He sneers, expecting it to hurt. Maybe it does, in some hidden, ruined corner of me. But I’ve hollowed out that part and filled it with cement.
I pull out my knife. The blade is six inches of Damascus steel, the handle wrapped in custom black leather, the Westpoint crest set in mother of pearl on the pommel.
I flick the tip in the fire light, letting it catch his attention.
“You always did love to see me smile, Father,” I say.
He bares his teeth. “Try it without the binds on me, Julian. See what happens. You think this display shows how powerful you are? It’s just a fucking mask for how pathetic you really are.”
I sigh. “Masks are for people who still care what’s underneath. No, dear old dad, this really is who I am. A killer. A cold-blooded asshole who only gives a shit about one other heart beating and unfortunately for you, it’s not yours.”
I lean in close, my breath hot on his cheek. I press the tip of the knife to the corner of his mouth.
He doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t. To the last, he will play the role.
“Let me show you a real smile,” I whisper.
With a twist of my wrist, I slice from the edge of his mouth up to the earlobe. The blade is so sharp it barely resists. A fan of blood pours out, painting his jaw red. He chokes, tries to scream, but I’m already cutting the other side.
The Glasgow smile is perfect, symmetrical. A wonderful addition to his usual glower.
His eyes roll. He tries to speak, but only a wet gurgle emerges. The blood foams, dribbles down his chin, pools on his chest.
I watch him drown in it, the way I once drowned in shame. In self-hatred.
I should stop there. I should leave him to die by inches, but I want to see the light go out. I want the end to be mine, all mine.
I drive the knife into his belly, just below the navel, and yank it up. The blade carves a line through muscle, up and up, until it catches the bottom of his sternum.
He convulses, eyes bulging, and the world floods with the stink of ruptured bowel.
I lean close, lips to his ear.
“I might be a failure, Father,” I whisper, “but at least I’m not dead.”
He spasms, the final twitch of a dead man. His breath rattles, then stops.
I hold the knife for a second longer, feeling the heat of him fade.
When I pull it free, his guts follow, spilling out in a long, pink rope.
I step back. The blood soaks my shirt, warm and sticky. I wipe my blade on his chest, then look up at the sky.
The moon is a pale coin, cold and dispassionate.
I turn to the others.
Amara watches, her eyes locked to mine. There’s no horror there. Only pride.
I hold up my hands, the blood streaming from my wrists. The smell is metallic, sweet, intoxicating.
I am full.
I am finished.
I am free.
Dawn creeps up slow and steady, as if scared by what the night has done.
