Sins of the Father

2 | Father

I wake up groggy. My body is sunk into a mattress that feels so unlike my own, and when I realize that it's not my own, I sit up with a gasp.

I'm in a basement. The walls and floor are grey concrete. The mattress sits on the ground, no boxspring or frame under it, and a thin blanket is draped over me. I throw it off and stand up only to immediately stumble forward onto my hands and knees.

Pain shoots up my left arm, and I lift my hand to look at my palm. There's a bandage wrapped around my hand, and I rip it off. The gash is bright red...but it's clean. It's healing. Someone's treated and dressed my wound.

"Ah, you're awake."

I look up. A man stands at the top of the wooden stairs, closing the door behind him. A single light hanging from the ceiling illuminates the basement, and he uses a remote to make it even brighter as he descends, one step at a time.

I crawl back until I'm against the wall, my heart in my throat. I'm suddenly aware that my pockets feel empty; my phone and my keys are gone.

"Apologies for the cut," he says. "Annie's ring was laced with a narcotic, if you're wondering why you felt so sick after you ran away from her."

I swallow. "Why?"

"You're a healthy young man. I'm middle aged and I take meds for back pain." He chuckles. "I couldn't have gotten you into my truck without knocking you down a bit first. Even then, I struggled to keep the chloroform on your face."

"Why?" I repeat. "Why...am I here?"

He blinks. "You did this to yourself, don't you think? Didn't your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers? There's a lot of bad people in this world, son. Even trying to help someone has its risks."

At the mention of my mother, tears prick my eyes. "Let me go," I beg. "I don't have anything you could possibly want, and neither does my mother. We have nothing of value to you."

"My boy," he says, looking genuinely concerned. "You're of value. It's you that I want."

I resist the urge to throw up. Annie's narcotic is likely out of my system by now, but it's this man and what he says and the way he looks at me that makes me sick.

"Why?" I repeat softly.

"Why?" he says too, grinning from ear to ear. "You ask a lot of questions, I like that! I always told myself, if I have kids, I want them to be curious. To question their world. Now, come here."

I shake my head, and he beckons me forward. I shake my head again, and he beckons me forward again.

"Come," he says, "here."

His tone has changed. It's a subtle difference, but I notice it. I've heard it before: on the old neighbor that used to harass Mom, on teachers that had enough of kids who didn't listen, on Jake when he went from teasing that could be friendly to words that were more sinister and cruel. It strikes me as odd that I'm thinking of those things now, but I would gladly rather face that neighbor, those teachers, and Jake than this man.

I swallow and stand, my knees weak and rubbery. He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I want to run away, but I resist the urge. He walks me to the wall under the staircase and opens a door; it's a small bathroom.

"You've got your own bathroom!" he says cheerfully. "And before you try to find something to hit me with, know that I used to be a plumber." He slaps the pipe under the sink. "This baby ain't going anywhere."

He laughs, but I fail to see the humor in this. He closes the bathroom door, lets me go, and heads for the stairs. For a moment, I considering rushing him and attacking him only with my hands, but I'm too afraid to move.

"Please let me go," I say instead.

He turns around, his face lacking pity. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because—"

"That was a rhetorical question. Don't they teach you anything in school?"

"What are you going to do to me?"

He raises both eyebrows. "I like it when you ask questions, but don't you think you're being a little annoying now?"

"Please, sir—"

In two big steps, he's right in my face and screaming, "Do not call me sir!"

I fall backward, looking up at him with wide eyes.

His fists are clenched, nostrils flared. "My father used to make me call him sir," he says quietly. "Didn't matter when or where it was. My birthday. Christmas. When I was six. When I was sixteen. He wasn't like me; he didn't like questions. He was such an incurious man. I'll do better." He smiles and holds out a hand. "Please, don't call me sir. Call me Father."

I don't want to take his hand, but if I don't, I'm certain he's going to hit me with it. My arm is shaking as I grasp his hand, and he pulls me back onto my feet.

"Breakfast is in a few hours," he says.

And with that, he goes up the steps and closes the door behind him. I hear a click, and I know that it's locked, but once a few minutes have passed, I still take the first step up. Then the second. Surprisingly, the wood isn't creaking. That means he won't be able to tell when I'm coming up...and I won't be able to tell when he's coming down.

When I'm at the door, I place my hand on the knob. It doesn't turn left. Or right. It barely even jiggles. I knock on the door and implore, once again, "Please let me go."

But there's no answer.