Page 37 of His Trick

He brushed past me, the scent of his cigar singeing my nose. He disappeared into the crowd, but the lingering discomfort he left on my skin stayed like a poison.

I stood there for a moment, my vodka bottle still dangling in my hand, the taste of ash and bitterness sticking to the back of my throat.

Then I smiled.

Because one day, I’d carve his words back into him, letter by letter.

And I would show him all the blood he had accumulated on my hands, right before I spilled every single drop of his own.

My father’s words had a way of lodging themselves inside my skin, like splinters you couldn’t reach. He’d paced the landing, touching me, telling me I meant nothing and was disposable to my family. The worst fucking part is he smiled. He’d grinned like a fat Cheshire cat, as if he was doing me a damn favor. The whole time, his voice grated on my nerves. The beast inside me, the one that awakened when someone tried to control me, coiled tighter and sharper inside me.

I didn’t go to my old room. My body wouldn’t let me. Nothing that offered the soft comfort of apology or explanation when he didn’t. Instead, I found myself walking down below the mansion—my sanctuary in this hell, just like the cabin. But unlike thecabin, the gym was mine. A solitude that was only used by me. The place was built to hone the animal in me.

Private trainers taught me every fighting style I could learn. I forced myself to practice discipline and patience. It was always here. The place I could break my body, quiet my mind, and let the blood swirl, disappearing down the drain of the showers here.

If I couldn’t drag his words out of me with blood and noise, I’d at least try to drown them to a more muted, comfortable level. I turned on my phone, blasting my screamo and falling into the familiar rhythm of the equipment.

The gym was a cave of fluorescent light and cold metal. I walked forward, easing the rusted chain off the heavy bag and letting it swing once, to test the arc. When I was confident it wouldn’t fly off, I wrapped my fists in tape and slid on the forgotten leather gloves, like a ritual. I wanted to punish my body for ever coming to this fucking joke. Keeping up appearances wasn’t worth this bullshit. I wanted to punish my face, my biceps, anything that looked enough like the man who’d raised me to be this docile monster.

I threw myself into it. Punch after punch, I stayed silent, my ears filled with the pounding bass of the music. I’d left my headphones down here years ago, and now, they were stuck in my ears. My shoulders felt heated, and my breathing curved into short, sharp pants.

Like Sunshine’s.

The way he moaned and whimpered was a soundtrack all on its own, one I craved to hear again on repeat.

“Fuck.”

I hit the bag until my knuckles burned and the bag swung like a metronome of pure rage. Time slipped away. The music was drowning out any noise from upstairs. I slammed my shoulderinto the weights, dropped myself into lifts, and rose again. Each repetition was like some fucked up prayer:

Break for me, hold for me, hurt for me.

There was a pattern to the pain I craved. A sort of math that made me feel centered. A routine I followed was like a simple mathematical equation.

Counted the sets, and doubling the reps.

Any pain you could measure, you could master. I worked harder until my forearms were trembling, the edges of the world thinning out of focus. My breathing, the erratic batshit beat of the pulse of my heart, and the sharp, thick taste of copper at the back of my throat. I kept going long after the burn told me to stop, well past the bitching of my body, as I continued to abuse and torture myself.

Because the burn was the only honest thing, the only tangible evidence I had of my fraying control.

Finally, I let the bag hang and just stood there. My fucking chest was heaving, my busted fists slick with sweat and blood. The fury at my father had not left me. It faded into something manageable. Now, it was like glass that I could slip into my pocket and carry. It was painful and damaging, but not all-consuming.

I needed to wash this fucking night off my skin.

Not just from the sweat and grit, but because of the residue my father left on my body. All his expectations, the never-changing sneer, and the disappointment that lingered in his dark gaze were only for me.

Xanthy was perfect. She was the exact replica of my family’s poise and grace. Only hers wasn’t fake. She really was just a stupidly kind soul, not having been corrupted since my father was too busy breaking me, and our mother ignored our existence unless it was for a show.

Maybe Shiloh is with her because she is the light he wished he had.

A shower would help me. If nothing else, it was a small ceremony of sorts. It would wash away the residue of other people’s hands.

Did I really want it to wash away his?

I pushed open the door to the shower room and hit the valve. Hot water steamed up like a goddamn mirror, washing all the sins I tried so damn hard to hide. The room filled with that thick blanket of warm fog that I’d always associated with confessionals and punishments.

I stripped without thought, pulling the headphones out and switching my music to the surround sound system. The cool air on bare skin made me sigh. It felt good against the heat of the burn. Whatever else my father thought he could take from me, he couldn’t take this.

My fucking peace.