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"Sorry doesn't quite cut it, does it?" My voice was laced with enough sarcasm to peel paint off the walls. "I mean, 'Oops, I misplaced your favorite toy' is one thing. 'Oops, I may have contributed to the lifelong trauma of my only child'? Not really in the same ballpark." My fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on my thigh – a morse code for 'get me the hell out of here.'
He flinched, but nodded, accepting the barb. "You're right. I can't change the past."
"Damn straight you can't," I rolled my eyes. The echoes of slamming metal doors filled the silence that followed.
I watched him shift uncomfortably in his seat, the chains around his wrists clinking softly. Then his gaze landed on my tattooed arms and lingered. He squinted, leaning forward slightly, and my muscles tensed.
“Those markings on your arm..." His voice trailed off, hoarse with disuse and emotion.
"Observant, aren't we?" I replied, pulling down the sleeve of my leather jacket defensively. "It's a long story, and I'm fresh out of story time patience today."
"Does it have something to do with..." He swallowed hard, and for a moment I saw a glimpse of fear in those weary eyes. "With time travel?"
"Whoa, hold your horses, Nostradamus." I snorted, even though a chill skittered down my spine. "What, did you get hit by some kind of psychedelic fairy dust in here?"
His expression turned solemn, almost haunted. "Averill, if time travel is involved in your life...you need to be careful."
"Thanks for the tip, Dad. I'll add it to the list of fatherly advice right between 'don't get caught' and 'always have an alibi,'" I said, but my heart hammered against my ribs. How the hell did he know about my gift? What secrets were tangled up in the ink etched into my skin, and how did they lead back to the shattered man in front of me?
"Please, Averill," he continued, voice barely above a whisper now. "Be cautious."
"Always am," I muttered. But his words had planted a seed of doubt, watered by the rain that seemed to whisper secrets against the glass. The atmosphere in the visitation area was as thick as the tension coiling in my gut.
"Time's up, Winslow," a gruff voice cut through the clamor, and I jolted, nearly toppling the flimsy chair backwards. The guard's meaty hand clamped down on my shoulder.
"Chill, Hercules," I snapped and brushed off his grip with a glare that could curdle milk. "I've got legs. I can use 'em."
My father's worn face crumpled with something that looked suspiciously like remorse, but I wasn't buying what he was selling. Not today, not ever. "Averill, I—" he started, but I held up a hand.
"Save it, Pops. This soap opera's been canceled due to lack of interest." I pushed back from the table, everything in me screamed to bolt, to escape the weight of his gaze and the prison that suddenly felt too small for all the secrets between us.
"Miss Winslow, now," another guard barked, less patient than his buddy. Apparently, my reputation preceded me.
"God, you'd think I was plotting a breakout with all this manhandling," I joked but the humor fell flat, lost in the sterile scent of bleach and despair that permeated the room.
"Let's go," growled the first guard, his fingers digging into my arm with unnecessary force. I shot him a poisonous look. "Watch the merchandise, pal. Tattoos like these don't come cheap."
Before they could fully usher me through the doorway my father called out, his voice steeped in apprehension. The two words he uttered?
"Oswin Yorke."
I froze, the guards behind me erupting in rage, but I didn't give a shit. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered in that moment except for the words that had fallen from his lips. The only words he'd ever said that felt like they meant something.
"What did you just say?" My head snapped back in his direction.
"Move it!" the second one chimed in, shoving me forward. My feet shuffled across the linoleum, but my mind raced miles ahead.
Oswin Yorke. That name was a key, I could feel it; a key to a lock I wasn't sure I wanted to open.
Their hands were remorseless on my back, propelling me towards the door, and I stumbled out into the corridor. The door slammed shut behind me with a finality that echoed in my chest. A surge of rebellion swelled within me, itching to lash out, to fight against the iron grip of the past that refused to let go.
"Thanks for the hospitality, boys," Sarcasm dripped from each word like venom. "I'll be sure not to recommend this place on Yelp."
They didn't laugh. No sense of humor, these prison guards. Probably sucked it out of them at the academy, along with any semblance of empathy. But that was fine by me; empathy was overrated.
As they marched me out, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was leaving something crucial behind, that the answers I needed were just beyond my grasp, locked away with the man who had given me life, then torn it apart.
"Next time, maybe try not to piss off the staff," the first guard muttered but his tone suggested it was advice he knew I'd ignore.
