Jutting up my chin, I lean back against the wood and silently dare him to do his worst. Besides, what the fuck does he think he’s going to do with that rope? Give me a burn?
Shrinky Dink starts to let the rope out inch by inch as he circles me, prowling around. As if this animalistic show of force is supposed to frighten me. He has no idea the types of monsters I’ve already run from. Hell, he doesn’t even know the terrors that live inside my own head that I can’t even escape. His rope does nothing to scare me.
“Tell me,” he intones, measuring out a length. “How are things between you and your father? I’m surprised he’s actually here for this. What with him being absent for so long. How does it feel to have him watch as we humiliate you?”
Gritting my teeth, I look back out and lock eyes with Louis. Raising my voice, I speak out loudly enough for him to hear. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have a father. If you find one for me, be sure to let me know, will ya?”
I resist the urge to smile as Louis crosses his arms, his stance becoming far more aggressive than earlier. I mean, what did he think was going to happen? That him showing up out of the blue would be met with some girlish hysteria and a sob fest where we declare our love? No. Louis is dead to me. Has been since I learned the concept of the word father.
“Hold out your hand.” With a sigh, I extend it out, watching in abject boredom as Shrinky Dink winds the rope around my fingers. It feels odd, but that’s it. “You know,” he continues, his voice much lower. “Your father and I had a conversation. I found it to be most enlightening. I’d share my findings with you, but, you know, patient-therapist privilege. The way you spouted off earlier leads me to believe that you’re very intimate with that term.”
Anger flares for a moment as I stare at the man, detesting that he has knowledge he’s refusing to impart, but then, do I even care? Louis has no idea about what I went through. There’s nothing he can reveal. The quack is just bluffing, putting out feelers to see where he can hurt me.
“You seem to think I care about Louis or what he thinks. Is it perhaps you that have an issue with your own father that you’re projecting onto me?”
That gets him. I can feel the vibration of his fury as it rolls off of him and into the rope. With jerky movements, he finishes his weave around my fingers and tugs hard, forcing them to curl in on themselves. Pain shoots up my hand and into my wrist as he pulls the rope upward, coiling it around my arm.
I know my fingers aren’t broken; I can still wiggle the tips. Barely, but there’s movement. It’s more like they’re being forced to the point where any extra movement will pop them out of their socket, making them dislocate. Perhaps I underestimated this quack. He seems to have far more tricks up his sleeve than just his inane babbling.
Taking in a deep breath, I coax my heart into slowing down. He wouldn’t harm me. These self-righteous fuckers don’t have it in them. Resting the back of my head on the wood, I stare up as Shrinky Dink slides the end of the rope through a metal ring at the top.
“Just remember,” he whispers, leaning close to my ear. “You could have made this so much easier on yourself. And I’m being nice. I’m binding your non-dominant hand.”
His words are lost on me as he drags the rope through the ring and pulls my arm up. It’s my right hand, very much my dominant one. Is he just confused? Or is he trying to fuck with me?
I know what quacks are like. They keep making assumptions, using their clients to fill in the gaps. Perhaps he’s trying to decide which the dominant hand really is? As if I’ll somehow give myself away. But that’s not gonna happen. Some twine and discomfort aren’t going to make me say anything.
Once my hand is lifted up as high as it can go, he takes the end of the rope and winds it around my body. It’s rougher than I thought it would be as it drags across my naked body. Shrinky Dink is silent as he works, but I can see the pleasure the rope brings him.
His body sways with it, moves with it, as if the rope is an extension of him. If this were a very different circumstance, he’d possibly even compel me to enjoy this. In some ways, the rope is very comforting. It’s like a hug that won’t let go. True, the tightness steals my breath, but it’s something akin to being swaddled.
It teases at the hazy memories that pop up to the surface only to submerge again. They’re the memories of a young child that once had love. It’s a memory of blond hair and blue eyes. Of hugs and bubble baths. But I can’t remember who she was. All I can remember are the tight hugs and safety.
The first foster home I can remember. The time there was so short. Too short. Somehow, I went from being loved and cherished to going back into the system. At my lowest, the memories come forth, haunting me, taunting me with what I could have had but no longer exists.
I’m caught up inside my mind, not paying a bit of attention to the quack. His movements lull me. A tug here, a jerk there. Even the pain is a welcome distraction. It’s something I know intimately and can rest in its embrace. His hands skim my body as the ropes crisscross over me, rendering everything unmovable except for my left arm.
It hangs limp by my side, but I have no desire to move it. I just want to rest in this hammock that holds me together, as if, for this one moment, the jagged edges are brought together to meld into one whole. It’s an odd sensation. For most of my life, I’ve never experienced a feeling of rightness, of oneness.
All too soon, Shrinky Dink pulls out a different type of rope. This one is much smaller. Starting with my fingers, he winds it around again, but this time it feels a little different. Instead of binding them together, each finger has its own rope. The tails tickle my thigh as he drops the one he’s working on and goes to the next.
Once he’s done with that, he wraps a thicker cord around my arm and brings it up into the air. He doesn’t have it nearly as high as the other arm. Instead, it hangs in the air like a marionette tied to its strings.
I never thought I’d ever feel sorry for Pinocchio, but at this moment, I can relate. I’m tied to this pole, my entire body at the mercy of the quack, with only the ropes holding me there. I try to move, to see if I can pull myself free, but he’s rigged it so any movement on my end brings extra pressure to the fingers of my right hand.
A searing pain is the only warning I have to stand still. I can feel my fingers pulling, threatening to pop with any infinitesimal movement. Though nothing else on my body hurts, it’s all connected. I can’t move anything else without causing pain to my dominant hand.
A frustrated rage fills my body as I snap out of the false comfort I originally found in the ropes. Shrinky Dink is rigging it to where I either submit to him or hurt myself in the process. If it wasn’t my dominant hand, I would have struggled, fought to free myself, but I can’t.
I start my job tomorrow, and I need that hand. Staring into his eyes, I note the smirk as it crinkles the areas just around his sockets. He knows this. He’s using my body against me. The perfect weapon. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’d trained under Ryker. It’s just sneaky enough to be like him.
Stepping back, he admires his work, squinting as he follows the lines. He adjusts a few near my chest, then smiles. Reaching up, he follows the line that goes up to my fingers and gives a little tug, bringing pain to each of my digits.
“Now then, be a good boy, and this hand will be just fine. Are we clear?”
For a moment, a different voice flashes in my head, the same one that takes up more real estate than it should. Even though he’s dead and buried, I can still hear that teasing whisper as I fall asleep at night. But I can’t let the quack know that. I can’t let him see how close to a nerve he really is. Misdirection is good. It’s what’s needed to survive.
“I’m not your damn dog,” I grit out, clenching my teeth against the agony teasing at the edges of my knuckles.
It’s not there yet, but I know it will be soon. It’s the precursor, the calm before the storm. I can feel the pain coming and know that I’ll not be able to resist crying out. Even with everything Ryker did to me, he left my hands alone. They were far too important to him.
But this shrink doesn’t care. He has no conception of why a track coach would need his hands. And why would he? I doubt he could even keep up a steady jog. Sure he looks fit, but being fit and having good cardio are two different things. He’s soft, used to sitting behind a desk and talking for a living.
As the track coach, I’m not just in charge of the running; I’m also in charge of things like shot put, the discus throw, the hammer throw, and the javelin throw. All of those things require my right hand. Unless his goal is to render me unable to do my job and thus have a way of forcing me out?