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“I’ve got you…” He sings in the shower, the off-key version of a Frank Sinatra song. “Under my skin…”
I step further into the room, looking at him through the wall of fogged glass.
He’s lathering his hair and still singing to himself, not yet noticing me.
Thinking it may take him a few minutes more than I feel like giving, I hit the lights for a few seconds before turning them back on.
“What the…” He turns off the water and pokes his head out of the glass. He furrows his eyebrow. “Who the fuck are you, and how did you get in here?”
“I’m here to deliver something,” I say.
“Well, as you can see, I’m a little preoccupied in the fucking shower, so I’ll have to sign for it when I get out. If you don’t mind, that is.”
“I always minded,” I say, suddenly seeing clear, clinical flashbacks. I see this man slamming the bedroom door shut and giving me a look that let me know he was about to own me and Trevor for the rest of the night. I see him getting a sick and depraved high from the sound of Trevor’s pained cries. Him hurting me harder each time in attempts to get me to cry in the same way.
But the worst memory of them all, is the simplest one. It’s him making me and Trevor sign short, fake statements. Ones that said we wanted to stay with our Uncle Avery, the ones that killed any chance we had at getting placed in a real foster family. Him making us sign those papers set into motion years of terror in hell, and he paid his fair share of visits.
“Sir,” he says, sighing. “I would really like to finish my goddamn shower alone, if that’s okay with you. If it’s not, I’ll have to call security.”
“How many times did I ask you to stop watching me shower?” I say. “How many times did I fucking beg you to stop making me strip naked in front of you, before you took advantage of me?”
“What?” His eyes widen. “What are you—”
“You got a sick fucking high off watching me bathe in front of you,” I say, keeping my voice firm. “You liked it so much, that you made my brother touch you as you took it all in like some type of child porn show.”
His face pales and he grabs a towel, wrapping it around his waist. He squints—the recognition immediate, and unlike all of the other assholes I’ve visited, he doesn’t start with denial.
“I…” He shakes his head. “I honestly don’t remember, Trevor…”
“I’m Michael.” I clench my jaw. “The one you treated worse. And you honestly do remember. We both do. I’m not a fan of repeating myself these days, so please don’t make me.”
“Maybe five.”
“Maybe?” I tilt my head to the side. “You visited us far more than five times, so you know that can’t be true…”
“What do you want from me?”
“I don’t want anything from you, per se. I want to do something to you, though…”
He looks nervous as I lift my shirt—revealing the gun that’s tucked into my waistband. “You’re here to shoot me? Is that what you want after all these years? Revenge?”
I don’t answer any of his questions.
“There are cameras in here, you know.”
“There were.” I smile. “But I’m not here to shoot you. You’re actually the only person on my list that I’m not going to kill like that,” I say. “But only because I know quite a few things that would be far worse for you. Give me a better number for my question so I can determine what that is.”
He swallows. “Ten, or so.”
“Or so? Hmmm.” I tap my fingers against the wall. “Okay, we’ll go with, or so. Problem is, that’s not really an adequate number of bullets, so I’m at a bit of a loss on how many I would’ve needed to use for you.”
“You just said that you weren’t going to shoot me.”
“I’m not.” I hit the hidden switch I installed years ago and watch as three hundred volts of electricity shock him instantly. They hit him so hard that his entire naked body convulses and shakes at once, the sound of the water drips zapping and buzzing make the scene it even more satisfying.
He falls to the ground amidst the intensity, and I wait until I can see wisps of smoke rising from his pathetic body.
I know he’s dead—that he was technically done the moment I hit the switch, but I wait a few seconds before flipping the switch upward.
“It was three hundred,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Five times a week, the first week of every month, for five fucking years…”
I leave the bathroom and feel a hint of something in my chest that I haven’t felt since I was a child.
