, isn’t it?”
Who the fuck are you talking to?
I want to go home. I wish I could control whatever is going on with me.
If only I could summon that dark energy that moved us through time.
How does it work? I thought pain or fear triggered the jump.
But here I am, in pain and pretty damn scared.
Why isn’t it working? Why aren’t we leaving this god-awful place?
I cough out a laugh. “Gorgeous neck, yes. But bruised trachea? Adds a little spice, don’t you think?”
There’s a breath of silence before Niklaus sighs. “Christ.”
Though it sounds like a laugh.
Abbott stares at me with a blank expression. “Would you like me to read to you tomorrow?”
“I’d rather your grandmother beat me again.”
“Sarcasm.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Grandmother hates sarcasm.”
Before long, Abbott reaches the door at the top of the stairs and closes it quietly behind him. The locks clicking into place echo in my ears like a funeral hymn.
I finally loosen my grip on the mattress, relaxing against the hard springs, and accepting the pitch-black basement to be a foundation of comfort against that man’s incessant talking.
“Is anything broken?” Niklaus asks. His deep voice is oddly and unnervingly soothing to me right now. It’s familiar. The silky baritone reminding me of home. I must be feverish or delusional.
“Just my dignity,” I answer with severe hoarseness.
“At least your sense of humor is still intact.”
“Yes. That is true.”
Though I don’t let him hear it in my voice as tears leak from the corners of my eyes, past my swollen temples, and onto the stained bed underneath me.