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Was this when he finally killed me? I was a bad, disobedient daughter. I wouldn’t blame him.

The elevator beeped, and the silver doors slid open. I was still on the ground, but Daddy grabbed my arm and dragged me to my feet. I could either follow helplessly behind him or risk my arm being dislocated from my body.

The basement was empty, both the walls and ceiling made up of gray slabs of stone. He led me towards a familiar room where a familiar man stood over a hospital bed.

Dr. Whitelock was my doctor when I was younger. He reset my broken bones, stitched up my cuts, and provided me makeup to cover up my extensive bruises. All of this was done with an apathetic detachment.

At least he didn’t smile.

I hated when they smiled.

“You know you need to be punished,” Daddy said sternly. Tears welled in my eyes, and my lower lip trembled. I knew I needed to hold them in. Daddy saw tears as a weakness, a sign of emotion. He told me that tears made me look like a pussy.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Eyes downcast, I pulled myself onto the hospital bed. I heard the clatter of equipment as a wheeled tray was pulled up. On it was an assortment of machinery I didn’t know the name to. I recognized a stethoscope and a thermometer, but it was sitting next to a vial and needle and what looked to be a silver, spindly spider made out of machines.

Dr. Whitelock took the needle and vial and held it over my arm. He glanced towards Daddy for confirmation.

“I don’t want to have to do this, but you need to learn your lesson. You need to be punished.” He tentatively, almost sweetly, brushed my brown hair behind my ear. “Do you understand, sweet girl?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

With a sigh, Daddy nodded towards the doctor.

The needle jabbed into my skin, and I was consumed by pain. The pain was blistering, running up and down my veins. I thought I was going to die.

Iwantedto die.

Finally, I passed out.