Quicksand

Chapter 10: Ungrateful

"Are you ready to leave?"

Miles looked up, a bit startled by the sound of her voice pervading his daydreams. He quickly composed himself and nodded, slowly standing up and stretching his stiff muscles. "How… did it go?" he asked cautiously. She didn't appear to be in a good mood at all, and this certainly meant things had not gone her way.

Franziska didn't answer him for a short while, waiting until they were both in the car and Miles had started up the ignition to reply. "…I suppose I can see why that woman has given you so much trouble. She is nearly impossible to reason with, nor does she respond to threats of legal action."

Miles nodded solemnly. "…She's a lot like your father…" he murmured, his gaze fixed on the road stretching before them. "…She has no fear of the law, because she knows how to get exactly what she wants… and she's got everyone who matters eating out of the palm of her hand…"

A heavy silence followed his words, and it was clear in that moment that they were both lost for what to do. Franziska stared out of the passenger side window, her hand subconsciously resting over the hidden object in her dress. She wondered if she should tell him it was in her possession… She didn't feel right about keeping such a secret from him, but at the same time… if it did hold some answers, she would probably never find them considering he would most likely destroy it.

"….Did you get… anything out of her at all?" Miles finally asked, a small hint of desperation in his voice, a hope that this trip hadn't been entirely in vein and that they would have something to show for it.

Another bout of silence, and during this time, Franziska was making a decision. Finally, she spoke, and as she did so, she began to pull the small plastic case from its hiding place.

"…She gave me one of the recordings…" the female prosecutor finally admitted. "She said it's… only a copy, so destroying it won't really do us any good. However… she said it would prove to me that… I have a few misconceptions about this situation…"

She could see how hard he was suddenly gripping the steering wheel, and before he spoke a word, his knuckles had already begun to turn white with the pressure his fingers applied. He had a sudden urge to snatch the container away from her, throw it out on the road before them, and run it over about ten times to ensure its destruction… but it passed, leaving him with just a feeling of nausea.

"…What type of misconceptions did she mention…?" he asked, trying to figure out which tape she had been given by finding out what – in particular – might be special about it.

"I'm not entirely sure…" Franziska replied, before looking over at him. "But it… sort of sounded like she was referring to… the fact that I don't believe you about… what's been happening lately…." She paused, and then spoke again, having a difficult time getting these words out. "And… she also said it was her… 'favorite one'…."

Miles felt as if a few more bricks had been dropped into his stomach, and he almost pulled over for fear he'd be sick. The vehicle swerved toward the shoulder of the road, but he straightened it again with a determination to get home and out of public or away from anywhere he could get them both injured in his unstable frame of mind.

A small gasp was Franziska's reaction to the jerk of the wheel, and when they were driving straight again, her hand rested over one of his as if she was going to try and take control of the wheel. She took in a deep breath to steady her nerves, and then moved that hand up to his forearm where it rested. "…Miles…?"

"….If it's what I think it is…. then… it… c-could indeed give you some… evidence of…. the presence of the non-living… but…."

"Miles, you know I don't want to watch it," Franziska stated, her voice firm in order to make her point. "This whole thing sickens me. I hate to see you suffer, and that is a side of my father I never wanted to know existed. I… was going to keep this hidden from you, but that wouldn't be fair…" Her voice softened a little, but her tone was still firm, to assure him that she was completely serious. "It's your decision. If you want me to, I will destroy this card and never see what's on it… but if you think watching this will help me understand… I will… bear it and do my best to comprehend what it is I'm supposed to believe."

And now it was his turn to make a choice. Yes… there was footage saved on that card that would at least make her seriously consider that he wasn't just babbling a bunch of insane nonsense about haunting and poltergeists. However… there was a reason that recording was Amelinda's 'favorite'. That tape depicted what – to this day – he considered the absolute worst night of his life, the most pain and humiliation he had ever experienced, and it was certainly not something he wanted anyone to ever see… especially not the woman he loved.

"…Give me some time to… think about it…." He finally said, unable to make the decision at that moment. She nodded, and then leaned over to kiss him.

"Miles…. I'm so sorry about all of this…. I want to help you… and I don't want to see you in pain… not now…. and not in the past, either…."

This time, it was Miles who nodded in understanding, and from then until they arrived home, not another word was exchanged between them.

For the rest of that day, Miles thought about everything. He didn't really want to, but he couldn't seem to distract himself. And of course, his sleep was not a reprieve. He was sure it was no coincidence that the tape Franziska had been given seemed to match up with this whole timeline of his thoughts perfectly. It was as if all of these events had been predetermined… planned out precisely….

What his dreams showed him were the events after that day in the hospital. Manfred and Amelinda had come in – at separate times, of course – to visit him throughout his entire stay. It had all been so strange to him at the time… for they were being… kind to him. Well, Manfred was still rather callus, but kindness was just something he had always been incapable of displaying. He had just been… much more calm. Miles wasn't scolded, mocked, or hit once. Instead, his mentor would sit down in the chair beside his bed and engage in lessons, tutoring him like a real teacher, and Miles even received the occasional nod of approval for a question he answered particularly well. To that day, he still remembered how good it had felt to his eighteen-year-old self that he was pleasing his mentor, and in an academic way, not in a sexual way.

As for Amelinda, she had basically taken to mothering him. She would bring him meals to substitute the horrible hospital food, give him other books to read or the daily newspaper, and then sit and fawn over him, asking a billion questions about how he was feeling and rejoicing over ever little improvement in his health. Yes, she was still treating him like a child, but by the age of eighteen, Miles had lost his fight, and now he embraced the idea of being cared for instead of scorning her lack of respect. She had reeled him in during that week. When he was discharged, he left that building with a new hope for the future, feeling that everything would continue this way, and even if he was still going to be used by the man walking a step ahead of him, he could just deal with it if he just had some reminder of his humanity and worth to those around him.

How childishly naïve he had been….

When Miles woke the next morning, it was with the knowledge that even if he did ask Franziska to destroy that recording, it would not go away. The events he had been reliving in his head were all leading up to what that tape contained, and the images were growing more and more vivid in his mind. He'd never forgotten them… and he probably never would, but he'd at least been able to push them back along with everything else. Now, it was only a matter of time before he'd relive that night as well, and in the long-run, did it matter if she knew what had happened or not? He had faith by this point that she wasn't going to abandon him no matter what she saw or found out about, and – unless she still found a way to pass off the supernatural as some scientific anomaly – she'd understand that he wasn't crazy, that something - or someone – really was torturing him beyond Amelinda's releasing of the first tape that started this little adventure.

So, after they had both eaten lunch and were sitting silently in the library together, Miles finally gave her his verdict.

"…I think…. watching that recording might… get us closer to solving this…"

She hadn't expected him to speak, so it took Franziska a few moments to register what he'd said. When it clicked, she looked up at him from the book she was reading. "…Are you sure?"

Miles stared straight ahead for a long time, still in the process of convincing himself this was the best choice. "…We're both combating what we think is responsible for this… but until we can decide on an enemy… all we're doing is… battling one another… I can't say for certain that you'll believe after… you see what happened that night, but… it's… the only thing I can think of that… can possibly help you understand…"

The idea that watching this film would make her believe in ghosts sounded just as ridiculous to Franziska as the concept of ghosts itself, but she knew how difficult this was for Miles to handle, and if he was willing to let someone see his torment just for a chance at being believed… she'd face this with an open mind. She had to stop telling herself it was all foolish superstition, because if she watched the film with that attitude, she would be causing them both unnecessary pain and might as well not even watch it at all.

"…All right, Miles…" she said, closing her book and leaning over to kiss him. "…If you think it's worth it… I'll do all I can to understand what… I'm supposed to gain from this. I'll wait until you're asleep, okay?"

Miles nodded, now sure that they would both be witnessing the same scene tonight: Franziska from Amelinda's view through the camera, and Miles from his own point of view in his dreams.

ooooooooooooo

He had been lured into a false sense of security.Schatzi? Aren't you happy to see me…?" On the recording, her voice was masked, but in Miles' memory, it was crystal clear. "There's no reason to look so scared. We're just… having a little fun, remember?"

When Miles had arrived home, he'd been left to himself. Well, not really by himself; Franziska hadn't left him alone. The eleven-year-old had missed him dearly, not at all accustomed to having him gone for so long. She asked about a billion questions about the testing he'd apparently been doing, and Miles was thankful for his ability to lie on the spot, to make up excuses, to hide his torment.

She had also succeeded in making him feel guilty. The moment he had seen her bright, innocent eyes light up at the sight of him, he regretted wholly what he had tried to do. He would have left her alone and in grief, without a friend in the world. He did have someone that cared… It had been selfish of him not to think of her, but perhaps it was simply the fact that she couldn't help him that had made him feel completely alone.

In any case, he'd been given a night to relax and do whatever he pleased, for the most part. This had given him even more hope that his life was going to start improving. The next day, he sat in the library with his mentor and Franziska, answering a barrage of legal questions, fired quickly at each of them in turn with little time for deliberation. This wasn't new, and they had both learned how to think up the answers in the split second they were given before Manfred moved on and considered the question missed.

After the quiz, Franziska was given a new topic to go study, and Miles was ordered to accompany Manfred into his study. This created tension within the young man, but he simply murmured a "Yes, Sir," and did as he was told.

And as he walked into the large office-like room and heard the door shut behind him, he noticed that there was someone else already in the room… standing to the side… behind a camera… This was the first image of him that began the film, looking stunned and fearful. The young man stared at Amelinda – who would not be seen on the tape, of course – feeling hurt and betrayed, having actually believed she'd stop participating in his torment. He then looked up at Manfred, having actually believed that things like this would stop… or become less severe, less frequent. Now… he could sense in the air that this was going to be a horrible night.

"What's wrong,

"That will do." This time, Manfred could be both seen and heard, at least on this part of the tape. For some reason, it had not been as heavily edited as that which was released to the public. However, the main focus was still on Miles. "Come, Miles."

Shaking, Miles walked forward until he stood in the center of the open space between Manfred's desk and the closed study door. "On your knees," came his second order. The older man was speaking in a normal tone of voice, but even his usual manner of speaking was firm enough to demand unquestioning obedience. The eighteen-year-old did as he was instructed, descending slowly to his knees and staring at the floor.

"You have been away from home for a week," Manfred stated, slowly circling Miles as he spoke, like a vulture waiting for the last breath of life from a dying animal. On film, the focus was on Miles, but part of him could be seen as he passed in front of and behind the young man. "Why is that?"

What was this? What was he doing? Miles' only guess was that this was another mind game, or a show put on for the camera… "…I've been… in the hospital…." He replied, his voice barely audible as he spoke quietly toward the ground.

"And why were you hospitalized?" Manfred continued to question as he paced.

"B-because I… fell into a river…." His voice was choked with fear, and he visibly prepared to be struck, for he'd not caught himself until it was too late. However, he got a little bit of a surprise.

"Don't tell lies, Miles," Manfred scolded. He hadn't shouted… or snapped… or growled. He didn't even sound angry, really… It almost sounded as if he was just reminding a child to say 'thank you' after being served a plate of food at a restaurant. He should've felt relief, but instead… it unnerved him.

"I'm…. I'm sorry, Master…" he whispered, swallowing hard before he spoke again. "I was hospitalized because I… I… jumped… into a river…."

"Why did you jump?" was the next question. "Surely, no one in their right mind would do something so foolish and reckless. The waters of the Kyll are quite cold, and the current was particularly strong on the day you decided to dive in."

This hurt, and he hadn't even been touched. He didn't want to think about this anymore, but Manfred knew more than one way to make him squirm, and this was working. "I… w-wasn't… in my right mind, Master…" he replied. "I was… fearful… I wasn't thinking clearly. I just… wanted to… escape…"

"Escape?" God, he hated the way that word had been spoken. The questioning tone was backed by nothing but maliciousness. It had sounded so dark and terrifying that Miles shivered. "Escape what, Miles? You are not in prison. You are not a hostage. You live in one of the most magnificent estates in Europe, aside from the castles and palaces of royalty. You have never been denied a meal, shelter, a warm place to sleep, proper clothing, or the finest health care Germany has to offer. You have been given the best education money can buy, and so long as people know that you have been trained under me, you will never be denied an opportunity. You will have fame and fortune, and you will stand on the top rung of society's ladder for the rest of your life."

By this point, Miles had been reduced to tears, his face hidden in his hands and his body quivering and jerking with sobs.

"So… What, Miles Edgeworth, were you trying to escape?" He stopped walking, and simply stood about three feet in front of the young man, peering down at him, waiting for an answer.

He'd made it all sound so wonderful, and the worst part was that Miles could not deny that anything he'd said was true. However… it wasn't like that! Having all of that didn't make this okay! It didn't make this hurt any less! It didn't give him back his dignity, his humanity, his soul…

"Are you, perhaps, ungrateful?"

A sob caught in the young man's throat and he stiffened up. He couldn't answer that question. Yes, this man had given him a lot… but what he wanted in return wasn't worth any of it.

"Are you ungrateful for all I have given you? I took you in as a child when you had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, and I have spared no expense to ensure that you have the best… as if you were my own." Manfred had stepped forward to now stand right in front of him, reaching down to place his hand beneath Miles' chin and force his head back so that he was looking up, meeting the older man's gaze and allowing him to see the tears that had formed.

"…And yet you act as if you have nothing to live for. You act as if you are one of the misfortunate ones that serve no purpose but to add to the mass grave of self-destructed wretches."

Each word was like a needle, firing from the piercing gaze of his mentor into his own brain, penetrating his mind and sinking in deep. He wanted to close his eyes, to look away, to curl up on the floor and wait for it to go away…

There were a few more moments of silence, as if Manfred was waiting for Miles to say something. When this didn't happen, he removed his hand and stepped away. "Remove your shirt," he ordered, going to retrieve something from another part of the room. With another sob, Miles reached up with shaky hands to begin unbuttoning his red, collared shirt. He undid all three buttons and then slowly lifted the garment up over his head, folded it neatly, and then handed it off to Manfred, who had approached him once more. His bare chest was now exposed, the lack of the natural hair a man normally sported revealing the scars on his chest, stomach, and arms, more vividly than if he wasn't obligated to keep himself as perfectly groomed as a woman.

"Lie down," was his next order, and though it could not yet be seen on film, Miles had gotten a good look at what his master held. His breathing had quickened with anticipation as he moved to comply with the order, first placing his hands on the carpet and then lowering himself down onto his stomach. He buried his face in his folded arms and then waited, shaking.

It didn't take long for the first lash of the whip to cut the thick atmosphere and for Miles' muffled gasp of pain to follow it. Just like in the film that had been released, his back was still covered with scars, but now there were more of them, some of the old ones much more faded, but plenty of fresher ones to compensate. Now, new welts were being created as the harsh leather crop came down upon him over and over again. His gasps became short cries, but he didn't dare lift his head to let them carry. He took this punishment like a pro, the now plainly visible leather collar around his neck a constant reminder that this wasn't just some old-fashioned discipline with no sexual connotation.

By the time Manfred relented, a few of the angry red marks on Miles' back were leaking blood. He was sobbing harder now, already in immense pain and sure this was only the beginning. "On your knees," Manfred ordered again, standing before the young man as he struggled against the pain to push himself up from the floor and back onto his knees. He tried to wipe the moisture from his eyes, but more tears just replaced those he dried.

"Now perhaps that will teach you to show a little gratitude. Am I correct?"

Miles knew what he was waiting for, and he didn't want to say it. However, what he wanted and what he was forced to do were certainly not one and the same. "…Thank you, Master…"

"Very good, Miles." With that, the circling began again, and Miles braced himself for more emotional torment. The whole reason for what he'd done was now being belittled, making him feel like a child that was simply over-exaggerating the magnitude and severity of a punishment.

"I was told that you feel you are not cared for. You feel like you are merely a toy or a slave, kept around only for the amusement of others, others that do not see you as being human or worthy of humane treatment. Miles, do you know what it would truly be like to be considered a slave? You haven't the slightest inkling. You have freedom; you are permitted to go where you please and make your own decisions about what to do with the free time you are allotted, the time that is not devoted solely to your education. All that I demand from you is obedience and that you give your best effort in attaining a level of perfection in your mental capabilities. You have never been asked to do a single ounce of manual labor, and the only upkeep you are expected to do is that of your own bedroom, much less than any normal child would be expected to contribute."

It was as if Manfred wasn't even considering what was currently happening – or what would surely be happening – between them at this very moment. No, he was not a slave to the household, but in this study, to this man, Miles was expected to surrender himself completely, follow every order, take whatever was dished out without a single complaint, and all while referring to this man as his master. This might be a different kind of slavery, but it was slavery nonetheless. It matters not the method or amount of torture one uses to commit a murder; in the end, their victim is still dead and they have become a murderer.

"Furthermore," Manfred continued. "Those that are enslaved are given the lowest grade of food, shelter, and care possible to sustain life. You have never known that type of suffering; you have always had what you've needed and much more, even more so now than when you lived with your father."

This is what Miles hated most of all. Manfred did not mention his father too often, but often enough to ensure that the young man never forgot all the pain those memories brought. Miles had once confessed in a moment of pure distress that he felt entirely responsible for the death of his father, and now he was sure that Manfred was using that to his advantage, just another soft spot to prod at, another nerve to press.

"Tell me, Miles… What was it like living with your father?"

No… This couldn't be happening… Why did he have to dwell on this subject?

"Did you have household chores? Did you have to clean your room, perhaps… help set the dinner table, dust the tables in your living room on occasion? Were there certain behaviors and standards you were expected to live up to, certain mannerisms you would be scolded or punished had you failed to observe them? Or… Did Gregory simply let you do as you pleased, just providing you with a home and anything you desired while never requiring you to lift a finger or behave in a civilized manner?"

"O-of course I was expected to… to behave and… and help around the house…" His voice had gotten a bit louder as he said this, the current conversation bringing him to a level of distress bordering on panic.

"Then if that is the case…how is it any different here?" Once more, Manfred stopped walking in order to stand in front of Miles and watch him, wait for him to answer this question for which there was no satisfactory response. "How is it that you adore him as a wonderful, caring man, while you view me as a slave driver?"

Miles knelt there before him, sobbing and shaking while he stared at the carpet. His knees were getting soar by this point, but that was the least of his worries. "…because he never hurt me…" Miles whispered, his voice quivering and weak. "….My father…. never…. did this to me…."

Laughter. It was quiet and only brief, but it did all the damage it needed to. Miles' head was forced back once more, this time with a grip on his hair, and he stared up at a malevolent smirk. "Well… I am not your father, Miles, nor have I ever tried to resemble such a figure. However, I have raised you regardless of that fact. My methods and expectations are indeed quite different and more intense, but the fact remains that I have not a single obligation to you. Yet… you would rather die."

Miles was forced to stare up into the face of his tormentor for a few more moments, which felt like eons. During this time, it was all allowed to sink in, and Miles was certain that this was Manfred's intent. Everything was buzzing around in his head, guilt he really shouldn't have been feeling, a more powerful sense of self-loathing, and the horribly familiar feeling that he deserved all of this. For a while now, there had been some small part of him that had come to want this, that looked at it as atonement for the crime of patricide he had unknowingly and unintentionally committed at the age of nine. Now, that part of him seemed to be expanding, becoming more powerful and prominent.

Maybe the relief of death was more than he deserved… Maybe he had unwittingly doomed himself to live a life of servitude to pay for what he'd done, and to dream about it every single night until it all slowly drove him completely insane and he rotted away in a padded room with barred windows, or drugged in a permanent state of semi-consciousness until he just… never woke up one morning. Perhaps it was his curse to live this way, to suffer this, and the day which brought him death – not by his own hand – would only come when he had fully paid his dues. Death would be his final reward, and a reward could not be stolen in advance, cheaply and unearned. That was why he had not drowned…. He still had a debt to pay. He still had to give himself up over and over again, until he'd earned his rest fairly.

But how much longer would it take…? As he received his next order, Miles prayed to a God he didn't believe in that he could soon be at peace.