Soul for a Soul || Self-Para
The grip on the back of her neck was bruising, so much so that she feared any more pressure would snap her spine. Her hair tangled under her father’s fingertips, pinching pain scattering across her scalp, but she dared not cry out – crying out would only cause more pain to follow, and she was almost positive she may not survive the encounter.
Morrigan knew where Douglas was dragging her despite Desmond’s strict rules for her to not go past a certain point. Curiosity killed the cat and all, but she was able to steel herself a little more that the unknown was known instead of letting the uncertainty eat away at her. She was headed towards the direction of the dungeon, as her and Chandler liked to call it.
A cold and empty, most of the time, basement. Drain in the middle of the floor, bare necessities for more… long term occupants and a locked closet with implements that were only in her wildest nightmares. A rather mafia-esque room that only stone cold killers would shove someone. A killer like her father if the murderous glares he was sending her was any indicator.
She’d been in her room studying for class when he bust in like a hurricane of fury. Morrigan couldn’t help shrinking away from the imposing aura– Douglas never came to her room, never deigned himself low enough to visit someone like her. A useless woman when there wasn’t money involved.
“You fucking whore,” he bellowed, his voice echoing so much so that she knew Chandler would hear from down the hall, “I let you go to school, give you freedom, and you find a boy and fuck him.” Her stomach fell, a pit of anxiety forming large enough to make her nauseous. He knew. She still had to try to deflect; anything to hide Julian.
Morri scrambled to her feet and backed away, “I’ve done no such thing, father, I swear.” Her voice was pleading but nothing could stop the bulldozer of a man charging at her; hand reared back and smacking her with such force that she lost her footing, falling back into her bed. She immediately tasted the tang of blood from a split lip– a hand shakily wiping away the crimson that had appeared.
“You dare lie?” Douglas seethed, gripping her throat and lifting her so they were nose to nose; her feet dangling in the air since her father was taller than her by good foot and change. Morrigan couldn’t even speak, choking around her father’s grip as her hands tried to find purchase on his forearm– her attempt to leverage space so she could breathe met with increasing pressure. Her vision swam and darkened around the edges, and she felt like she was floating until reality came crashing back down; her father having thrown her to the ground.
Morri struggled to breathe past the lump in her throat, fingers scratching against the carpet of her bedroom to alleviate the pain. Air wheezed into her lungs, her father having come so close to crushing her larynx completely. Any reprieve she was wishing to get wasn’t coming when Douglas took a fistful of her hair, craning her head at an awkward angle. “An associate of mine saw the two of you together, you thought you were so clever,” he hissed, punctuating his words by ramming her head into the floor. However plush her carpeting was, it didn’t diminish the impact; pain skittering in her skull.
“Father, please,” she begged, “it’s not what you think. Nothing happened.”
Begging was the wrong decision, she knew that when a swift kick was delivered to her stomach, a choking noise bouncing off the walls of her room. “Give me his name, whore,” Douglas’ question punctuated as he kicked, “give it to me and I’ll let you off easy.”
Tears fell from her cheeks as she shook her head. She couldn’t– wouldn’t– subject Julian to the same torture as her or death. Not when she made the conscience decision to pursue what was between them, especially when she knew that waited for her at the end of the line. Morrigan Urie was never a free girl, she was living on borrowed time until she was sold. It was all her fault.
That was the thought that lingered in her head as she was drug to the basement and thrown unceremoniously onto the floor– the force of the impact gouging through her leggings, causing her knees and her palms to bleed. “I’ll give you some time alone to think carefully on the next thing that comes out of your mouth,” Douglas said coolly before closing the reinforced door, the latches and deadbolts leaving a sickening feeling in her stomach.
Morrigan wiped her hands against the fabric of her leggings, wincing against the sharp needles of pain, but so far this wasn’t something she couldn’t handle. She slowly pressed her fingertips into the injured parts of her body, assessing the damage. It was easier to list off what wasn’t hurt, but nothing was permanent that she could tell.
She rose onto shaky feet, arms wrapping around her middle as she shivered. There wasn’t much to protect her from the cold of the basement when she only wore a t-shirt and now leggings with holes in them. Morrigan chanced a look around the bleak room, surely to be her doom as many others who were brought down here– only those that had committed heinous crimes against the family came down here… she could only guess that was especially true for her.
Morrigan’s eyes met the camera in the corner of the ceiling, staring back at her with a blinking red light. She was being watched, so she dared not utter a word– even though she probably couldn’t from the trauma on her neck currently. She wandered to the cabinet of curiosities, noticing the large padlock on the handles. Smart, she thought. Keeps death out of the hands of the prisoners.
She felt weary, exhaustion setting into her bones even though she could only have been locked in the basement for mere minutes. Morrigan pushed herself onto the bed, avoiding the strange stains on both the flooring and the bare mattress with her uncovered feet; shrinking into a ball as if to protect herself. That was the only time she allowed herself to think of him, in her dreams where she saw his smile, his dimples– heard his intoxicating laugh.
Morrigan no longer knew how long she was locked into the room the next time her father visited, it could have been hours or days– nothing but the fluorescent lights that never turned off and the dripping of a leaking pipe to keep her company. She only knew it must have been a significant chunk of time for how grimy she felt, her hair starting to get greasy at the scalp. She was snapped out of a dozing slumber when the door banged open; her father’s imposing stance filling the doorframe.
In an instant she was on her feet, not willing to meet his gaze sitting down and vulnerable; though there wasn’t really any stance she could take that would make her ever feel like anything more than a mouse in his presence. “Name,” he demanded. She’d have to be an idiot not to know what he was asking for, yet she only shook her head in response. Morri met Douglas’ hard gaze with her own, lifting her chin in silent defiance.
His ice blue gaze flicked to the cabinet and she knew that spelled the start of the physical torture phase. She flinched as Douglas unlocked it, the padlock falling to the ground with a loud bang. “Kneel,” the order fell from her father’s lips and she obeyed, keeping a wince to herself as she knelt on her bruised and scraped knees; knowing that wasn’t the worst she was going to feel. She heard it then, the snap of leather in her father’s hands, nausea rolled her stomach and bile rose in her throat.
Douglas wasted no breath asking his question again, knowing that he wasn’t going to pry it out of her until he was done. Morrigan only heard the whistle before the impact of the whip sliced against her back– she understood why her father didn’t request that she removed her shirt; it offered little to no barrier against the barrages. She was successful in keeping her pain to herself, but after the fifth or sixth strike, when he changed where he aimed so that the whip was now impacting pre-existing wounds.
She couldn’t help her screams then, the force of the screams squeezing around the knot in her throat; her wails bouncing off the walls and coming back at her amplified, so it sounded as though there were ten of her screaming. Morrigan could feel the blood coming out of her wounds in torrents, her father not even bothering to pull his strikes. She lost count until eventually Douglas was done, though she was numb to more pain– her entire back feeling like a wildfire of pain. Morri only registered that there were no more whippings when he knelt in front of her, her eyes moving from where she fell into a fetal position to take in the blood that splattered his arms and shirt, her blood, to meet his face.
His face was as cold and indifferent as she always saw him when he looked at her, except this time he was painted with streaks of her blood. The sight of it almost made her retch. “Name,” he spat out. Morrigan responded with a weak shake, her body falling into shock as the cold of the concrete floor seeped into her skin– perhaps she would die there? Then he’d be safe, save her brothers didn’t rat Julian out. Desmond and Chandler wouldn’t, though. Not if she wouldn’t. Morrigan bit down on her tongue to keep his name from spilling from her lips until she tasted the iron of her own blood.
Her father tsked, letting the bloodied whip fall to the ground in front of her. “That was the easiest punishment I had in store. Trust me, you will tell me eventually,” he muttered in almost cold indifference, like the whole ordeal was a boring chore to him. Anger simmered in her body though she had no energy to move from the floor, so she did what she could and glared at the man. The most brazen look she’d ever given him, but he didn’t care to look as his retreating through the door. A shuttered breath that broke into a sob sounded the moment she heard the door bolt shut. Even if she had an audience looking at her through the camera, she cried.
Her tears dried eventually as she fell in and out of consciousness, the pain in her back severe enough that she dared not move. She embraced the cold and dingy floor– faintly making the realization that her blood stains now collected and was drying onto the floor, becoming part of the gruesome tapestry that the next inhabitant would have to look at. The thought made her laugh, giggle almost… no one was safe in the basement dungeon if Douglas Urie’s own fucking daughter was there. Still she dreamed of him.
She jolted awake at hearing the door unlatch, steeling herself for another attack, but relief washed through her blood at the sight of her brother though she didn’t dare let it show on her face. Morrigan took in her brother’s appearance. Blonde hair disheveled and sporting black eyes from a broken nose. His punishment. She watched him but made no movement as he bent down and grabbed the whip– she realized what the display was for then… his punishment, to see her in that state and clean up after their father like the dutiful soldier he was. Desmond lingered though, her eyes moving from the whip in his hand to his face, fear washing through her. Perhaps she had miscalculated and she was about to be beaten again at the hand of her brother, but it was shoved to the back of her mind when he gave her an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Relief washed through her– they hadn’t said anything. They hadn’t broken yet; they were still holding strong. Julian was safe still. She could have sobbed with happiness if she had any more energy and tears left in her. Desmond set upon his task of cleaning and putting everything away, not daring to say another word. For a second she felt safe in his presence and his news was a safety blanket on her, a small reprieve from the pain she felt. She heard a distant clatter, out of the corner of her eyes she saw that an ugly looking knife had fallen onto the floor. She had expected Dezzie to bend over and retrieve it, however she noticed that his foot moved slightly to edge it under the table out of view from anyone that was standing and the camera.
An angel in disguise, ever her protector even when they were both in the midst of their own hell with their father. Desmond locked up the cabinet again, retreating to the door again; not sparing her another glance in fear of more retaliation. Then it was back to the game of ‘how long has it been’.
Drip, drip, drip of the pipes and the flicker of the lights kept her company.
Eventually Morri gained the strength to slowly sit up, every inch moved pure agony– her groans of discomfort quickly morphing into sobs of pain. She could only sit there and regain her composure slowly through measured breaths. Time was inconsequential, but she knew deep in her bones and that of her flayed back that not enough time had passed between her whipping to endure another torture when the door flew open again.
Her father advanced and tossed an object at her, the clack of it skittering to a halt pool of her blood. Her burner phone. He must have torn her room apart, searching for answers that she didn’t dare to give– it was hidden under a loose board in her wall. Morrigan glanced up at the man that she never regarded as her father, but no longer regarded as a man but a monster. Pure evil. Her hands shook as she grabbed the phone risking a glance at the message that displayed on the screen knowing that it would most likely be the last time she ever saw anything he said.
B.E.: What have you been up to? B.E.: You alright? I can grab your homework if you need it. B.E.: Where are you? B.E.: …? B.E.: I love you
She could only sob as she stared at the words, glancing back up at her father; pressing the phone into her chest like it would keep Julian safe and sound. Sheltered from the wrath of her father. There wasn’t much left in her to keep him hidden– now that there was physical truth of betrayal in her father’s eyes, there wasn’t anything that would stop him from prying Julian’s name from her lips. It was then that she remembered the small sliver of hope her brother had provided her. Either to use on their father… or herself. It was up to her.
She lunged for the knife, her body and muscles screaming at the sudden movement, scraping desperately across the floor for the knife that was hidden; a creeping desperation clawing at her spine as she felt the rumblings of her father advancing on her. She was screaming, she realized, the hoarse noise piercing against the blood rushing in her veins as she grabbed the hilt of the knife– drawing it towards her with such ferocity only for it to stop before piercing too deeply. Her father’s hand around her hand. “Not so fast, you bitch,” he roared, snapping her wrist; the blade falling to the floor silently as she screamed. “You think you could get off that easy? I tell you when you die, your life is mine,” he yelled even louder, his fists raining down relentlessly– hitting anything and everything.
“Name, now,” Douglas punctuated with a shake. Morrigan couldn’t even see his wrath anymore, her eyes having swollen shut several punches ago. At least in the darkness, she could envision him. Julian’s curly hair, the softness of his lips on hers, the sound of her name on his lips. She wasn’t stupid enough to use his real initials, Desmond and them all made code names for each other, she gave Julian ‘Blue Eyes’… one of her favorite features about him. So… she lied. She was a terrible liar, but she had hoped with every fiber of her being that her father bought it.
“B-B…rian Edwards,” she croaked out, tears leaking out through the slits of her swollen eyelids.
God, forgive her for condemning another so Julian may live.
She felt the impact of the floor hit her body as her father dropped her like yesterday’s trash, his cold voice the only thing she could register, “You just had to make it so hard. For that, I’m going to make his death even more painful than anything you’ve experienced.” Morrigan shivered, at his words until the darkness blessedly claimed her.
Morri mind floated along, blissfully unawares and free from her torn and battered body until something was tugging at her mind. Talking… hushed whispers more like, it was bringing her to the surface and the surface hurt. She gasped as pain flooded her system, choking as her throat was too dry to withstand the rapid intake of breath. Morrigan could hear the rapid beeping of a monitor next to her as it signified her raising anxiety and desperation– her eyes were glued shut, her arms shooting to the side to grasp something, anything, to protect herself until she felt the prick in her arm and darkness claimed her once again.
The next time she came to, Morrigan was able to open her eyes… well one of them. The sunlight hurt… everything hurt. She realized she was in her room, in her own bed– glancing around, there wasn’t any sign that her room had been destroyed like she thought. A movement caught her eye, a nurse entered her room, someone she wasn’t familiar with. She could have laughed at the situation. On the outside it appeared as though her father was a caring man, keeping his injured daughter safe in the confines of their home and providing around the clock care when in reality he didn’t want her to be seen as damaged as she was. Morrigan was still goods, as damaged as she was, and her father would rather meet an early grave than let his goods be seen as anything less than extraordinary.
“Oh, dear, you’re awake,” the elderly nurse said as she approached, kindness etched on her face, “you’re at home. Whoever had kidnapped you did a real number on you… you’ve been in an induced coma for a week now.” The woman pushed the chair closer to the bed and sat in it. She almost snorted at the obvious lie her father had told the woman and most likely officials that came knocking on the door, though no one would dare question Douglas Urie. Morri turned her head to face her, as agonizing as it was, to utter a simple word. “Brian?” The woman cocked her head in confusion before a lightbulb went off, “Oh… your father thought you’d ask so he wanted me to read an article to you once you woke up.”
There was a shuffling of paper before the woman spoke again, “okay… he said it was on the third page…” More rifling before a hushed ‘oh dear’ and the woman cleared her throat. Morrigan couldn’t face the woman and watch her face morph with whatever she had spot read in the newspaper, so she opted to stare at the ceiling. “Brian Edwards, found in the port canal early Tuesday morning by officials– mutilated almost past recognition. Suspected gang crime.” The woman couldn’t stomach whatever the article wrote, and Morrigan couldn’t blame the woman.
“Did you know him, dear?” She asked.
Morrigan nodded, “I loved him and now I can never see him again.”
It was only she that knew who she was talking about. It wasn’t Brian Edwards, and as long as her father lived and breathed… she could never see Julian again.