Page 52

EIGHTEEN

BETWEEN WORLDS

~JINX~

I'm sinking.

Falling through layers of consciousness like a stone dropped in dark water, each level pulling me deeper into a space between waking and dreaming where memory and reality blur into indistinguishable streams.

My body feels weightless yet constrained, suspended in some liminal space where physical sensation arrives distorted and delayed.

The taste of copper fills my mouth—blood from a bitten tongue or something more sinister administered through institutional methodology designed to maintain compliance through chemical submission.

Sounds drift from below like echoes from another world.

Grunts of exertion and pain, roars of fury that speak to primal rage unleashed without constraint or control. The cacophony suggests a stadium of madness where violence reigns supreme and civilization holds no sway over basic survival instinct.

But I'm floating above it all, suspended like some twisted angel overlooking hell's playground from a position of enforced neutrality. The irony isn't lost on me— once again reduced to observer status while others fight for their lives in arenas designed specifically for such entertainment.

Pheromones rise on heated air currents, carrying scent signatures of desperate alphas pushed beyond breaking points through systematic conditioning and chemical manipulation.

Musk and sweat and the metallic tang of spilled blood create an atmospheric cocktail that speaks to the worst aspects of designation dynamics, stripped of humanity and refined into pure biological imperative.

My wrists ache with dull persistence that suggests restraints—leather or metal binding flesh already tender from recent bondage of an entirely different nature.

The memory of Riot's hands on the same skin creates jarring contrast between loving touch and institutional cruelty, between connection freely given and submission forcibly extracted.

The swaying motion registers gradually, like a pendulum marking time in some cosmic clock that measures suffering rather than seconds.

Back and forth, back and forth, suspended over whatever spectacle unfolds beneath my enforced observation. Another psychological torture designed to break resistance through helpless witnessing of violence I cannot prevent or escape.

The darkness behind my eyelids shifts suddenly, institutional nightmare fading as memory asserts dominance over present circumstance. The transition feels like stepping through doorways between worlds, leaving behind the stench of combat to emerge into...

Sunlight.

Crisp autumn air carries the scent of fallen leaves and gunpowder, creating an atmosphere of controlled violence rather than chaotic bloodshed.

The private shooting range my father commissioned stretches before me in perfect manicured lines—targets positioned at measured intervals, safety equipment arranged with military precision, every detail calculated to project competence and control.

I stand beside him as he adjusts his grip on the custom pistol, expensive metal gleaming in afternoon light while he lines up sights with practiced efficiency.

The ritual of target practice has become weekly routine since my extraction from institutional walls—his way of maintaining skills honed through government service while avoiding conversation about subjects that make him uncomfortable.

Like the daughter he left behind to secure the freedom of the one standing beside him.

"Why can't we go retrieve Nyx from that place?" The question emerges without preamble, cutting through the false peace of our shared silence with precision that rivals his carefully aimed bullets.

His posture shifts minutely— shoulders tensing despite deliberate maintenance of shooting stance. The target in his sights wavers slightly as my words register, disrupting the careful focus required for accurate marksmanship.

"We've discussed this," he responds without lowering the weapon, voice carrying forced patience that fails to mask underlying irritation at having his ritual disturbed by unwelcome topics.

"No," I correct with characteristic directness, that institutional conditioning couldn't be eliminated despite their best efforts. "You've dismissed my questions. We've never actually discussed anything."

The shot goes wide, bullet striking sand beyond the target range rather than finding its intended mark.

His jaw tightens at the missed shot—pride wounded by the public display of imperfection in front of the daughter, whose presence serves as a constant reminder of choices that sacrificed one child to save another.

"Why did you decide to swap me with my sister when she was the one destined to suffer?" The question carries weight of years spent wondering, of sleepless nights trying to understand parental logic that could justify such calculated betrayal of one child to protect another.

He finally lowers the weapon, safety engaging with mechanical precision before he turns to face me directly.

His expression holds the carefully constructed neutrality of someone who's rehearsed this conversation in private but hoped never to have it in reality.

"It was a matter of convenience," he states with clinical detachment that would make institutional researchers proud. "And it was obvious you were the better twin."

The words land like physical blows despite their calm delivery.

Better twin.

As if we were products being evaluated for market value rather than children deserving equal protection and consideration from the parents who brought us into existence.

"Better how?" I demand, feeling rage build in my chest with familiar heat. "Better at surviving torture? Better at adapting to systematic abuse? Better at becoming the weapon they wanted to create?"

His expression doesn't change despite the acid in my tone.

"Better at thriving despite adverse circumstances," he corrects with infuriating calm. "Better equipped to handle the challenges that institutional existence presents. Better able to emerge intact rather than broken."

Understanding dawns with sickening clarity— he's not expressing regret or acknowledging the cruelty of his choice. He's defending it, justifying the decision through twisted logic that places survival ability above parental obligation or basic human decency.

"You should be grateful we retrieved you," he continues, the words carrying entitled expectation that makes my hands clench into fists.

"Freedom is a privilege many never experience.

You should be thanking us consistently instead of pestering me with questions about decisions already made and implemented. "

The dismissal in his tone ignites something volatile in my chest—years of suppressed fury at institutional injustice now finding a new target in the man who facilitated that injustice through willful collaboration and calculated sacrifice of one daughter to purchase another's liberty.

"Grateful?" The word emerges sharp enough to cut glass. "You want me to be grateful that Nyx is suffering through experimental madness while I get to play pretend civilian in a life that was never meant for me?"

I step closer, invading his personal space with deliberate aggression that makes him step backward despite his military training and enhanced reflexes.

"She's already tainted and ruined by the madness they put her through for that first year," I continue, voice rising with each word.

"But at least she's strong enough to survive it, right?

At least she can endure whatever they're doing to her while I get to wear pretty dresses and attend charity galas and pretend money makes up for having my sister trapped in institutional hell? "

His face remains impassive despite the venom in my voice, years of government service having taught him to maintain composure even under direct assault. But something flickers in his eyes— recognition perhaps, or guilt carefully suppressed beneath layers of rationalization and willful ignorance.

"What the fuck is money," I spit, "when my sister could be dead because her supposedly civilized parents decided she was the weakest link of the two?"

The question hangs between us like a drawn blade, sharp enough to pierce whatever comfortable delusions he's constructed around his choices.

For a moment, his carefully maintained facade wavers—just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of the man who knows exactly what his decision cost and chose to pay that price anyway.

He sighs heavily, the sound carrying more emotion than his words have managed to convey throughout this entire confrontation.

Without breaking eye contact, he raises the pistol and fires—the shot going even wider than before, missing the target entirely to embed itself in the earthen backstop.

The missed shot seems to crystallize his frustration with this conversation, with my refusal to accept grateful silence in exchange for purchased freedom. He strides toward me with military precision that speaks to controlled aggression barely held in check.

When he stops mere inches from my face, I can smell the whiskey on his breath despite the early hour—liquid courage or liquid guilt, impossible to determine which motivational factor drives his day-drinking habits.

"It was a decision I will gladly live with for the rest of my life," he whispers, voice carrying absolute conviction beneath the alcohol-tinged breath.

"And I don't regret it in the slightest. So you should leave me alone to shoot my targets and deal with my mental health rather than pestering me about what's already been done. "

The admission carries brutal honesty that cuts deeper than any insult or dismissal could manage.

He's not claiming ignorance or necessity—he's acknowledging the deliberate choice made with full awareness of consequences and expressing satisfaction with the outcome despite its cost in human suffering.