*All characters belong to Veronica Roth
*This story contains the severe corporal punishment of a teenager, please do not read if this makes you uncomfortable
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Chapter Two: Preparation
"Tobias."
I cannot bring myself to look into his eyes. Not when mine are threatening to overflow with tears. Does a selfless man make his own son feel this way?
"Tobias, LOOK AT ME."
I am trembling. I shift my gaze from my feet to his face. He no longer wears the scowl, but instead is expressionless. It has always scared me how he can go about doing this to his own son without any hint of emotion. I haven't looked directly at him since he entered the room. I failed to notice what he held in his hands: a belt. The same one he's been using for years. When I was younger he made me sit by the table and oil it, to keep it supple and more importantly, painful. Now he does it himself; I do not know why. His eyes follow mine down to the instrument–– the weapon, and I think it is my imagination, but the corners of his mouth curl up, just ever so slightly. I am terrified.
"Remember, son. This is for..."
"... your own good." I finish his sentence in my head. Of course he says that. He has never gone once without saying those exact words, in the exact same way. Without meaning, without sincerity. His words are empty, like his intentions. His eyes are the same as always. Blank, expressionless, unreadable. Like black pits.
He motions for me to bend over my bed. This is how it's always been done. I am at his mercy, the way he wants it. I feel vulnerable, defenseless, and weak. The one thing about these punishments is the consistency. They are always more or less the same. Administered in the same way, although the number he assigns and force he uses are determined by my infraction and his mood. Today, my infraction, in his eyes, was dead serious. And with the help of the reports and rumors from Erudite, his mood is at an all-time low.
I walk over slowly and everything feels like it has slowed down. I can hear each of my rugged breaths as if they are amplified and his words echo in my head. For your own good. Is it really? Is it really for my own good, or for your pleasure, your easy access to stress and anger relief. As the days pass on, I believe more and more it is the latter.
I reach the foot of my bed. It is made and neat, as Father expects it to be every morning. By the end of this punishment, I doubt it will be neat anymore. That's alright, because if he lets me go to bed, I will spend all night crying into my sheets as always. Am I a coward? No, I know for a fact that what he does is inhumane. It is cruelty and abuse. I have only seen my welts once, when I sneaked down to take a look in the mirror while he wasn't home, and they were awful. Almost three days old, and still they were raised and my bum was covered in purple, green and red splotches. That morning, I didn't close the cabinet with the mirror properly and got another beating that night for being vain and looking in the mirror. Welts on top of welts. I was in pain for over two weeks. I pray to God this time he will be more lenient this time. I know he will not be.
Kneeling down on the ground, I lay my torso over the bed, presenting my bum at the perfect angle for his belt. I know every procedure, exactly how he wants it. This is a result of doing the same thing over countless times. It is not something to be proud of.
"You will receive twenty-two strokes."
My heart sinks. Twenty-two is the most I've ever gotten. The next highest was 18 and that left me unable to sit for 2 weeks and bruised for 3. My father may be Abnegation, but he is strong. Combined with his anger and that belt, his strength is no match for mine. I will not be able to make it through this.
"Twelve for your utter lack of respect at the dinner table and twelve for questioning my judgment. Since God is graceful, two strokes will be deducted. You know what to do."
I barely hear him, but I do know what to do. He will expect me, as always, to count and thank him. I must be selfless. He is taking his time and energy to do this for me, and I must be thankful. Feeling sick, I nod, and I know he sees me even though he is behind me and I am facing the wall. He expects me to take it in silence and not move. To be in control. I doubt myself this time. This time, I do not know what lies ahead.
