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“Perhaps the gene for sadism only extends over a certain number of generations.”
“Or perhaps you haven’t been pushed far enough. Be careful what you choose to mock.”
“My apologies.” I’m only playing along for Isa’s sake, nothing more.
He lifts his glasses and reads from the file in front of him. “It seems you requested the murder of Franco Scarpinato, but you didn’t directly carry out this session. Instead, you solicited your bodyguard to torture him on your behalf.”
“I wanted only the best to carry out his punishment.”
My apathy must finally be getting to him, because he eases back in his chair and huffs, eyes appraising, as always. “You fear becoming your father.”
“I’m sure I’m not alone in that thought.”
“Of course not. But your fears are concerning, as it relates to our study. If you won’t be honest, you could end up being a danger to yourself and others. We exist to provide an environment for you to carry out those sadistic tendencies. Unburdened by society, or morality.”
Just send me to hell already. If I was back at the office, I’d be on my second drink by now. This guy isn’t going to give up for as long as I have to be a part of this shit-show. That’s how it works with these scientists. They’ll beat a dead horse until it’s nothing but a mangled piece of flesh, if it means proving their theories. “I’ll confess that I have urges sometimes.”
Sitting forward in his chair, he sets the file aside and entwines his fingers. The intrigue on his face is what I’d expect of a priest getting offered a free hand job by a nun. “What kind of urges? Sexual, like your father? Or non-sexual?”
“Non-sexual.”
“And how do you deal with these urges?”
“Sometimes, I’ll cut myself. But mostly, I just … try to think of something else.”
“Would you be open to participating in a session? Nothing too involved. We have an older gentleman who comes in every so often. We think he might be developing an affinity toward some of the abuses. In exchange, his rent gets paid every month.”
I probably just signed over my human rights for a guinea pig with this confession. “How light?”
“A few cuts. Nothing too deep.”
Cutting myself has always been for the high, much like holding my breath under water, but Friedrich has always sought to turn it into something malicious and perverse. I don’t get off on watching other people bleed. The innocent ones, anyway. “I’ll consider that.”
“Excellent. Then, we’ll continue to observe. For now.” Sliding my file open again, he jots a few notes, underlining one that leaves me inwardly groaning: observation. “I have to give you credit. Considering all you’ve been through, and the history of sadism in your family, you demonstrate tremendous restraint.” Crossing his arms, he shakes his head. “How?”
“It can be a struggle at times, but I keep myself occupied.”
“Any sexual thoughts that might be considered more violent?”
My thoughts slip back into the night before, when I was buried deep inside Isa, the only violence in me from thinking what I’d do if anyone laid a finger on her, and going so far as to imagine severing said finger. “Not at all.”
He snaps the folder closed and places my chart on the desktop. “It’s a shame things didn’t pan out with Mr. Boyd. That he would offer his daughter for study, then just take off with the girl without any word. Doesn’t make sense. Never called. Never contacted us again. It’s been months now.”
“Shame. Perhaps he changed his mind about the program.”
“Perhaps. Obviously, his interests were never aligned with our own.”
“I guess not. Maybe we’ll hear from him again one day.”
* * *
The elevator door opens up onto the dark hallway of the catacombs, lit only by the few floodlights that line the hallway. Drink in hand, I stroll toward the room on the right and set my key in the lock to open the door. I whistle the notes of the song I wrote a while back, the one Isa plays for me on the occasions she tries to seduce me, and I flip on the lights.
Whimpers bounce off the walls as I make my way toward the cage that’s against the far wall, within which Boyd sits hunched over himself, naked and bruised from torture. Parts of his skin show patches of burns, and when he tips his head back, the stitching over his empty eye socket looks red and swollen.
“You’re picking at it again.”
“S-s-sorry.” His body trembles at my approach, and when I crouch down beside the cage, I tilt my head to the side and find bugs crawling over his last meal.
