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I shuddered as black loathing rolled through me.
If I could, I’d slaughter my father and then myself.
Anything to be free from this powerlessness.
“Leave us,” Cem barked.
Immediately, the doctor bowed, squeezed my arm, then left.
Cem stopped before me, snapping his fingers and smiling as a young woman with dark-brown hair pinned in a bun on the top of her head came scurrying into the room.
She kept her eyes far from mine, her bare arms straining to carry a heavy white box. The dress she wore could better be described as a potato sack, skimming her ankles with faded cream fabric.
“Put it on the bed,” Cem commanded. His Turkish order seemed both threatening and fatherly as the girl did as he asked, then darted back out the door.
I had no idea who she was and didn’t care. She was probably a slave Cem kept for himself.
Sitting down beside me, Cem waited until I gave up the pretence of wanting to learn how to walk on a piece of wood and patted my shoulder. He never looked away as I sat heavily, kicked away the walking frame, then fumbled with the buckles.
The minute they were undone, I yanked off the fake leg, threw it to the ground, then gingerly unwrapped the thick padding.
No matter how many times I saw myself naked in the mirror. No matter how many nights I sat in the dark and studied my huge scar, it never got easier. As far as amputations went, I supposed it’d been done well. I’d had no infection or adverse reactions. My body had healed enough that I was no longer feverish and could keep food down.
But each time I ran my fingers over what was left of my leg, I shuddered with abhorrent disgust. It repulsed me. I felt half-human. It made me sick to my bones because it signified how far I’d fallen and how destroyed I was because I could never climb back up.
Cem cleared his throat, his eyes on my stump. “I don’t know how many times I can apologise, but I know it will never be enough. This was not how I wanted our reunion to go.”
I ignored him and shoved my trackpants over my stump. With a practiced move, I tied the empty part of the leg into a knot so it didn’t dangle, then wedged my face into my hands and dug my elbows into my knees.
I cursed that I both hated his visits and enjoyed them.
When Cem was here, my hate had something to latch onto.
When he was gone, that hate latched onto me.
It was fucking exhausting.
“Look, Aslan...” He reached to squeeze my shoulder.
I shrugged him off with a growl. “Don’t.”
Dropping his hand, he muttered, “I know the past few months have been hard on you. I know you’re not sleeping, and I understand why you’re choosing to fade from this life instead of learning to accept it. But I need you to make an effort.”
Effort?
Would killing him be defined as making an effort?
“You need something to take your mind off recent events. Obviously, I don’t know what you used to do for fun or what your hobbies have been, but...if you’re anything like me, I’m guessing this might spark some interest.” Rummaging in the box, he pulled out a stack of workbooks and tossed them into my lap. “If you are like me, numbers are your outlet. Ironically, it was through my love of numbers that I lost you. I hired Burak Avci because I liked how his brain worked with sums. His accountancy firm was second to none, and I appreciated that his brother was a math professor.”
“Emre was more than just a math professor,” I hissed. “He was a man ten times your worth.”
Cem ignored me. “Until Burak stole you from me and gave you to Emre, I was friendly with him. He didn’t have synesthesia, but he did have talent. Did you know only four percent of the population has synesthesia?” He studied me closely. “It’s a genetic trait where the most common type is grapheme colour.”
Fuck.
I dug my thumbs into my eyes.
He does have it.
“Do you see numbers in colours too, Aslan?” he asked softly. “Sometimes I can even taste them or a particular sum will smell sweet and sharp.”
He can taste a number?
I’d never had that.
Figures felt like ivory and silk in my mind and glowed with pigment, but I’d never smelled an equation before.
Gritting my teeth, I ignored his questions like I always did.
“If you do...then numbers can become a bit of an escapism. I can’t remember how many times I zoned out when doing puzzles and math quizzes when I was a boy. I preferred them over TV or sports or even girls to a certain extent.” He chuckled. “In this box are samples of accounts from my companies over the past few years. I never did hire another accountant after Burak stole you. In fact, I fired a lot of my workforce because I lost trust in those I believed I could count on. I run my own books now. It takes me hours a day. And if I’m honest, I’m running behind and need help.”
