Legacy // H.S

42.

'Beat me out of it'

*

'Fuck you!'

Hugo throws me against the chair, letting the cold metal hit my fresh wounds with force. Tied to a table, he clawed my back with whatever torture device he had in his arsenal. Taunting me with questions he already knew the answers to, anything to get a reaction out of me. They'll scar, far worse than any of the other wounds I've received this year will, and will likely need extensive care from a licensed professional.

It's hard to keep my tears, to not cry out every time I feel the sharp stinging of one of the cuts. As he did it, I pretended I were somewhere else. At one point, I thought I could hear my father talking to me again, and I worried I was on the verge of death once more. That song he always sang, humming in my ears as if we were in the same room.

I imagined us at the park, having a picnic by the pond with the ducks he enjoyed watching. He would be painting as he always did, and I would simply smile as he moved. Seeing him alive and happy, the only thing I ever really wanted from him. I never cared much about my own wellbeing, only his. He gave so much to me, I wanted to make sure he had someone looking out for him, too. If I focused, I would be able to smell the scent of the flowers around us or the freshly mowed lawn. I'd hear the children that played in a nearby park or laughed as they fed the ducks. I'd feel the sun against my skin and sense the buzzing of bees. It would be real, and I would be safe.

Not wounded over and over again, desperate for it to end but not wanting to satisfy the maniac that was harming me. I knew Hugo didn't care for whatever information we had. When he spoke about the diamonds or the heist, it was tired and bored. He only wanted to see me suffer, to know he was in control, just as he had always hoped to be. Maybe I was a punching bag for him to relay all his stress, maybe he saw me as my father and wanted to inflict whatever hurt he once felt.

It doesn't really matter, though. Even as I forced myself into a reality that didn't have me screaming in pain, I could still feel every cut that was made, still felt the blood trickle from them. I thought I'd known pain before, thought I'd endured enough of it to become used to it, until this moment. Hugo seems to be an expert.

'You think that's the worst of it, little girl? You have no idea what's to come,' he plainly states, allowing his two guards to hold me down as he straps back into the chair. They're the only ones I've observed since arriving here. No one else has dared to enter, or rather, he has no one else to order around.

I'm not sure how long it's been, though. My body has fought against every urge to stay awake, to not give them the upper hand over my unconscious body, but I'm sure my eyes have closed on a few occasions when the beatings have reached their limit. I tried watching the sun and the moon at first, watching them set and rise to try and understand the hours that have passed. Tried to listen to the muffled sounds on the streets below of this empty tower block to gage the area we're in and the time of day it has reached. By the looks of it, skyscrapers lining the exterior of this building, we're in central London. The precise area I'm unsure of.

Hugo has caught me watching a few times, laughed at me or taunted me as I've silently built together the world in my mind. 'You think he's going to find you soon?' He's said a few times. 'Maybe I want him to find you.' That wouldn't surprise me. He's just having fun while he waits.

'Tell me, which one have you enjoyed the most?' he asks as he cleans his hands in a bowl of water. I'm sure I need it more than him, my skin reddened by the crimson of my blood. 'Which kill has been your favourite?'

He wants me to admit that I'm just like him. That I thrive off of the power that comes with hurting others. That I like this war, this fight, this world. That's his fatal flaw; he thinks everyone is like him. 'Your daughter.'