Page 75 of Was I Ever Free

How can he be torturing me?

I fucking killed him.

Nothing is making sense except the white-hot pain and the blood already pouring down my face and over my lips.

My blood. A nostalgic taste.

I’m trying my hardest to dissociate, to set my mind free—protect me from what’s to come but something about these drugs is keeping me captive, forced tofeeleverything being done to me. I hold my father’s manic gaze, his face flickering in and out. In and out.

Am I dreaming? Hallucinating?

But then the sight from my left eye goes black. I can feel the knife scrape over the bone of my eye socket and I must be screaming, I must be fucking screaming.

Surely, I’m in shock, because my mind begins to drift. In a desperate attempt to block out whatever my father is doing to my face, I focus on a list instead. But it’s not the same list I made years ago. No, this one is different.

A new list.

A Ferris wheel. Cotton candy. A giant stuffed flamingo.

Now, I’m sure that I’m screaming. My father tells me to shut the fuck up.

A mic. An open stage. Red lipstick on perfect lips.

The knife digs deeper. I scream louder.

A place called Santa Claus. A dried-up well. And a wish that was made true.

The pain is so intense, I’m not sure I can even call it pain.

Then suddenly the hand is off of me, and I’m gasping for air, choking on my own blood still pouring down my face. My father is holding my left eye in his hand, looking triumphant.

But I’ve lost all sense of self.

I don’t react. Everything about this feels too gruesome, too sickening to be real.

His face flickers again.

The room is so silent that I hear thepopof my eye when he drops it on the ground and crushes it with his heel.

I plead for my body to pass out, to lose consciousness so I can at least escape from this hell. But it never comes. I see only darkness. Then the door locks.

And all I have left to cling to is the harrowing knowledge that my eye is somewhere on the floor, while the taste of my own blood keeps me company.

38

“We’ve found him,” Connor says, his tone vengeful but also celebratory. His black hair is disheveled, falling over dark eyes, bloodshot and wild. His suit looks crumpled, shirt sleeves pushed back and his collar unbuttoned, showing the countless tattoos on his body. He does not look like he has slept in the five days we have been here.

Lenix and I are coming back from a walk around the compound when he finds us outside.

My sister lets out a small shriek of excitement, and the relief I feel at the sound of his words propels me into Connor’s arms. He hugs me back—reassuring and steadfast. Suddenly, I wonder if that is actually what it should feel like to have a brother. Then the anxiety, fears and the what-ifs take a hold of that relief and suffocate it.

“What if… what if he is already…” I whisper.

Connor’s hands find my arms, pulling me away so he can look me in the eyes.

“We’re getting him out of there. You hear me? That kid can survive anything,” he says assuredly. “Hehassurvived everything.”

I cannot stop the tears from spilling out of my eyes, but I still nod.

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