You notice you’ve stepped closer to the two men. She can hear the perspiration slithering down Boss Azoc’s face; you’re not sure if it’s him or the rickety chair doing the squealing while he struggles against his bonds. You tremble. “Y-y-your Grace,” you say, “What’s going to happen to him?”
“I don’t expect his mind can handle it. Heh. Few could. But we’ll find out.” You two do not see the projection of light filtering through a rainbow of colors, dimmer and brighter, darker and lighter. Boss Azoc still struggles.
“But why are you doing this?” You ask.
“Do I detect a note a sympathy?” There is an angry edge to her father’s voice, barely sheathed. “For him?”
“I…no. No sympathy.”
You two hear Boss Azoc struggling and murmuring. Then all is quiet. You do not see the his irises color. You suspect this happens. You know the Symptoms of the Sight
You cannot see the orange gloom you’ve read that fires make. You cannot see the filtering sunlight whose warmth you feel. You cannot see the crow-feathered cloaks that itch on you and your Father.
Boss Azoc does.
First he whimpers.
Then he screams.
It is a loud and shuddering wail that you feels in her bones. You reach out for something—anything else to listen to. But all you can find is the net of birds taking wing from a tree, fleeing the sound that you are stuck with.
Azoc is thrashing while Boss Ivan laughs. You stands still, listening to the shrieks. The stomping of feet. You sniffs the air and scowls at the smell.
“The last ounce of courage is trickling down his leg,” you tells her father. “Isn’t this enough?”
You hear your Father following his nose toward you, stomping. You take two involuntary steps backward before he’s holding your hair close to her scalp. You does not move for fear of what he might do next.
“There can be no measure for mercy to monsters! That aside,” his grip on your hair loosens. “This can stop when he tells me who’s next in line to lead the Fangs.”
With a swirl of his cloak Boss Ivan crosses the room toward the screaming, thrashing, Azoc. He cannot see the color in his irises coming and going. He crouches next to him, and whispers: “Where do you billet yourselves. I know you operate out of Sandpiper Quarter. But where do you hide away?”
A muffled scream is his only response.
“You don’t want to disappoint my daughter, do you? Come now. We’re waiting.”
You tremble in the corner, reaching out for something else to focus on. But all you finds is a crazed Boss. Maybe two, you wonder. “No sympathy, you tell herself. “It’s only a monster. No sympathy, it’s only a monster. No sympathy, it’s only a monster. No sympathy, it’s only a monster. It’s only a monster. It’s only a monster…”
Your name is Isora. You’re the the daughter a gang Boss. Your cloak itches.
Today is your birthday.
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