TW: Knives, blood
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Olaf's grip is hard on the back of her neck, his thumb pressing in so that she can feel her pulse in her jaw.
"Of course. Give me one minute." Bored, the man behind the desk flips through some cards. "You say you were in room…?"
"Six thirteen." Irritated, Olaf taps his fingers against the counter.
The man frowns. "It says here the room is a single." Curious, he glances between the two of them. He doesn't have to say anything for Violet to see him quickly calculating the differences in their ages.
"My daughter," Olaf offers. Lie. She can hear the menace in his voice, knows the man will not be able to detect it.
"Daughter, of course." He shoots her a cursory glance. She smiles.
"And how did you lose the key?"
"It's in the room. My daughter forgot it."
Lie. He left it because he was drunk, ready to rummage through her things again.
"Oh, yes?" The man behind the desk chuckles. "You do that to your poor dad?"
"It was an accident," she shrugs.
"Kids. Such rascals, am I right?" Olaf rubs the top of her head with his knuckles. She winces.
"Sorry, dad." She tries to step away, but his hold on her neck is firm. The man laughs.
"They certainly are. I'll have someone come down with a masterkey."
"Thank you, Sir." Olaf smiles. "Thank the nice man, Laura."
It's a moment before she remembers she is Laura.
"Thank you."
The two men laugh together. Olaf's nails pinch her skin.
"Now, it may be a while, so if you haven't had the opportunity already, may I suggest taking the time to visit our dining options on the Captain's deck?"
Olaf leans against the desk. "How is the wine selection?"
Ten minutes later they are seated at a too-small table with a white tablecloth worn thin from constant bleaching. Having taken the liberty of pulling out her chair, Olaf immediately seated himself directly to her right, leaving the table an awkward display of open space. He downs his newly poured glass quickly, doesn't flinch as he does so.
"And for the lady?" the waiter asks, turning to Violet.
"My daughter will have the house special," Olaf waves the man off with a uncaring hand, pouring Violet a glass of whatever it was he was drinking. It is red. Unflinchingly red.
"We don't have a house special, Sir."
"Then she will have whatever's convenient." He hands the man his menu. Questioningly, the waiter turns to her.
"The grilled chicken will be fine." She hands him her own menu. With a nod, he leaves.
"Don't embarrass me like that." Olaf doesn't look at her as he speaks, refilling his glass.
"Embarrassing? How am I embarrassing? You-" She bites her tongue. (The saying is supposed to be a metaphor, she knows that, but she can taste the battery acid blood in her molars.)
"Yes?" He drags the knife further up her leg, slowly sipping his drink. "You were saying?"
"Sorry." She stares at the wall. "It won't happen again." Her fingers fidget in her lap. After all this time, she is still fourteen years old.
"Good girl." He turns the knife over, lets her feel the blade scraping over her skin. "I would so hate for you to suddenly get a loose tongue. I can't imagine what might happen if you were to forget yourself, Laura."
She closes her eyes. "I won't."
"Look at your father when he is speaking to you." He spits the words out under his breath.
She takes a breath, making a conscious effort to turn her neck. Strange, how many small parts the body was made of.
His face is horribly calm, lips fixed in what could be a casual grin if one doesn't look too close.
"I'm sorry." She tightens her jaw. "Father."
"Much better. Now. Don't you want your drink?"
"No." Lie.
"Just a taste. It's good." He smiles wider. The gesture doesn't reach his eyes.
Hesitant, she takes the glass, holds a thimble's amount between her teeth and lips. It's room temperature.
"Good, see?" He sits back, drags the knife along her leg.
"Yes." She counts the monochrome pictures on the walls. There's twelve of them. Four on each wall. After a few moments of staring, she realizes they aren't pictures, but newspapers. She wonders what the stories are. Good reviews? Family events?
A waiter comes by to fill the water glasses she hadn't noticed were empty. "Everything alright with the lady and gentleman?"
"Splendid. Isn't that right, darling?"
"Yes. Splendid." Lie. She smiles at the waiter as he passes, wishes she knew morse code. Maybe then she could spell out the word "help." If she only had a writing utensil, she could write it on the corner of her napkin, slip it onto her finished plate.
"Why so glum, sugarplum?" Olaf traces her knee, uses the top of the knife to flip up the skirt of her dress. Feeling the blush rising in her body, she reaches for her water glass, masks her discomfort by fishing out some ice cubes for her wine.
"How uncouth," Olaf laughs. She only shrugs, grits her teeth as his knife works its way up her thigh, bringing her skirt with it.
"Stop." She doesn't look at him as she speaks, cannot stomach the glee she knows will be there.
"Stop what? I'm not doing anything."
"Someone will see." She takes a drink of her wine, hides her expression behind a show of boredom.
"Not if you stay quiet."
The blade slithers along her outer leg. She forces herself not to shiver. The metal is cold, but it could always be worse.
"Olaf-"
"Daddy."
"Father." She stares at her hands, folded together on the table. "I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to do that."
"Oh, but it's so like old times, isn't it?" He chuckles as if reminiscing on boyhood pranks. "What was the name of that man? The one with the ridiculous name. He died while babysitting you."
She grits her teeth, doesn't want to answer, but knows he is not afraid of drawing blood. "Uncle Monty. You killed him."
"What? No," he denies it campishly, not a sliver of doubt in his voice. "Surely I would remember killing old Doctor Montgomery Montgomery."
"Don't say his name." She doesn't care if he hurts her, doesn't want Uncle Monty's memory held in the graveyard of his mouth.
He ignores her, strokes his beard as if in thought. "That was just after you were handed off to me, wasn't it?"
"After you tried to marry me."
"That's right; your brief debut into the arts." He laughs. "My, you were a pretty thing. Nothing gives a father greater pleasure than watching such a lovely girl blossom before his eyes." The knife wanders up until she is certain it is going to touch her belly. The acid in her stomach rolls. Maybe if she throws up, she can buy some time alone. "Of course," he stops, twisting the knife so that it brushes feather-light against her, "poor Bertrand had no such opportunity. Burning to a crisp will do that you."
Grabbing her wine glass, she downs it. Without looking away from her face, he signals a waiter to bring another bottle. "Do you remember the first time we played this game, dear? How nicely you squirmed for me?" He purrs, proud of his ability to conquer anything smaller and weaker than himself.
"Go to hell," she hisses as begins counting the thread ratio in the tablecloth.
"Such a cute little thing. I had rather hoped you'd try to sneak out of bed again that night."
"Olaf-"
"And what disappointment when you didn't. I had the spend the entire night jerking off just to quiet the thought." He sighs contentedly, brushes the knife back down her leg. "Funny how things change."
"Please," she whispers the word, wants to bury her face in the tablecloth.
"Please what?"
"Please stop." She imagines cracking him over the head with her glass. But he's survived worse, would survive that, and would make her pay for it.
"You have a lot to learn, don't you, Brat?" He places the knife down on his leg, uses both hands to take the bottle from the waiter. She pours herself the last of the old bottle. "Which one was your favorite?" He swirls his glass, acts as if he is a connoisseur beyond alcohol content.
"Which what?"
"Guardian. Which was your favorite?" When he smiles, she can see the wine stains between his teeth. She looks away again. "Oh come on. Don't get shy now. I'll tell you my favorite."
"Don't talk to me." She stares at the second newspaper in on the wall opposite her. There's a blotchy black and white photo that she can't quite make out from here. A cliff? Maybe a mountain?
"Is that any way to speak to your father?"
His voice cracks in poorly restrained anger. She can see the tension in his throat as he takes up his knife again.
"My apologies," she spits. How bad would it be if he did cut her? Bleeding out on a restaurant floor couldn't be worse than this. But she knows better, knows he will never be so kind.
SOS, she remembers with a jolt. She doesn't have to be able to spell. The thought makes her feel stupid.
"Manners."
"My apologies, father." How difficult would it be to take the knife from him? Moreover, would it be worth it? What if the waiter is working with him? It would certainly explain Olaf's ridiculous bravado. The ice taps against her lip as she drinks from her glass. He refills it.
"Much better." He licks his teeth. The motion reminds her of a snake. "You know, I always wondered," he hums contemplatively, "did you ever notice the way your things went missing?"
She doesn't decide to look at him; she just does. He's glad for the reaction, smiles like an indolent child being given attention.
"Excuse me?"
"I've amassed quite a collection over the years." There is undisguisable glee in his eyes: he knows he's hit a nerve.
"Why would you do that?"
"Did it ever make you think you were going mad?"
"No!" Lie. "We moved around so much, it was a wonder I held onto anything at all!"
"Did you?" He cocks his head. "Hold onto anything, I mean."
She stares at him. He already knows the answer.
"You know…" Sighing contentedly, he swirls his wine, sips it slowly. "I could be persuaded to hand a few of my treasures over."
She thinks of the ribbon she had worn in her hair on that day at Briny Beach, of other small trinkets she had long ago mourned.
"I don't need them." Lie. She hates the accusatory weight of the wine on her tongue.
"Sure, sure, sure. Just something to think about."
"You're sick."
"Perhaps. But I'm a survivor."
"I would hardly call what you've done surviving."
"Is your own story any better?"
"Go to fucking hell."
"Language."
"Go to fucking hell, dad."
He laughs as if she has told a great joke, and then there is a hot searing on her leg. In the moment she is glad she work a navy dark dress, though in hindsight she will regret the decision.
Both of them are tense as he presses the cool edge of the blade to the papercut-thin scratch. "Don't think for one moment my capacity for torture has run dry, let alone been touched." His tone is stiff, doesn't match the calm placidity of his face. "Believe me, you worthless brat, you would be surprised at what your body will accept in exchange for death. I can see to it that misery becomes a kindness bestowed upon you so long ago you cannot remember its name, just the way it felt, the struggle of wanting to live. When I am through, you will beg me for death, and I may not be so kind. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," her voice slides out of her mouth, deflated.
"Good." He drains his glass. She waits an appropriate amount of time before doing the same. He drags the blade up her inner thigh. She stares at the wall.
Sixteen. There are sixteen pictures, not twelve, she realizes; she just can't see the ones behind her, unless they break the pattern on the last wall. If she could get away from this knife, she could find out what they are.
"You know," he drawls, as if deep in thought, "there are so many different kinds of knives."
"Is that so."
"Oh yes," he wrinkles his forehead, nodding, refilling his own glass with the dregs of the bottle. "Pocket knives. Switchblades. Army knives. Machetes. This right here is a steak knife." He draws a small loop along her inner knee. "Cousin of the less threatening butterknife."
"Fascinating." Maybe they're articles chronicling the ship's voyages.
"Yes. It can be overwhelming, trying to see the differences. Though in my line of work, it is, of course, necessary. Take the humble butterknife, for example. Only a knife in name, really. You wouldn't get far trying to slice anything of a heartier matter unless you had plenty of time and patience."
"Oh, yes?" Maybe they're human interest pieces about past passengers. Or news stories from far away ports, once visited. If she squints, she can just barely make out the ones closest to them. Nonchalantly, she looks over her shoulder.
"Yes. Now, if you don't have time or patience, as is most often the case, you'll want something much sharper. That's why chef's knives are so smooth. Same with hunting knives, paring knives. Jagged edges tear the material, they don't cut it. If you want something clean and quick, something more, shall we say, humane, you're going to need something that is both thin and smooth. One swipe and it's over." He scrapes the knife along her leg. "Jagged edges make it messy, more… laborious. Draws it out. With a thin, sharp blade, it's almost a mercy kill." He takes a sip of his blood-wine. "Do you want to guess what my favorite knife is?"
"What's your favorite knife?" She sits back, feeling nauseous. They're articles about shipwrecks. Every single one of them. The pictures, once given context, are obviously photographs of huddled persons, half-afloat monoliths.
"Carving knives."
She looks at him. "Those are serrated."
"I know." He smiles.
She takes a drink.
"Fresh bread," says the waiter, placing a basket on their table.