Page 7 of Vicious Butterfly
That’s the moment the drowning begins. There’s no more breath, no more space, just ever-encroaching tightness. I’m going to die. IknowI’m going to die. The edges of the room blur, but the humming comes. Father. I don’t know why he does it, but it’s fucking eerie. It’s the kind of haunt that finds me in my nightmares.
And, oddly, I become still. I don’t know why I do that either. Nothing about his weird-ass humming is relaxing. There’s a prick, a little bee sting, and then darkness.
My mind claws up, up, up, its seventh attempt to surface. But my eyes refuse to open, lids too heavy, brain swimming in murk while my muscles ignore me. I make a sound, a long groan, forced and muted. The only way I know for sure I’m still alive.
There’s a lowwoosh, then a deep rushing roar. The water starts at my feet, the cold biting straight into bone, sendinga jolting wave screaming through my nerves, and forcing my eyes open. But it doesn’t matter, I’m cloaked in darkness. Iron shackles cinch around my ankles, pinching the skin. I can’t move anything, not even my neck. The canvas of the straitjacket scratches when I try to move. My absolute worst fucking nightmare.
It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.
I repeat it like a mantra, even though nothing is okay. At least I know where I am—not that it’s comforting. This vertical tank is one of Grandfather’s creations, the fucking psychotic old bastard. His take on an ice bath. He specialized in torture devices, most of which were used on my father and his siblings. As fucked up as my father is, sometimes I’m amazed that he possesses any modicum of humanity at all.
He … tries. But he’s like Jekyll and Hyde, arguing with the demons in his head.
The cold water buries me, racing up my body. But I’m trapped, breath hitching violently. My head will be covered soon, and there’s nowhere for me to go. I don’t know if it’s worse or better knowing what’s going to happen. Panic will make it worse. I won’t hit the beat in time, that last moment before the water covers my nose and mouth. I need as much oxygen as I can get.
Terror slips under my skin, making my heart race as I fight not to scream, the cold steadily claiming more of me.
One, two, three, inhale …
Water covers my head, as my lungs tighten, throat locking, and several wars rage within me.Don’t panic, don’t move, don’t think of everything that could go wrong.
The need to escape is the loudest, but battling against bonds is a fruitless waste of oxygen. The more I move, the faster it’s used up, and the sooner I’ll need to replace it. But it’ll be three minutes before I can do that. The average person can hold theirbreath for thirty to sixty seconds. I’m not average. I’m a top-level athlete. Father expects more, so he made me work my way up.
There’s a reason I’m not a fucking swimmer—holding your breath is hell. But I start the count to take my mind off everything else. The immobilization, the need to run, the growing need to take a breath…
At thirty seconds, my lungs burn. Breathing has become the most important thing there is—the only thing there is. The rest of the world falls away, and it’s just me and the starving need for oxygen. At two minutes, my diaphragm spasms.
Keep calm. Keep calm.
Usually, I take a breath to calm myself. That’s not an option. Instead, I think about getting back to Griffon. He needs me.
I hear the drain at my feet let out, and water climbs down my skin too slowly, hair sticking to my forehead. It’s not moving fast enough. All manner of “what could go wrong” echoes in my mind—clogged drain, drain mechanism doesn’t engage—but I have to push those thoughts away. If something goes wrong, it goes wrong. Instead, I hold the clear image of me walking out of this fucking thing.
The water level hits my nose and mouth, uncovering them far too slowly. I gulp in air, teeth chattering, body shivering, determined to make it through yet another session of Father’s training alive.
But I can’t promise that I’ll be the same.
Is it night or day? I don’t know. But it’s been twenty-five fucking rounds in that tank, each round with an interlude that felt like an eternity while I fought a mental battle with my ever-present claustrophobia. My muscles ache, my skin numb from being repeatedly submerged in the ice-cold water. I’m hollowed out emotionally, but at the same time, my limbs are like heavy sacks of lead.
Pull yourself to-fucking-gether, Ryan.
A light turns on outside the tank, the iron around my ankles clicks, and there’s the hiss of pressure releasing as the door opens. I step out, dripping, and wait as I’m unbuckled. The straitjacket pulls away, and I can breathe properly again. I’m toweled off and handed my thick black robe with the family crest embroidered in red over the left pectoral.
There’s an invisible dissolving of the Ryan the Family Disappointment aura, and then Ryan the Heir resurfaces. I’m in charge again. I take a warm towel off the man to my right, and sop up the remaining wetness from my hair, refusing slippers. I want to feel the carpet under my toes; I want to scrunch my feet and remind myself that I’m out of that fucking hunk of metal.
Whatever I do, I don’t let the fatigue show. These men are ruthless. They work for my father, but if I look weak, I’m prey.
“What time is it?” I demand, voice cutting.
“Just after ten thirty p.m., sir,” one says.
“Griffon’s been asking for you, sir,” says another.
Griffon hasn’t spoken a word since he found our mother. Dead. Dangling from the rafters. Before that, he spoke three languages fluently. But he doesn’t have to use words to get his point across.
I storm up several flights of stairs, with both men hot on my heels, their boots echoing over the metal steps. “Update.”
“Rosaline’s been trying to calm him down.”
