When I open my eyes, it’s like the room has transformed.
Smoke has started to billow in, making it hard for me to see anything except a small table that has been placed in front of me with a man’s belt lying on it.
They couldn’t even give me a whip; they had to give me a belt—my father’s tool of choice.
You can do this. This is just like any other time you’ve beaten a criminal for information. This will be no different. The man who is playing isn’t a good person. If he was, he wouldn’t be here.
I walk over to the table with the belt. There is a single white card attached to it. I yank it off.
20 lashings with the belt.
20 with your fist.
Repeat until he breaks, until he uses his safe word.
Fuck.
This is about me or him.
Either I win or he does.
Don’t show weakness. You’re giving a grown man a lashing—something you experienced nightly as a child.
Liesel was right; I’ll be living through hell. As much as I don’t want to do the first part, the second part is what is going to fuck with my mind. The second part is going to try and twist my worst nightmare with sex. I may never be able to fuck normally again.
The smoke parts, and I see my partner. Except I’m not sure he’s my partner. He looks younger. He’s no longer in a suit; he’s in shorts and a T-shirt. He seems smaller, weaker. He wears a new mask, one that isn’t as dark. This one is white, pure.
He’s a grown man. He’s not a child. But damn did they do a good job of tricking my mind.
“Begin,” a man’s deep voice comes through a speaker in the room.
At the sound of his unfamiliar voice, I decide I’m going to see this through. I realize the voice must somehow be that of someone I know. If he’s the one in charge of these games, then the only way to meet and destroy him is to win.
I’m now more determined than ever to win.
I smirk.
I probably look like a sadistic asshole. But when I do this challenge, all I’ll be thinking about is the voice. How he screwed up by letting me play these games. I will win and will end his life.
I pick up the belt.
It feels strange in my hands. My head wants to start making the connection to my father, but I don’t let it.
All I think about is him—the guy behind the voice.
He used his voice to threaten me. To make me feel small, but it fueled everything inside me.
I crack the belt across the man’s back—striking with everything I can. The best way to win is to start strong. To make him think this is only my first gear, that I can go higher, hit harder. Put the fear into him. Fear that he won’t be able to survive. That he won’t know when this stops. He didn’t get a card. He has no clue how long he has to endure, which I realize must be his challenge.
He doesn’t know that if he survives, the roles will be reversed except so much worse for me. I have to find a way to make my body come while enduring the pain.
Stop thinking.
I hit again—two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
I act cool and collected with each strike. I don’t grunt or show any sound of strain as I use the belt to hit him. I’m silent. I’m composed. In my head, I’m thinking of all the ways I’ll kill the voice.
Twenty.
Now for twenty hits with my fist.
This is actually easier for me. I’m used to fighting with my fists. It actually makes it less personal. And maybe the guy will fight back—that would make me fight on instinct instead of hitting him because a damn card told me to.
I carefully place the belt back on the table, hoping I won’t have to pick it up again. And then I walk toward the man, every footstep loud and heavy, telling him of his impending doom.
Say the damn safe word, my steps say.
I won’t.
You will.
Say it, and I won’t beat you to within a second of your life.
Say it, and you get to live.
I should hit him while he’s down. That’s how you beat a man, but I’m not my father.
I yank him up by the back of his shirt until he’s standing in front of me. I see the blood on his back, soaking his white T-shirt. That’s why they made him dress in white, so I could see the pain I inflicted on him.
When I look at him, face to face, I realize that he too got instructions somehow. He wouldn’t be staying here if he didn’t. He doesn’t want to lose his challenge, but tears are streaming down his cheeks.
“Welcome to my world,” I mutter sadly. This man would have broken a long time ago if he had to face my life. I’ve had a lifetime of this. He’s endured five minutes.
“Fight me, it will make it easier to take,” I say. That was a lesson I learned too late. I used to grow quiet, meek when my father raged on me. I used to just submit and obey. It took me too long to realize that it didn’t lessen my suffering. It didn’t make him hit me any lighter, and by submitting, I just felt helpless.
My eyes glisten with the truth.
I know he sees it.
He lifts his fists in front of his face, and I know he wants to fight me. But then he immediately drops them.
If I wanted confirmation that this is part of his challenge, I just got it. He’s not allowed to fight. I don’t know what his demons are, but this is part of it.
Jesus Christ.
This is sick.
But it’s him or me. And a twisted part of me knows this is for the greater good. If he were to win the whole game, he wouldn’t be able to take the bastard
