“Aziah,” I call quietly. “What are we doing down here?”
He finally looks at me, and I almost stagger back at the raw emotions on his face.
“You said you wanted to help me.” He grabs a belt from the table and holds it out to me. “This is how.”
I look at it then back to him, unsure what he’s suggesting. “I don’t—”
“Take it,” he commands with a hard voice.
My eyes widen when I realize what he wants me to do. My heart doesn’t just plummet to my feet, it sinks through the concrete floor, like there’s a ten-ton weight tied to it. “What!” I shout. “No!”
“Take the belt.”
I take a step back and shake my head. “No. I’m not hitting you with that.”
“Take the goddamn belt, Rella!” he bellows, making me jump.
“Why?” I yell back. “Why would you ask me to do something like that?”
“Because it’s the only thing that calms the demons in me. It’s the only thing that will give me a measure of peace. Because I need you to do it.” He pauses, his expression morphing from anger to abject sadness. “Please,” he pleads hoarsely.
I’m being torn apart inside. The thought of Aziah being hurt makes me sick to my stomach, but the thought of me being the one to hurt him is pure agony.
My mind wanders back to our childhood. I never saw Aziah as the person who was hurting me. It was only Mr. Masters that I saw. Not because Aziah was his son, but because Mr. Masters was making him do those things. Mr. Masters was the one who hurt me over and over again. That day in the gazebo, I was not only trying to kill myself, but also trying to overpower the pain of Hell Night. The knife slicing into my wrists was torture, but the pain of what was being done to me once a month was ten times worse.
I look at Aziah. Is it the same way for him? I know what he was forced to do to me torments him every day. Will being hit by the belt lessen that pain? Mask it somehow? I don’t want to hurt Aziah, but will doing this help him? And am I strong enough to do what he’s asking?
I close my eyes. I’ve got no right to deny him if this is what he really needs. I slit my wrists, knowing he and the others would find me. Knowing it would hurt them.
Opening my eyes, I set them on his face. I take the three steps separating us until I’m standing directly in front of him. Swallowing hard, my hand shakes as I reach out for the belt. His body relaxes and something calm settles over his face. I try to take the buckled end, but my gut tightens when he pointedly gives me the soft end, making sure the buckle will be what hits him. It’s dark leather, and although it’s not a big belt, it feels like it weighs fifty pounds.
He doesn’t say anything as he turns around. I inhale a sharp breath when I see the horrendous damage to his back. There’s not an inch of space that’s not covered in ink, but it’s not the ink that horrifies me. There’s a multitude of scars hidden within the colorful designs. Raised lines, some short and some long, cover his entire back from the base of his neck all the way down to the top of his sweatpants.
I stifle the cry that’s making its way up my throat. I step closer on trembling legs and tentatively reach out, grazing the tips of my fingers over the raised flesh. He flinches. Some appear to be older than the others. I wonder how many came from his father’s hand, and if some came from someone else’s. If so, who else has hit him?
“Oh, Aziah,” I whisper brokenly, the ache in my chest intensifying.
I don’t know why I do it. It’s just feels like the right thing to do. Leaning forward, I place a gentle kiss against one of the scars, right between his shoulder blades. His skin is soft and warm, and I feel the muscles in his back ripple against my lips. I lean back and wait for him to turn around, but he doesn’t. His shoulders rise and fall rapidly, like he’s breathing hard, and his head is tipped forward. He braces his hands on the table and leans over it slightly.
“Hit me,” he says quietly, reminding me of the belt in my hand. All of the anguish of knowing what I’m about to do comes rushing back.
“I-I don’t think I can,” I reply shakily.
He looks at me over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Just do it. Think about all the times my father forced me to hurt you. Think about the filthy hands that touched you. The pain you felt. The fear. The look in his eyes as he watched. Being alone in that gazebo. The pain of losing the baby and the fact you will never be able to have your own child.”
Tears well in my eyes, and my chest feels like it’s going to explode with grief. My hand clenches around the leather.
“Think about every single time we were in the Hall. Remember every second of it. Pretend like I’m him. Hit me like you hate me. Hit me like I’m him. Because I am him, Rella. I did every vile and painful thing he wanted me to do to you. Punish me for the sins committed against you. Use all the fear and pain you felt lying on that table against me.” He grits his teeth. “Do it, Rella,” he demands loudly.
His words hurt. They hurt so bad that I feel like I’m dying inside. They also make me so angry. Angry at his father for making Aziah the way he is today. Angry at Aziah for letting his father continue to torment him even now, and for asking this horrible thing of me.
“Hurt me,” he snarls. His voice sounds so far away. “You wanted to help me, and this is how you do it. Remember what Marco and Gabriela did to you. Remember how scared you were the first time they touched you. How much it hurt. How much you wished you could stop them. How helpless you felt when you couldn’t.”
Image after image of my time with Marco and Gabriela filter through my mind. Every second, every touch, every time I prayed to God to ask him to help me. I feel their hands all over me and my stomach rolls with bile. The images change to when I was in the Hall. Mr. Masters standing over me, leering at my body, his hands touching me in places no person should ever touch a child. Then Aziah is there on top of me, except it’s not his face I see, but his father’s. The grin he gives me is sickening.
Needing the images to go away, I let out a scream. I lift my arm and swing the belt down on his back, not even realizing what I’m doing, only seeing Mr. Masters, Marco, and Gabriela in my head.
“Harder!” he seethes. “Make me fuckin’ bleed, Rella! Make them all bleed!”