Final Debt

by Pepper Winters

  His breathing stuttered as pain flashed through his system. I hadn’t struck hard enough to break bones, but he would have a hell of a bruise.

  Striding around the table, I stroked the black club. The heavy rubber was dense and threatening. There would be no escape. “What did you tell me once? That I could cry and scream as loud as I wanted and no one would hear us…?”

  His eyes glowed, meeting mine. Sweat shone on his forehead. His arms fought the buckles as his knees trembled from adrenaline.

  “Answer me.” I struck his chest. The side of the club delivered with perfect precision against his lower belly.

  “Ah, fuck!” Cut’s spine bowed, his entire psyche wanting to curl up around his injuries and hide. Any sign of regret or shame at doing the wrong thing drowned beneath his sudden need for relief.

  That I could deal with. Feeling another’s pain had been a by-product of my condition all my life. I’d never grown used to it. However, if I stood in a room with someone dying or mortally wounded, I would eventually become numb then catatonic from their agony.

  The same would happen if I continued with my father.

  I had to finish what I’d started before I slipped into insanity.

  He hadn’t paid enough yet. He hadn’t learned what he needed.

  I’ve withstood worse.

  I could stomach delivering more punishment.

  Tucking the club into my waistband, I stalked around the table.

  Cut gasped, his eyes watering but doing their best to follow me. “What do you want me to say, Jet? That I’m sorry? That I regret what I did and beg for your forgiveness?”

  He stiffened as my hands drifted toward the lever he’d used so often. Words tumbled from his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for asking so much of you when I knew you struggled. I’m sorry for hurting Jasmine. I’m sorry for what I did to Nila. Fuck, Jet, I’m sorry.”

  “Not good enough.” Curling my fingers around the sweat-polished wood of the lever, I murmured, “I think we can do better than that.”

  My muscles bunched as I pushed on the mechanism. The first crank sounded like the gates of hell opening up, groaning and howling as ancient wood slipped into motion after so long.

  “Wait!” Cut wriggled as the leather slowly tightened around his wrists and ankles. “Listen to my thoughts. Pay attention. I’m telling the truth.”

  The sad thing was he did speak the truth. He honestly was sorry. He burned with apologies and willingly took possession of everything he’d done.

  But it wasn’t enough to be sorry. He had to wish he’d never done it in the first place.

  Taking a ragged breath, fighting through my weakness and fever, I cranked the lever again. The cogs and prongs slipped into place, welcoming each twist. Ducking over Cut, I pressed a little harder, pulled a little tighter. “Ready to grow a few inches?”

  Cut squeezed his eyes. “Please…”

  “You don’t get to beg.” I jerked the lever, pushing a full rotation.

  The rack obeyed, separating beneath him, pulling Cut’s extremities into agonising tightness. The skin on his hands and feet stretched like an accordion played to maximum, turning his flesh red as it yanked him in two directions.

  Cut screamed.

  I pushed again.

  The table fought Cut’s body, snarling against the unwilling tension, causing him to stretch beyond natural comfort.

  He screamed louder.

  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 r
emain 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.

  “What else can I do to make you focus inward and not be so fucking weak all the time?” Cut prodded my chest where my teenage heart thundered. “Tell me, Jethro, so we can end this charade.”

  Jasmine’s hands looped around the handle, yanking on the heavy exit.

  Yes, run. Go.

  The wood grunted like a beast hunting in the woods.

  No!

  Cut spun around. His eyes bugged as he dropped his hold. I couldn’t move, hanging on the rack as he balled his hands and strode to the table where things of nightmares rested. “Where do you think you’re going, Jazzy?”

  She plastered herself against the door, shaking her head.

  “Run, Jaz. Run!” I struggled. “Don’t look back. Just go!”

  She didn’t.

  She froze as Cut picked up a black club and advanced on her.

  “No!” I squirmed harder, drawing more blood, more fear.

  “I’m going to teach you to control it, Jet, if it’s the last fucking thing I do.” Cut swatted the club into his hand, making goosebumps scatter over my body.

  Jasmine trembled as Cut towered over her. “You love your sister. Let’s see if you can protect her by focusing for once.” His hand rose, shadowing her face with his arm.

  “Run, Jaz!” I screamed, tearing through her terror and kick starting her flight. Her fear kept her mute, but a sudden resolution filled her gaze.

  She ran.

  Pushing off from the door, she charged around my father and darted across the barn.

  Cut spun, holding the club, watching his daughter bolt from him. Only, he didn’t let her go. He gave chase.

  “No!” I couldn’t do a thing as he stormed after his child and wrenched his arm back to strike.

  “Jasmine!”

  And then it was all over.

  The club struck her back.

  The force sent her tumbling head over heels.

  Her little shoes clattered against the floor as her skirts flew over her face. She came to a stop facing me, her little eyes glassing with tears, locked on mine above her.

  For a second, she just lay there, blinking in shock, cataloguing her hurt. Then, the thickest, hardest, all-consuming wave I’d ever felt washed over me. Her pain drenched me. Her agony infected me. Everything she felt—her childish whims, her hopeful wishes—they all rammed down my throat and made me sick.

  I vomited as Jasmine burst into tears.

  Her screams echoed around us, slippi
ng out the door, licking around the trees and rising to the crescent moon above.

  I cried with her. Because I knew what’d happened as surely as she did.

  Winter had watched this atrocity. Frost hadn’t prevented it. Ice had let it happen. And a blizzard began deep in my soul.

  I couldn’t do it anymore.

  I couldn’t handle my sister’s agony, my father’s despair, my own brokenness.

  I can’t do this.

  And neither could Jasmine.

  Her tears stopped as suddenly as they began, but her eyes never tore away from mine. Her cheek pressed on the floor as her breath puffed cold smoke from bluing lips.

  And she uttered the words I would never forget.

  The words ensuring I stepped into an icicle prison and gave her the key. The sentence forever turning me into snow so I never, never, never had to feel what I’d felt that day.

  “Kite…I can’t feel my legs.”

  I howled in remembered agony, hating him all over again. He’d disabled my sister. He’d broken her back, crippled her spinal column. He’d irrevocably destroyed her life all because of me.

  Me.

  Fuck!

  Blocking out his screams, I stormed toward the head of the rack and traded the club for the lever. While Cut trembled and shook in his restraints, I punched the mechanism, cocking it another rotation.

  His broken ankle and limbs stretched further, eliciting more screams, more begs. The barn filled with sounds of popping and cracking. The gristle and ligaments finally gave up, breaking in increments.

  I wanted to be sick. I wanted to wade through his pain, and for once, stop wallowing in others’ misfortune. But unlike the instant with Jasmine teaching me in one violent swoop to stop, I couldn’t.

  “Jethro—stop. Please…” Cut’s voice interspersed with deep-seated groans. I wanted so much to give in and obey. But he’d committed too much. Done too much wrong.

  He hadn’t paid enough. Not yet.

  Shoving the club down my waistband again, I sat on my haunches and grabbed the small wheel below the rack. I knew this machine so well. Too well. It’d become a regular enemy, and I’d learned how to use it from too young an age.

  Cut had felt what it was like to lay horizontal while receiving pain. It was entirely a new experience to be vertical.