Chapter Eight

Jacob

The pig’s skin was the closest thing to human flesh. It’s why I chose one to practice on. My father didn’t ask too many questions when we purchased one. Of course, we used cash and an alias while getting it a state away so nothing could lead back to us. I laid it out on a slab in the Punishment Room, dead, as silver glinted off the knife in my hand.

“You want to make this your signature?” He humphed at me, crossing his arms.

“I’m not you, and I know that. I don’t want to taint your work with my mishaps. If I do a new punishment, it’s all on me.”

I lied. I would be better than my father. But that wasn’t something I could dare tell him. His gaze followed me like a hawk, waiting for me to mess up, to show him I was nothing more than a tool for him to work out his hell on. I played my part.

“Any pointers?”

My father rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, looking over the pig. “Soft tissue will hurt the most. Breasts, ass, under the arms, inside of the thighs. If you can find a way to keep them awake longer, start with the back to work them into a frenzy, then move forward. If you don’t want them kicking too long, go for those places first.”

“I wonder if I can use some sort of adrenaline to keep them aware, like when they go into the Witch’s Redemption,” I mused.

I. Hated. Him.

He nodded. “Would be worth a shot. A live pig would have been better to try that out on.”

“Next time, then. Might as well get the practice in now.”

I thumbed the edge of my honed blade. The back would be my starting point, for now. Pigs didn’t have breasts and pussies like my father would like to see, so it didn’t matter. I went around the slab to face the back of the pig and my father and placed the knife to the pig’s skin. It was supple but a bit stiff from death. The first scrape only took an ugly shaving of misshapen skin.

“Too soft. It takes more work to pierce human skin. That’ll hurt, but not the way you want. Even the sharpest edge needs pressure to get in.”

“Okay.”

I tried again, this time pressing hard on the blunted side. A chuck of pink and white hung open over a bloodless wound.

“Too much, and you ruin your toy.”

I wanted to throw my knife at him, but he was right. I needed to learn this, to master the skills. The only way I could hope to save Alana and myself was to learn everything I could. I took a deep breath to let go of my impatience and tried again.

Each cut was better than the last as I learned how precisely to move. I was covered in sweat and pig, my muscles shaking with exertion, but I kept at it. My father never left, paying attention as I practiced. But then, he got off the wall he’d leaned on and approached me. I went still, flipping between wanting to sink my blade into his neck right now, or waiting to see what he’d do.

His steps were loud in my ears, the thuds from his boots marking time with my heartbeats. What was he doing? What torture would he use next? Stop it. It won’t change a thing. You’ll end him eventually. But thinking that didn’t stop my mouth from going dry and my eyes going wide as he put a hand on my shoulder.

“Go clean and sterilize the blade.”

I swallowed and went to the bathroom area to do as he said. I thoroughly washed my weapon, then doused it with a sterile solution. If he was going to use this on me, I’d rather not catch something from a dead fucking pig. Hiding my fear, I walked back to him with my head held high and a false questioning gaze.

“What next?”

“Come closer.”

I did, keeping my back straight as I stepped next to him at the slab, the knife between us.

“Real skinning, when done right, can take time for the bleeding to actually start, but you need something razor-sharp. A scalpel or something like that. But the work you’ve done on the pig tells me you’ve got this one pretty sharp. Let’s see if we can make it better.”

My father lifted his right hand and showed me a blade sharpener. He must have gotten it while I cleaned the knife. He handed it to me, staring pointedly until I used it.

“Keep going. Wouldn’t want any mistakes, now, would we?”

“No, sir.”

What was he planning? My heart thudded, and my head swam, trapped in a fog. Each metal slide rang loud in the quiet room. It was a mark of what was to come, but I didn’t know where my father would strike at me. I never knew with him, and it kept me on my toes.

“That’s good. Now, I’m going to let you skin a space on my arm. Get it thin enough, you won’t get the same.”

Everything went still. Here it was—an opportunity. One I knew I’d have to let pass because my father would be ready for me to hurt him. I forced myself not to look for another weapon my father had tucked somewhere. No way he’d let me hurt him without some way to protect himself. He was in control right now.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said.

“But I want to hurt you. Gamblers say you can’t learn how to play without having your money on the table. I bet you’ll learn better trying to skin me one perfect time to save your hide than you have cutting up that pig.”

I didn’t have any other choice. There was no way I could hope to not mess up. My mind whirled as he extended his left arm, placing his hand flat on the table.

“Right here,” he said. He pointed to a small expanse on his forearm, halfway down under the bend of his arm. It wouldn’t hurt him permanently if I messed up. And if I tried to cut too deep, he’d stop me, and it would be all over. Do what you have to. I forced my hands to stop shaking as I wrapped my free hand around his arm, above where I’d cut, and pulled the skin taut. My breath was loud between us, and I tried to silence it. But when I lifted my knife hand, I saw it. My father had a scalpel in his pocket—a threat, a promise. He’d take that thing to me if I didn’t do this right.

Thin. Be razor-thin.

I stopped thinking and let my hands follow the body memory I’d created over the hours of working the pig. I peeled back a layer, pinpricks of bright-red blood dotting the meat under his epidermis, the thin, onion-like slip of skin curling wetly over my fingers. I was skinning my father, and he never made a sound. His gaze burned into the top of my head, and he never fucking moved.

“Good, son. You’ve done well.”

I released a pent-up breath and looked up at him. “Let me get something to clean that up.”

“No need. My favorite toy can take care of it. But first things first.”

I gasped as he gripped my neck and slammed me face first into the pig. “I did it right!” I yelled.

“Yeah, but I told you I wanted to hurt you. Don’t scream and it’ll stop quick. Take it like a man, like I did.”

I didn’t fight as he lifted my shirt. It was hell to keep my muscles relaxed as his fingers slipped over my skin and down over the flesh of my hip. Then the cold metal of the scalpel traced the same path.

“Stomach is soft tissue too. It spans to the obliques and a bit of this above your ass.”

I didn’t take in what he said before the blade sliced. I bit my lip until it bled, holding in my cry. Sweat dotted my brow, but the pain was paralyzing. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Everything I had was focused on not screaming. Warm blood trickled down my side, pooling under me, but my father didn’t stop. Light-headed, and clenching my fingers around the edge of the slab until my bones grinded, I counted the seconds. Nerves screamed, pain radiated, and my blood wept. But it didn’t end. One long strip—from the center of my back on the right side, down to where my jeans began—became a mile-long live wire my father played with. But I made it. I never screamed.

“I’ll make a man of you yet,” my father said, pulling the scalpel away finally.

Yeah, the day I kill you, old man.