I doubt it.
I left them to guide themselves out. I wouldn’t play host tonight. I still had too much to do to be a gentleman.
Leaving, I faded through the forest. Once I could no longer sense them, I sat on a rock and grabbed a final breath.
This was the last decision.
Cut had been taught his lesson. I’d hurt him enough that he bordered this life and the next. He was half dead, but did I have the right to take his life completely?
He took so many others. Emma. Almost Nila. Jasmine’s livelihood. My mother’s soul.
My hands curled again, sticky with everything that’d happened.
I’d contemplated all manner of things. I’d thought of, and discounted, the idea of hanging my father, drawing out his entrails and quartering him just like convicts were done in the past. I’d pondered the concept of letting him live and banishing him from Hawksridge.
I had enough of my father’s blood on my hands. I’d hurt myself and him.
But I knew he wouldn’t let me have the happy ending I desired if I left him alive.
Eventually, he would want vengeance. Eventually, he would forget the lesson I’d taught and come back for me—come back for Nila.
I can’t let that happen.
I had to end it.
It’s the only way.
Climbing off the rock was a million times harder than it was to sit down. My body seized; I tripped forward as my head swam. How much longer could I stay awake without needing serious medical attention?
Not very.
Forcing my legs to work, I left my place of solitude and returned to the barn. My fingers shook as I turned and locked the door.
Cut didn’t make a sound. He’d passed out just before I’d left. Tearing my eyes from the almost unrecognisable shape of my father, I headed toward the table and selected a small knife.
No matter that history tarnished the blade, the sharpness still remained.
Moving toward Cut, his chin lolled on his chest, his arms splayed high while his legs spread wide. His arms and legs were abnormally long while his body couldn’t stretch any more without skin tearing as well as bones.
Blood seeped down his torso in a crisscross lattice from the whip. Beneath his wounds, the faint lines of the Tally Mark tattoos from Emma decorated his ribcage. Emma had been the one to choose the position, just like Nila chose fingertips for ours. I hadn’t seen his tally in so long; I’d almost forgotten they were there.
He had more than me and he’d carried out the Final Debt.
That was the main difference between us.
Dedication versus empathy.
Sighing, I did my best to gather my shredded power. The blade turned warm in my hand. Tearing my eyes from him, I moved to the rack and groaned as I bent in half to twist the small wheel.
Slowly, the rack reclined from perpendicular to parallel.
Cut still didn’t move.
Placing the knife by his unconscious head, I unbuckled his wrists then his ankles. The ankle I’d shattered hung at an unnatural angle, mottled and black with bruising.
My heart clenched that I could ever be so cruel, battling with childhood memories and adulthood obligations. Along with his ankle, I’d also broken his arm for Nila’s in Africa. I’d smashed his kneecap and rearranged an elbow.
I’d done such nasty shit to the man who made me.
