6
Kieran age 12
“It's conditioning, Kieran,” my father's voice cuts through the darkness.
My head lolls. His stern words have me on edge.
Is he going to whip me again? Burn me? Fresh laceration marks still burn my flesh from last night.
Dried blood still cakes my backside. My wrists ache.
The heavy iron chains dig into my skin. I grit my teeth to stanch the pain.
My shoulders sag, pulling the chains tighter.
I've lost count of how many days I've been down here listening to the same drip of water splash against the old stone floor.
The only thing keeping me remotely warm are my damp jeans.
I don't bother to respond to his words. There's no point. No one can save me from his depravity.
“You'll understand soon enough. This is necessary,” he reiterates.
I hear him striking a match along the pebbled stone.
His black oxfords come into view. It takes too much effort keeping my head upright, so I don’t bother.
My wrists are cracked and raw. Gotta conserve my energy.
My mind shuts off; I hate this Goddamn place.
I hate him.
The smell of his mint aftershave smacks me in the face. “Eyes on me, boy. You're weak. We need to cauterize your soul. No weakness can seep through.”
I don't listen to him. My dry, cracked throat offers him a weak scoff. I swallow the razor blades that feel like they've lodged in my throat.
He pitches forward. His free hand grabs the nape of my neck, digging his hands in my dark curls. I wince. His eyes are a fiery inferno. He drills into me with malice.
“Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to, Kieran. For the
greater good. My father did the same to me, and his father before
him.”
“I'll burn fire at the gates before I end up like you,” I say coldly.
A cold, calculated grin forms on his smug face. “Oh, my son, you already are well on your way there.”
Then he teases the flame along my stomach, charring my skin.
I let out a shattering roar. My body fights against the restraints. They cut into my skin with a lacerating pull. The smell of burnt flesh invades my nostrils. “You. Will. Obey.”