XIII

"Show me your face."

Henry raises his eyebrows at the request.

"It's not as if I've been keeping it from you."

Victor shakes his head.

"If you're really the culprit behind all this… show me your face. In my mind," he adds. "Isn't that your specialty, after al…? Ugh!"

"Don't push your luck," Henry snaps, his arm once again extended toward his father. "These 'tricks' may very well cut your tongue off, do I make myself clear?" At Victor's quick nod, he relents his grip on his body. "Good thing we cleared that up.

"Now, let me consider your request."

And he actually considers it. Because he knows that, even though Victor thinks he has nothing left to lose—and, therefore, wrongly believes he has the upper hand in this negotiation, the truth is he can still put him through unspeakable pain, both physical and mental. Not to mention this conversation is only taking place on a whim from his part, in the first place, which is the only thing stopping him from just taking the information he seeks from his mind.

Whichever way he looks at it, his pitiful father doesn't stand a chance.

And yet, if he's honest with himself, Henry wants to show himself to him. He wants Victor to see him, to put a face on the person who has made him pay for sins he thought would remain unpunished.

What danger could such information pose, lost in the mind of a "schizophrenic killer"?

Henry makes his choice, then: just this once, he will be reckless. Yes, for once, he will rejoice in the good he has done in ridding the world from his putrid family.

Unlike playing with unwilling minds, projecting an image—especially one lodged in immediate reality—onto a willing mind is child's play.

With his eyes closed, Henry is able to see the same reality he has averted his gaze from.

"Am I not benevolent, Victor?" he asks, raising his arms as he fixes his eyes on his father's, who's still blinking in surprise at being able to see his surroundings. "I have granted your wish to see my face instead of, say, breaking both of your legs or cutting out your tongue, which is what a man of your ilk surely deserves."

Victor, however, oh, insolent Victor, only gapes at him. Henry makes out even the quiver in his jaw.

"You…"

He tilts his head, curious to hear what his father's got to say.

"… have my eyes."

Alarmed, Henry instantly withdraws from his mind. Across from him, fat tears fall from Victor's atrophied eyes.

"What have you said?" Henry hisses, feeling like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. "Old man, what did you say?"

But Victor is unable to answer, for his trembling fingers are not enough to wipe away all the tears that are already gushing down his face and bathing his wrinkles. Henry hates to admit it, but there's really no way to force him to talk: the action is beyond his father's physical capabilities right now. He has no choice but to wait for him to calm down.

Even though only a few minutes pass, Victor seems to take forever to recover himself. Or so Henry thinks; having had fun torturing him, he suddenly hates being here, faced with the deeply rooted memory of a weakness he has left behind decades ago.

"Virginia," the man finally mutters, and although he's still crying, he's at least able to enunciate minimally intelligible sentences, "used to tell me that: that Henry had gotten my eyes. Alice, oh, Alice was her spitting image, but Henry? Henry had gotten my eyes…"

His name on his father's lips feels like a slap in the face. This does nothing but infuriate him.

"What a moving story; get to the point. Now."

Victor purses his lips.

"Virginia was right."

Henry doesn't speak —he doesn't trust himself to talk without making it obvious he has lost control over himself, and he'd rather die than expose himself like that.

"You're broken, Henry," Victor concludes ruefully. "Truly, irreparably broken."