I recoil on instinct but arrest it before closing my eyes, relaxing my facial muscles as much as the gag allows. I'm glad I do because, instead of slapping me, he gently traces the rivulet of tears on my left cheek, from the bridge of my nose to the wetness on the floor. This unnerves me even more than being slapped. I don't want to see his face, but I make myself, never averting my eyes. I see the familiar sight of graying hair pulled away from a strained forehead with an expensive gel, and those raised, questioning eyebrows, groomed with tweezers to perfection. To top it off, framed with almost girlishly curly eyelashes, two big eyes drill into mine. The emotional contrast on his face is incomprehensible, throwing me onto a precipice of terror.

This is my father. Part of him is in me—his DNA, his biological build, his mad, sinister whatever—it makes me who I am. I shudder, mentally noting to look in a mirror, if I manage to live, and see how much of him is really in me, and how much of my mother and grandmother, whose picture I'll have to dig up somewhere to know.

My father hovers his hand over me in a parental impulse to console. The air slowly fills with the chlorinated scent of faucet water, freshly scrubbed skin, and soap. I breathe in through my nose, ready to faint, noting a trace of his favorite cologne, Bulgari for men. Jesus. Even here, on a fishing trawler, he manages to smell clean and manly.

"There, there. Quiet now. So nice to have you back." His voice comes across as soothing, his face blocking the lamp.

I shrink out of habit. My tongue is fat and dry, lips numb and sore. My limbs are still tied into the cocoon with my torso bent, its left side on the floor and my right side up—a nice target for his shoes, to be kicked and kicked.

Whatever it takes, Papa, whatever it takes. Go for it. Feel it. Let out your pain. Something in my eyes must unnerve him.

"You all right?" he asks, to mask it. I know my father that well.

Eat my guts, I want to say. Like you care. Stop this game, for once, and tell me how you really feel. Come on.

His face wavers with a hint of fear, and then it's gone. I smile, if you can call stretching cheek muscles on an already ripping mouth, burning behind tape, smiling.

He leans a bit closer, mouth tight.

"Sorry, I couldn't quite hear you. What was that you said?" His hand is curled over his ear, his favorite way of intimidating me, by asking me to repeat something that is obvious and making me feel like a fool. It doesn't work this time, I ignore it.

Instead, I take deep pleasure in silently going through a repertoire of every single foul word I know, from bastard to asshole to creep, which, admittedly, is not much. I wish I could borrow some of Hunter's cussing; he always swears so deliciously sharp. My throat still wouldn't budge, but I think he sees the poison in my glare because he takes his hand away and stands up. Good, stage one complete. I manage to stretch my lips a hairline more, smiling.

Now I notice he's dressed in a suit, immaculate as always, with a cashmere scarf carelessly draped over his shoulder as if he's about to depart for an outdoor opera performance somewhere in Italy.

He looks out into the distance, through the wall, focusing on something miles away from the cell we're in.

"My dear, Ailen, I need to tell you something important, and I apologize it has to happen in this...fashion." He glances at me, indicating my position on the floor.

"It seems as if my other attempts to explain why I'm doing this have not worked, which is a pity. We both know that I've tried, multiple times, over the last several days." I strain my neck to keep my head tilted up so that I can see him.

"What you don't understand is that your future is at stake. And, because we're a family, my future is tied to yours. I'd like to make sure that you get the message."

I glean the bottom of his shoe, made of the finest Italian leather, as he kicks right into my gills, swift and precise.

Smack!

I hear the sound of impact, like ripping paper, and yelp into the cotton. It hurts like hell. No, worse. It hurts like cutting open a wound that just started healing, over and over and over again, never letting it fully close.

I pant hard, snorting in effort, and manage to contain my agony without screaming, reveling in my mastery of suppressing the pain.

My father just stands and looks. Cold and calculating.

There is sickness in this, twisted and disgusting, yet I'm enjoying myself very much, perhaps rising to a level of masochism that can only match my father's.

Mirror his feelings, Ailen, mirror them. It's exactly what I do, turning my head to look, to show him that he can kick me all he wants, that perhaps I'm enjoying it as much as he does, curious to see what it will do to his psyche.

I see the sole of his shoe one more time, its tip slimy—marred in my own juice—and russet in color compared to the rest of the yellow leather.

Whack!

Stars explode in my field of vision and a rod of hot metal pierces me from neck to toes and back up, making me excrete whatever leftover water I have in my system through the skin in a layer of sticky moisture. Sirens don't sweat, so this evaporation must be as close as it gets.

A twisted neck and an arrested cry later, I'm back to our lovely exchange of familial gaze. This is a new level of love, beyond the one Hunter mentioned in one of our conversations. A brief dunk into my memory makes me wonder where he is, but I forcefully disregard it so I can stay in control, intending to win this new game with Papa. It is not passive-aggressive like Hunter explained. Oh no, this is violence to the point of mutual joy—a contest to see who is most absent of any feeling.

It'll take more than that, Papa, you know that. Go ahead, do your best. I attempt to smile, seeing my message reflected across his face. Good.

If he's disturbed by my defiance, he doesn't show it. Still looking into the distance, he drones, "What you don't understand is that life is hard. It's not all clear water, sand castles, and sun, none of these beautiful things, unfortunately. It's a mirage. The second you dip your foot in, you sink into a swamp." He pauses. "What I want you to learn is that good things come to those who wade all the way through, to the other side."

He looks down. Another kick. I hardly feel it this time. He can see it, because a muscle twitches slightly on his left cheek, freshly shaven, as always.

"Oh, did that hurt? Tell me how you feel." He squats and strokes my right gill with one long and gnarled finger. I tense to stop shuddering so that he cannot feel a single vibration. The muscles behind his ears stretch his lips into a thin sneer, toothy and cold.

I look straight into his watery eyes when something extraordinary happens—something snaps inside of me and is gone. I don't waver in an effort to withstand his scrutiny as I usually do; for the first time, I'm able to sink past this decade-long habit.

Have you ever looked your own terror in the eyes? There is doom there beyond imagination. But once you've stepped past the place where death is a scary thing, it's possible to hold that gaze, unflinching and calm, knowing that it's...just eyes, nothing more. Just a pair of anatomically round things that can be poked out with a needle or a sharp nail; two light detecting organs, sclera balloons filled with liquid and a lens on top. If you look long enough, that's all there is to it, really.

Papa's pupils widen for a fraction of a second. I'm mesmerized by their movement, like I made them inflate. Unperplexed, he continues. "What I want you to learn is that discipline is the answer. You need to learn to suppress the pain, learn to carry on even when you feel like you want to die."

The kicks are over. With a grimace of repulsion, he stands and swiftly steps on my neck with his left foot. I notice a flash of his silk maroon sock, framed by the hem of his pant leg. I can't breathe. Blood swells in my vessels, fills my eyes, pulses in my ears. My gills open and close like the gaping mouth of a fish thrown on the sand. Even though I know a siren can't be strangled to death, I suffer the pain all the same. I will myself to be still and manage to suppress it, mentally departing from my body to observe it from the outside. It's like witnessing your own bones and sinew being crushed by an executioner, but from the safe distance of a spectator.

Since my mouth is taped shut, my cry for help dies before it's born. I push the pain deeper still, until my nerve endings are frozen as if stunted by a strong dose of anesthesia. There is a victorious glee that's spreading on my face, and I have no doubt my father can see it.

He presses down harder. A minute goes by, maybe two. The sharp-soled edges of his brand-new shoes cut into my jaw and collarbone. I don't flinch, don't make a single sound, and I never look away.

At last, he lets go, removing his foot.

"Good, Ailen, very good. I'm impressed. Continue pushing your pain down. Practice silence."

I take in a sharp breath. My nostrils flare.

Do you want to play another round, Papa? I guess I won this one, wouldn't you say?

His face contorts and he steps away from me as if I'm road kill that stinks.

"Listen to me, Ailen. Silence makes you think." He taps on his temple. "Noise is akin to chaos. It distracts you. Without discipline, you're nothing, just a piece of sweet meat. Think about it. Think about your life, about what you want to do. Think about your future."

I want to sing! I wish I could yell it out loud. I reminisce his words, the ones with which he hoped to teach me, to toughen me up, to raise me in such a way that I'd survive in this world as a woman. Women are weak. Women were made to haul water.

No, we're not, Papa, you are. You're the one who is weak, because you've forgotten how to love, how to care, I say with my eyes.

He continues, perfectly latching on to the meaning of my glare.

"Contrary to what you think, I care for you. Deeply. That's why I'm being so hard on you. I want to help you...help you carve out a place in this world. You've proven to me, Ailen, by being hard to catch, that perhaps...you're worth more than just hauling water."

I hold my breath involuntarily. Did that really just come out of my father's mouth?

"Perhaps you are. I intend to test my theory." He always takes his time to deliver the punch line, holding me in suspense, relishing my terror. Not this time.

"When we cut your vocal cords, sweetie, you'll become useful to me, I think. Yes. You'll help me with an important task...killing other sirens. There are only three of them left, so it shouldn't be that difficult. As payment, I will let you live."

A chill runs down my spine along with a sense of déjà vu. In my teenage naïveté, I'd forgotten. He told me this before—how could I have misplaced it? At the siren meadow, while being flattened face first onto the lawn between rows of benches, with the handle of his whip pressed between my shoulder blades, he said, What I'm thinking is...you'll be my right hand from now on. A helper, of sorts, to catch other sirens. Clever, wouldn't you agree?

He failed to mention exactly how he'd do it, but I get it now. By stripping me of my voice. The idea of it fails to fit into my mind, and before I can react or utter a moan, he pounds on the door with his fist. No, not on the door, it's a viewing window.

A small rectangular sheet of glass glistens, reflecting fluorescent light, revealed from beneath a flap of foamy padding, hanging down like loose skin. I was right about the cube kaleidoscope then. Did I somehow feel it, feel him looking at my attempts to roll and hit the wall all this time? Was it part of his game, to watch me squirm and squiggle, waiting for me to break? Goose bumps march up my skin.

Synthetic leather on synthetic leather, the door slowly opens to a soft swoosh and then comes to a stop, barely an inch ajar.

I try to gasp, wishing someone would pierce my eardrums for good so that I could not hear. Not now, not this. Not the distorted melody of the happiness I can never have. Canosa was right, this is torture. Double torture, in my case—to hear my father's soul, partially revived by me; and now, to hear Hunter's soul again, killed and resurrected as a special melodic ghost to remind me, to make me love and loath him. Both of them, forever.

I'd be better off dead.

I want to avert my eyes but can't. The door opens wider. Hunter takes small steps inside, looking beaten and haggard in his dirty jeans and sweatshirt, matted hair hanging over his pale face. His head is down, lips pressed together. He holds on to the door as if he was a drunk trying to steady himself.

"Come in, come in," my father urges him. Hunter doesn't move. His left hand stays on the door, the right one kneads the pocket of his jeans. There's a brief moment of awkward silence, and I know it's about to erupt.

"Don't just stand there, pick her up!" Papa raises his voice, and then lowers it again. "Please." At this, he throws his hands in the air and rubs his temples. An angry fit is about to begin. It'll only go downhill from here.

"Mr. Bright..." Hunter bites lower lip and looks up, still avoiding me. "Do we really have to do this? I mean, isn't there another way? She ca—"

"I said, pick, her, up." This comes through pressed lips, and I know inside my father is boiling.

I'm shocked into numbness, processing the transpiring conversation as if it's a bad dream. Another minute, and I'll wake up and it'll be gone, no big deal.

"But you could simply send her away without—"

"Pick her up!" A vein pulses in the hollow of my father's temple, his hands curling into fists.

"Yes, Mr. Bright." Hunter's lips barely move.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore, is that understood? We've discussed everything there was to discuss already, end of story." He turns his back on me and makes for the door.

End of my story, you mean? Will you really go this far, Papa? It's a final test for you, to see if you can do this to your own kind, to eradicate your nightmare. And I'm the one who represents it for you, aren't I? I understand, but you know what? You're no more than a stinking coward, making someone else do the dirty work for you. You're weak, with all of your false bravado. I'm calm once more, not willing to give up, still madly hoping for the best and fueled by an insatiable belief in human goodness.

Hunter takes a small step, and then stops.

My eyes dart to his face, searching. Oh, Hunter, what did he do to you, what did he tell you to make you do this? The ache to feel Hunter's warm hands on my face once more overpowers my longing to twist off his head and finish him, because the off-key echo of his soul serves as the perfect irritant and I have to constantly fight my desire to silence it.

Hunter avoids looking at me directly as he takes a few tentative steps and bends over me.

He rolls me onto my back, sits on his haunches, slides his right arm under my shoulders and his left under my knees, and then heaves me up with a grunt. Hunter's heart beats over a hundred times per minute; his muscles shake in effort; a faint odor of sweat mixes with his natural smell of pine, linden flowers, and sugar. I melt into his body, happy.

I pretend I'm a swaddled baby, hungry and distraught, needing care; to be held by someone I love, someone who loves me back. One second stretches into an eternity. My head plops on his shoulder, and I close my eyes and glow.

There is, perhaps, an understanding that travels through our skin, touching through layers of fabric. On purpose, I'm certain, Hunter barely makes a step toward the door before following a lurch of the boat too perfectly and losing balance. His arms let go and he drops me on the soft floor, and then falls down on his butt, hanging his head in theatric humiliation.

"Shit!" he says too fast, his tone a little too convincing. "Sorry, Mr. Bright. Man, I don't think I can do this, she's just too heavy for me." He raises his head expectantly, and I know what he's fishing for.

Nice try, dude.

"What's the matter, son? I'm sure you've fantasized about carrying her over the threshold, haven't you? Here's your chance to practice, go ahead. Or is she too much of a burden for you?" I can hear my father from behind the open door. He must be waiting there for Hunter to carry me out.

"No, no, that's not what I mean. Man, you got it all wrong," Hunter nearly stutters. He never minces words, so this tells me he's scared out of his mind. "I mean sh—"

"Do me a favor, stop talking and do what you're told. Now. Unless you want to break our agreement?" I don't need to see him to know that Papa's eyebrows fly up in question. Wait, what agreement? Did he hire Hunter again, or something? No, I immediately know what it is. He bought Hunter's help in exchange for keeping me alive, I'm sure of it.

"Course not. I'll try again here in a minute. Just...stretching my legs is all," Hunter lies again, leaning over to hoist me up, his face a tight mask of strain.

Hunter, don't believe him, he's bluffing! I mumble into the gag. Don't do this, please. He won't dare kill me, trust me, he's too weak! He's a coward underneath all of this yelling and anger and...only a hushed mutter comes out. I growl, frustrated.

"Don't talk, Ailen, please." Papa appears over both of us and promptly puts his shoe on my neck. I choke. Hunter raises his arm and lets it fall, resigned.

"It's better this way. Learn to be quiet," Papa says, looking at me with a strange sadness. "Carry on, son." Although the last remark is directed at Hunter, I no longer feel jealous at the word son. I only feel pity.

My father steps aside and disappears behind the door again. Beads of sweat prickle Hunter's forehead. He squats, spreads his legs apart for added balance, and, with a strained groan, heaves me off the floor, a siren pupa. Hunter springs up lightly for momentum; and I jump in his embrace, caught for a fraction of a second free, in midair. Hunter catches me by my waist, rotates me upward and folds me over his right shoulder.

My nose hits his back. I inhale the smells of sea, dried sweat, pine with sugar, and turbulent emotion. This is different from how I'm usually carried, from how my father carried me before placing me into the trunk of his Maserati not too long ago, shoving me inside like a sack of potatoes. There is gentleness in Hunter's hold, and his movements are fluid and soft, akin to a waltz. The swaying trawler only adds to the illusion.

Habit makes me escape into a vision of something else, because no matter how brave I try to be, the idea of my father removing my voice horrifies me, and my intuition tells me that we're not going very far. There is, after all, only so much room on a trawler and, judging by the furious swaying of the boat and the prickling sensation on my skin, we must be hitting pretty large waves that can only occur miles and miles away from shore.

Panting, Hunter squeezes through the door opening and into the narrow corridor. My father slams the door and rolls the hand wheel to lock it.

I shut my eyes, searching for sanity.