Fear Itself

But he left almost as soon as we got there. It didn’t matter much to me, though. At least Sam was there, and Sam seemed more than willing to talk today, mostly because he was very much interested in the fact that Avery once knew me, which meant Avery once knew my mom, Lawrence, and his father.

“I can’t get over that,” he chuckled, finally turned away from his computer. I sat on his bed, and he sat in his rickety rolling desk chair, legs extended out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, hands folded over his center. He was calm, relaxed, probably sort of pleased with how the riot went, for the most part anyway. He didn’t have much to plan, since the plan at the moment was to lay low. All we had to worry about was staying put and not drawing attention to ourselves. It was time to let things air out and quiet down. The League was too heavy on security at the moment for us to try and get anything done, so I found that we spent a lot of time lounging around, talking, and making Dean very angry over out-dated board games. “And he never said any of this before?”

“Nope,” I replied, laying back against the stiff mattress, hands tucked under my head. “Classic tale of Freudian suppression,” I joked. Sam grinned, chuckled under his breath. “Makes sense though. Life hasn’t exactly been kind to him,” I confessed quietly, eyes staring up at the tiled ceiling. I thought about his mother, the state she was in… how he still took care of her even though she snapped and snarled at him like he was some mangy stray dog that had wandered into her flat.

“What’s so bad about it?” Sam inquired with calm curiosity.

“Not my place to say. Those are private things, Sam,” I replied, turning my head to him. My blonde curls spilled over the side of the bed. Sam dropped his eyes to the floor for a moment and gave me a faint smile. “No offense. I’d tell you if it was my life.”

“I get it,” he told me with a small sigh. “He just interests me. Nobody really knows much about him.”

“I know quite a bit,” I boasted a little, and I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.

“Yeah, we know. Dean’s bloody pissed that you’ve got him on your beck and call,” Sam jested. “I’m quite envious myself, you know. That’s quite a talent you got there.”

“I don’t think so,” I disagreed, turning my head back to the ceiling. “I think people judge him for surface value rather than what he really is.”

“And what’s that?”

“A kind person. Someone scared of trusting others because he’s been betrayed too many times. Somebody who cares a lot more than people give him credit for.” I paused. “I think people see him and get scared of him, but there’s really no reason to be frightened.”

“You don’t think there’s reason to be scared of him?” Sam scoffed in disbelief, leaning forward in his chair. “Hardened criminal who spent seven years in the slammer, kills people for a living, barely speaks more than a word, and has a stare cold enough to freeze hell. You aren’t scared of that?”

“Seven years?” I asked, propping my body up on my elbow. “Really? Did he kill someone, Sam?” I pried, looking for answers Avery wouldn’t give me. “Is that why he was there for so long?”

“Well, he wasn’t killing anyone before he was there—“ Sam cut himself off and blinked. “Wow, his life really has been shit hasn’t it?” I smiled faintly and nodded. “Speaking of shitty lives, how do you hold up?” Sam asked. Nobody ever said he was a good conversationalist.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I answered with furrowed brows, looking at him curiously.

“You know… with your mom being executed. You’ve adjusted rather well considering the circumstances,” he elaborated. “You just seem awfully happy and blissfully unaware of the entire thing. I never hear you talk about it either. Then again, you’re not exactly what I expected the daughter of the Head of Mind Control & Torture to be.”

I had just started to lay back down, but the last comment had me jolting upward, sitting upright once more, staring at Sam with wide eyes; he had turned back to his computer. He wasn’t looking at me. “Mind Control & Torture?”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Sometimes, I forget that you really don’t know the titles of things. You know, your father’s job. Researching psychology and physiology with intent to inflict physical harm on suspected rebels. Pretty much torture tactics, but the League just calls it ‘interrogation.’ Sometimes, they call it ‘reeducation,’ which makes sense because the intent is usually to try and get the rebels to reform and pledge loyalty to the League. Problem is that most won’t and end up dying so—“

“Dying?” I repeated. My breath was catching in my throat, building up with so much pressure I thought it might burst or perhaps I’d scream. “Wait, wait,” I muttered. “My mother was executed.”

“Yes, Tali,” Sam replied with a hint of confusion in his voice. “You know, I said that already, and we discussed it a few days ago. I’m a little concerned that you would forget so quickly.”

“My dad is in charge of torture,” I stated aloud without emotion, without affliction, simply stating it and letting it sink in. “No,” I retorted, shaking my head. My welling eyes drifted to the floor, no longer able to look at Sam. “No,” I told him again. “You’re wrong. Certainly, you’re mistaken,” I laughed through a teary, disheartened voice. “My father… my father may not be a model citizen but certainly he’s… he’s not…”

Sam’s face fell glazed over and grave with the realization that he had given me information he probably shouldn’t have. “T-Tali,” he stammered. He never stammered around me unless it was bad. This was bad. Gingerly, I slid off the cot and put my feet on the floor. He reached a hand toward me, and I jerked myself away from his grasp. I shook my head again, vigorously this time, as though shaking my head might shake the harsh reality away with it.

“My father would never kill a man,” I remarked bitterly through gritted teeth. Tears began to spill down my cheeks, and my fists were clenched tight at my sides. My chest felt tight again; that only made me cry more. “You’re wrong, Sam. You’re… you’re wrong.”

“Tali, if it makes you feel any b-better, he doesn’t physically kill them—“ he sputtered. “Just watches.”

“So now he just watches them die?” I asked incredulously, angry, furious even, not at Sam, well… maybe at Sam, maybe even a little bit at myself, but suddenly, my fury was directed at my father. “Which is it Sam?” I pressed, lurching at him a little. “Did he actually kill my mother, or did he just watch her die? Because I’m having a really hard time distinguishing which is worse,” I spat. Sam opened his mouth to protest, but my shook my head again and covered my eyes. “I… I have to go. I’m sorry. I have to go,” I choked through a sob as I rushed out of the office door and nearly hurled myself right into Dean’s chest.

“Blondie!” he initially cheered before I looked up at him, and his fell.

“Not now, Muscles,” I managed to sputter before my tears shook my frame again. I shoved past him, grabbed my bag and my cat from the nearby table and ran. I ran all the way back into the tunnels, where I eventually collapsed into a heap next to the tracks and sobbed. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t know where to go. I couldn’t go back to the base, not right now… but going home would mean facing my father and the ugly truth. Lying to him had never been a problem before, but I knew I’d never look at him the same way again. When I pictured his face, I didn’t see my father. All I could see was the dead-eyed monster who watched my mother die… and he just let it happen.