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I supposed I should be grateful that I’d gotten so sick after the surgery. For a simple ‘routine’ slice and dice, my system went into shock.
My lack of health folded in on itself and I spent the past few months in a fugue of antibiotics, painkillers, dreams, nightmares, and misery. The fever had wracked me to the point of becoming skeletal again, and I had nothing left.
Nothing.
My memories of Neri were tainted with blood.
My recollections of happiness and being in love were completely swamped by grief.
I was heavy inside. Endlessly fucking heavy and full of sadness I couldn’t swim out of.
I was down on the ocean floor.
Smothered by salt, gagging on brine.
My ears rang as the guards finished securing my thighs to the chair.
My first day back and my heart didn’t kick, didn’t flinch, didn’t climb above the erratic beat it now called normal.
I had nothing left to give.
I’m done.
Patting my cheek, Cem said quietly, “She still believes you’re alive.”
I’m not alive.
I’m dead.
The breath in my lungs is rancid.
The thoughts in my head are rotten.
Forget me, Neri.
There’s nothing left anymore.
I didn’t respond, and Cem clucked his tongue. “I thought you’d be a bit more lively after a few months of lying around all day. You’re healed. The doctor gave you a clean bill of health.” He ran his fingertips over my newly healed bright-red scar. “Even your arm is neat and tidy. You’d never even know anything used to exist there.”
The smallest urge to shout back. To scream in his face. To spit on his shoes.
But then the urge was gone, sinking into the oily, festering pit inside me.
Ducking to his haunches, Cem looked up at me.
I stared blankly into him, not focusing, not caring.
“Aslan...” He winced and cupped my cheek. “Rally round, son. It’s okay. You’re doing so well. One more day and that’s it. I promise. One more day and then you and I will leave this place forever. You will never have to come back down here. I’ll take you to the hammam (Turkish baths) where you’ll be pampered and massaged for hours. I’ll order all your favourite foods. I’ll dress you in all the finest clothes. You will be free, Aslan.”
I looked away.
I had nothing to say.
Silence thickened.
Slowly, Cem stood and nodded at the guard operating the machine.
I didn’t move as the electrodes were hooked up to my shoulder sockets—one of the few places that didn’t have scars from previous shocks.
Stepping away so he wouldn’t run the risk of being electrocuted by touching me, Cem ordered, “Moderate power. Five seconds.”
BANG.
I groaned.
My back snapped in half as power as hot as the sun and sharp as daggers bolted through me.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Numbers.
They were the only thing I had left now.
Counting the seconds while I sizzled alive.
One.
Two.
Three wishes that I could just die and be done with this.
I involuntarily gasped and fought to survive as the power cut off, leaving my organs smoking, my blood popping, and my bones ready to glow in the dark.
This kind of persuasion wasn’t new.
I’d endured this over and over for years.
Yet...right there, in that moment with no tattoo to cling to and everything stripped from me in the form of skin ribbons, chopped legs, and hot fevers, I reached my threshold.
I’d been whittled from whole into nothing.
I’d been cut and shocked. Tortured and brainwashed.
And my body and mind finally said...no more.
No more!
I cracked.
All those spiderweb fractures.
All those fissures that’d been working their way through me finally eroded my sanity.
With an earthquake that tore my soul in two...I started to cry.
Silently, stiffly, tears rained down my cheeks. I didn’t have the strength to do anything else.
I couldn’t blink, couldn’t sniff, couldn’t cope.
I just wanted to die.
Please, please let me die.
Cem’s hands landed on my cheeks and tipped my heavy head back.
His face danced and puddled in my tears.
He looked like a painting. A watercolour. A bleeding canvas where all my hopes had been drawn over, scrubbed out, and now I was empty.
Ever so slowly, he held up one hand.
Two fingers stuck up as he curled the rest into a fist.
With a tenderness that made my shattered heart splutter, he whispered, “How many fingers am I holding up, Aslan?”
And I knew.
I finally understood.
I sighed as blistering, comforting warmth coiled through me.
I get it now.
What a relief.
What a gift to sink into understanding that it wasn’t the answer that mattered but my surrender.
My surrender to him.
To this.
To everything he wanted me to be.
Licking at my tears, I sucked in a breath and whispered with every broken piece of me, “How many do you want it to be, baba?”
My torturer, abuser, mutilator, and capturer suddenly choked on a sob. His forehead crashed against mine and tears ran down his face. “Finally, Aslan.” He kissed me, smothering me in affection. “Finally.”
Leaning back, he stroked my cheekbones with his thumbs as he asked, “Who are you?”
