The smoke parts, and I see my partner. Except I’m not sure he’s my partner. He looks younger. He’s no longer in a suit; he’s in shorts and a T-shirt. He seems smaller, weaker. He wears a new mask, one that isn’t as dark. This one is white, pure.
He’s a grown man. He’s not a child. But damn did they do a good job of tricking my mind.
“Begin,” a man’s deep voice
comes through a speaker in the room.
At the sound of his unfamiliar voice, I decide I’m going to see this through. I realize the voice must somehow be that of someone I know. If he’s the one in charge of these games, then the only way to meet and destroy him is to win.
I’m now more determined than ever to win.
I smirk.
I probably look like a sadistic asshole. But when I do this challenge, all I’ll be thinking about is the voice. How he screwed up by letting me play these games. I will win and will end his life.
I pick up the belt.
It feels strange in my hands. My head wants to start making the connection to my father, but I don’t let it.
All I think about is him—the guy behind the voice.
He used his voice to threaten me. To make me feel small, but it fueled everything inside me.
I crack the belt across the man’s back—striking with everything I can. The best way to win is to start strong. To make him think this is only my first gear, that I can go higher, hit harder. Put the fear into him. Fear that he won’t be able to survive. That he won’t know when this stops. He didn’t get a card. He has no clue how long he has to endure, which I realize must be his challenge.
He doesn’t know that if he survives, the roles will be reversed except so much worse for me. I have to find a way to make my body come while enduring the pain.
Stop thinking.
I hit again—two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
I act cool and collected with each strike. I don’t grunt or show any sound of strain as I use the belt to hit him. I’m silent. I’m composed. In my head, I’m thinking of all the ways I’ll kill the voice.
Twenty.
Now for twenty hits with my fist.
This is actually easier for me. I’m used to fighting with my fists. It actually makes it less personal. And maybe the guy will fight back—that would make me fight on instinct instead of hitting him because a damn card told me to.
I carefully place the belt back on the table, hoping I won’t have to pick it up again. And then I walk toward the man, every footstep loud and heavy, telling him of his impending doom.
Say the damn safe word, my steps say.
I won’t.
You will.
Say it, and I won’t beat you to within a second of your life.
Say it, and you get to live.
I should hit him while he’s down. That’s how you beat a man, but I’m not my father.