MAKE THEM PAY.

[strong music recommendation: Those Who Wish Me Dead by Brian Tyler]

"I am listening," I told him.

The eyes sparkled in response.

"𝙾𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍."

"Wait…please…Asmodeus…please…." my voice was a ghost, transparent, barely there. "Who…watched?"

"𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛."

The way my heart squeezed at 'your father' could not be described. Pure pain. It muted me. And I said nothing then. Just waited for Asmodeus to go on. He did.

"𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎."

"Set what…on fire?"

"𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛."

I could not form a sound when I heard what I heard. And how could I? If the shock is too immense, you can't talk…you just can't. Because the terror you experience at that moment plummets your voice to sheer silence.

And so I was silent. My eyes only screamed, bitter tears falling like raindrops. And his watched me like they always did – calmly, waiting for my shock to pass.

"Why…did they…do it…?" I wheezed at last.

"𝙾𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚍."

"Why didn't she tell me….why…"

"𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛."

"She won't…she just won't. I tried asking her, but she refused…said I wasn't ready."

"𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞: 𝙶𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍."

With that, Asmodeus was gone. And I cried my eyes out to dry hollow pits once again before lifting my potato-sack of a body and trudging it back to sister Rosalyn. To Vivian. To my poor, unfortunate mother.

†††

My knocking was frightfully gentle. By then it must had been around 2 a.m. and I was afraid of being heard or seen, especially in that delicate darkness of grand silence. What was I thinking, bothering her at this hour? I marveled. Was she even in there? Maybe she had already gone to her cell. Maybe I could wait until tomorrow. Maybe we could—

The door creaked open just as gently. Before me stood my divinity in black with dark circles under her dark green eyes. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵.

I stared at her, and she stared at me, and the time slowed, as if for me to study her haggard face a bit longer.

"Ma—" I had to clear my throat, for it was just as much of a desert as my blood-shot eyeballs. "May I come in?"

Her chest rose and fell laboriously. She stepped aside and gave me way. I swallowed, nodded appreciation and entered not the least confidently like I had done before, like I owned the place, but like I owed. Her. My entire life.

I didn't know how to act, what to do with myself, with my limbs, how to place them, where to sit to not appear too big for that little room. To not, in any way, seem too much for her at the moment. I heard her ask then, "I thought you'd be asleep by now. Why have you come back?"

"To hear the rest of your story." I responded, looking anywhere but at her.

"I've told you everything." She said.

"No, not everything."

"Genevieve," she sighed gravely, "I have told you enough to comprehend the situation and let it go. It's history now, all in the past. Please, try to make peace with it."

"How can I make peace with the fact that I'm the product of rape?"

I felt her eyes dart in my direction. "What did you say?"

"I said rape." I looked into her worried face. "I know, all right?How he assaulted you. How all of them did. And how they tried to kill you. How they stabbed you and lit you on fire like some trash. Tell me if I got it wrong…"

Her mouth took form of 𝐇𝐎𝐖 but she couldn't push it out. Like me earlier, she looked so shocked she was momentarily speechless. "How do you know…"

"I told you I'd find out."

Tears washed her wan visage as her head shook in painful disbelief. "But…𝘩𝘰𝘸?"

"Does it matter, how? Just tell me, mom, is this true? Did he—Did they really do all those things to you?"

Her tears intensified but she stayed remarkably quiet, never once even sniveled. Instead, she walked behind her flimsy desk and turned the lamp on, inviting more light to illuminate more space. She sat on her little chair, into that bubble of light that was ghostly like her.

Her hand lifted unwillingly. Yes, that's the word. Unwillingly. It literally trembled when she lifted it up, almost forcefully, as though she was doing everything in her power to not let this happen. Her fingers clutched at her veil and hesitated for just a moment before pulling it down. Then she loosened the pure white wimple covering her head and took it off as well.

My eyelids froze and blinked no more.

She was bald. Not by choice. Her scalp glowed with a gruesome footprint of a huge burn. Here, skin rough and discolored, with patches scaling slightly. There, skin so tight it appeared satined.

Our eyes stayed glued on one another for a long time, mine – on her burn, and hers – on my face. Years seemed to pass before I unfroze.

I approached her slowly, too slowly. Cautiously, even. And my hands involuntarily, as if hypnotized, reached for her scalp, fingers tracing against the scarred surface ever-so-softly, ever-so-gingerly.

Then, just as involuntarily, as if exploring an abandoned building, my hands slid to her arms and pulled up her sleeves. More scars. More burns. More pain. My eyes just couldn't take it, for I had never seen the damage so severe. It was even worse than Valeria's.

Wrath constricted my breathing to shallow, angry puff.

"W-where did the bastard stab you?" I whispered.

She grabbed my hand in hers, both trembling nervously, and guided it right under the left ribs. "Here." She whispered. "Spleen."

Her head then lowered meekly, and for the first time ever I heard her soft weeping. She looked the most miserable, mortified, destroyed. Spirit-broken, just like Asmodeus had said. Maybe that was why I brought her into a desperate hug.

She sat and I stood, and our embrace was awkward, but I did not care. All I wanted was to hold her tight and comfort her. I caressed her head, pressed my cheek against the ruined skin.

I pet her shoulders while they shivered from her ceaseless sobbing. I kissed her temple. And she let me, leaned to my touch like a cornered, scared animal and kept on crying. My chest swelled bitterly then. And I, too, cried.

"I need the names of the other too." I murmured through tears, fondling her back.

"Why?" She sniffled. "What are you going to do?"

"I'll make them pay." I responded flatly. "They barked at the wrong fucking tree…"