But I can’t die. So I pulled myself up and walked home. Father wasn’t there when I arrived, but I knew better at that point than to call a doctor. So I called Langston, one of my best friends. His father is a doctor, so I thought he could help. But all he could do was pull out the bullet, wash it clean with vodka, and then force the vile liquid down my throat until I passed out again to avoid the pain.
My shoulder still throbs six months later. That’s when I started keeping a gun under my pillow. That’s when any spare moment I have I’m practicing shooting or deflecting. I will not let any man shoot me again. Not without fighting back.
“Come,” my father says like I’m a dog as he walks away from me.
I take the moment to inspect my head, but I don’t find any contusion, bump, or blood. Probably just another concussion to add to the endless list of pain my father has caused me.
He picks up my gun before I have the chance.
Fuck.
I straighten my spine. I will not let him shoot me again.
Although, that’s what I feel like I’m walking into. A shooting range where I’ll be the target.
We descend down more stairs, and the prickling on the back of my neck tells me exactly where we are going—the dungeon.
My father doesn’t hold very many men prisoner. And the ones he does he doesn’t keep for very long. But there are a few rooms on the premise for this very purpose. To hold dangerous men, torture them, and then kill them when he gets the information he requires.
I swallow down the fear that begins to rise with each step.
We pass door after door of cages meant to loosen tongues into speaking, and then we stop at the last door. My father takes a key from his pocket and opens the door to the darkness. I already know what awaits me.
Nothing.
Blackness.
Loneliness.
This won’t be a test of physical pain; it will be mental as all of his most ruthless tests are.
I don’t wait for him to tell me what to do. I don’t take orders. Ha. He forces me to take orders every single day.
But one day, I won’t.
I’m already starting to get big enough that I can imagine a day when I’ll have enough muscles and skills that I won’t have to follow my father’s orders. Except he has the power of the entire Surrender crew behind him. Most men in Miami would follow his every order just to stay alive or earn a favor from the notorious Black.
I walk into the cold, damp room. When I turn I see my father’s smirk on his face. He doesn’t want me to follow any orders, except his. He wants me to be his puppet he can control, even from the grave.
He tosses my gun into the room. I watch as it lands on the dirty floor at my feet.
Maybe I was wrong? Why the hell do I need a gun if he’s just going to lock me in the room for a few days?
“This is a test of patience and self-control,” he says.
I bend down and pick up the gun, not taking my eyes off of my father and my senses going on high alert.
“Why the gun?” I ask as he closes the door.
He grins, with a wicked glare. “Because before I open this door, you’ll want to kill yourself rather than survive through one more minute of the pain. And you need to learn self-control, self-preservation. You need to prefer pain to death.”
The door latches with a loud thud. Locking me in for longer than I ever want to imagine.
This should be an easy test for me. I have more patience than my father. I thrive on being alone. I can sleep for days uninterrupted and dream of a better world where I don’t have to handle endless nights of pain just to show I’m worthy.
Easy.
But my days and nights are anything but.