There is a sick triangle happening between the three of us, and I'm clearly out of the picture. Hunter hasn't had a father for two years now. I do, but my father doesn't want me; he never did, and never will. He wants a son, and Hunter would be perfect for him to relay his women-hating and siren-killing knowledge to, just like he always wanted. Conflict or not, it's clear they've formed some sort of a parent-child attachment to each other. For Hunter, some father is better than no father at all. For my father, a son is better than a daughter. Me? I just need to get out of their way and let them be. And the only way out for me is death, as it always has been. A siren's suicide. Which makes me think of Canosa and where she fits in this picture. She stirs the pot, pulls on our strings, and makes us clamor. I know. If Hunter, Papa, and I are one of those steel triangle percussion instruments, then Canosa is the metal beater. With me gone, there'd be nothing left for her to ring.
I've come full circle. That's it then, my fate is sealed. With my decision made, I feel relief spread through my body, forgetting that I'm hot and aching and can barely breathe.
Mom? I wait, as if she'll speak to me. I hear nothing. Mom, wherever you are, can you hear me? Is this how you felt? That you were being left out of the picture? Is that why you jumped? I get it now and I'm coming. Coming soon to join you, I promise. I swallow. I'm sorry I couldn't kill Papa to avenge you. Canosa asked me to, in return for telling me what happened to you and where you are. You wouldn't want me do it though, would you? Because you still love him, no matter what, right? I know I do. I hate it, but I can't help it. I pause, almost expecting her voice to answer me, to soothe me, to tell me what to do. Mom, can tell me where you are, where I can find you? Can you? Please? I wait for something, for some sign, some sound or feeling or even a flicker of premonition. Anything. But there is nothing, only stuffy silence. I close my eyes, waiting for the end to come.
The car speeds in a straight line, then slows down. I recognize the turns and the sound of asphalt under the tires. Away from the trunk's back wall, I hear no talking. But it seems like there isn't any, only a hushed stillness reeking of depression. The increased humidity makes me perspire and fade into dizziness once more. My jeans stick to me in a disgustingly warm layer of damp cotton, and Hunter's rain jacket feels slick and foreign against my skin. Drowning in the heated air, I'm close to fainting, rasping for oxygen, my gills ablaze.
The car stops. Papa pulls on the handbrake and leaves the engine idling. I know where we are. We're in his typical parking spot, a couple yards east from a dark blue sign that reads 411 Raye Street, our house. Despite the soundproof layering of the trunk, I hear the garage door creak open.
Papa releases the handbrake and the car slowly moves forward. After the garage door closes, the handbrake is up again, and the engine dies, everything is still. Then, the trunk lid pops open letting in a sliver of cold air. I try to gulp it in a series of frantic breaths, but the tape covering my mouth doesn't let me. I wait, the skin on my face damp with cold sweat. My hands and feet are numb from being tied with a metal rope for so long.
The driver-side door opens, followed by the passenger door. Suddenly, Hunter's soul melody is so close, I can almost taste it. His hand presses into the back of his seat, toward me. I attempt to move my hand, to press back or wave, as if saying, I'm here. I'll get out of your way. I'll get out of everybody's way, I promise.
The soft resin of Papa's Gucci loafers gently hugs the concrete. His car keys jingle, the light switches on, and the trunk lid flies open. The bright, fluorescent light hits my eyes; I flinch and utter an involuntary moan.
"Too bright for you, sweetie? I'm sorry, there is no dimmer here. My bad. I'll have to install one."
I want to say, Like you care, but I can't. Telling him wouldn't matter, anyway. Nothing matters anymore.
Papa walks off toward the back of the garage and unlocks another door. I can tell from the gush of air it's large and mostly empty. His man cave. A place of mystery for as long as I can remember. The forbidden sanctum for his manly work. Now I know what was done inside, and the thought makes me shudder.
"Hunter? Take her out, please." Papa's voice sounds hushed, almost mechanical, and dies as soon as he's done talking.
There is no echo, the garage must be soundproof as well. How did I not think about this before? It explains the soft paneling. I was always fond of caressing it when Papa didn't look, although he caught me once and slapped me hard. He proclaimed that I'd dirtied his walls, and locked me in the bathroom for three hours. I think I was five. I learned to be very careful and sneaky from that moment on, managing to stroke it once in a while when he wasn't looking. I even peeled portions of wallpaper in the house behind furniture where he wouldn't look. It was my little power over him, damaging his things when I could and staying quiet to anger him when he hit me. I'd play limp, no matter what he did, so it would look like I didn't care. Like it was a piece of cake, like it didn't hurt, not one little bit.
I hear Hunter get out of the car, take one reluctant step, then another, and then stop.
"I really don't have much time, Hunter." I can almost see Papa's painful grimace without looking. "You know I don't like waiting."
"Sorry," Hunter says and walks faster.
I open my eyes, wanting to adjust to the brightness of this glowing, dazzling enclosure. It's so rich with light, yet almost devoid of smell and noise. It's harsh and dry, the anti-siren space. A space designed for sirens to die. I try to gasp for air, feeling my gills opening and closing, aching for water. Hunter makes it around the car and stops in front of the trunk, leaning in to look at me. The first thing he does is reach behind my back and squeeze my hand.
"Hey! It's okay, you're gonna be okay. Trust me," he whispers. I squeeze his hand back, wishing he didn't say what he'd just said, making me want to believe in a happy ending. I was hoping he'd somehow heard my silent message.
Don't worry, I'm ready to die, I tell him with my eyes. I know this is what my father wants you to do. You'll look like a pro. It will be easy, I promise.
He blinks at me, his chest heaving. His face is ashen against the cold bright light, the white soundproof walls, and the white unbreakable ceiling.
"Lean on me when I pull you up, okay?" His face doesn't look like a face anymore, it's a quiet mask, torn and crumpled over the conflict inside.
I want to tell him, Listen to me. I'll make it easy for you, don't you worry, you'll do just fine. You'll keep your job. You'll get your mom her meds. Grief chokes me as I try to mumble into the tape.
"Enough talking. Get her out, Hunter." Father's voice cuts through and prompts Hunter into action.
"You all right?" Hunter whispers as he hoists me up, slipping his warm hands under my arms as he props me into a sitting position and swings my legs over the edge of the trunk.
Just a heat stroke, no biggie. I croak into the tape, so no words come out, only more mumbling. Moving my tongue hurts. I want a drink of water, badly.
Hunter raises his head, and opens his mouth. As if anticipating his question, my father answers. "I'll take the tape off once inside. Now, get moving."
We both pretend like everything is normal. I struggle to make it over the edge of the trunk and lock my legs to stand, but my knees give out and I buckle. Hunter holds me from falling. A wave of nausea hits me and I gag behind the tape, my head falling onto his sweatshirt. I raise my head and turn to study the garage with my new understanding. Now I know why it's covered in soft, acoustic panels, why Papa always claimed to hate noise, why he hid in his man cave for hours on end, and why neither me nor mom were ever permitted to enter.
The garage itself is clean and small, about fifteen feet wide and twenty five feet long. It's devoid of any clutter, with only a few wall shelves on each side holding select tools—my father's style of keeping everything organized with almost surgical precision. There is no more than four feet on either side of the car, just enough space to open the doors and get out.
Watching us closely, standing in the middle of the garage's back wall, Papa twirls his car keys on his left forefinger, his right hand holding the sonic gun. His figure is pale and small against the darkness behind him. The darkness comes from the open door to his man cave. It's ominous and suggests a very large space, perhaps the size of a theater auditorium, I can tell by the air movement.
A strange curiosity takes over me. I want to get inside, to see it for myself and breach his sacred place, his private sealed off office that is not to be trampled on by women. His lunatic asylum, his siren killing ground complete with an expensive ventilation system to evaporate the moisture. That's what that whizzing sound was, making my feet buzz whenever I stood barefoot in the middle of the night on the kitchen floor, sneaking a drink of water. Papa always explained it as the air conditioner's motor running.
I make myself jump forward and nearly fall. Hunter supports me and I hobble along, feeling the metal rope dig into my ankles with every movement. I ignore the pain with elegance and greet my father with a smile, letting him know that I don't care. He doesn't seem to notice, he just steps into the darkness. There is a click and the darkness yields to light.
"Didn't think I'd ever let you set foot into my private space." A painful frown creases his forehead. "This is rather unfortunate, but...the circumstances have changed, and, well, here we are. Tell me, Ailen, what do you think?" Papa says, grimacing into a toothy, proud smile and spreading his arms like a showman on stage, welcoming his audience. Obviously proud of his creation, he nearly jumps up, rolling back and forth from his toes to his heels and back. "Cost me a fortune."
I peer inside and my mouth hangs open as much as it can behind the tape.
I've always imagined Papa's place to literally be like a cave—small, dark, and closed off. I was wrong. It resembles a fiercely illuminated chamber hall, the size of our house, only underground; it's almost empty save for a desk with a single lamp and a few soft chairs around it at the far wall. Behind the desk hang numerous sonic guns and a few bullwhips, neatly arranged in a checkerboard pattern. I know what they're for. The walls to my left and right are empty, and there are no windows.
Everything about this place, and its furniture, is soft. The filtered, fluorescent lighting, the foam padding on the walls, the air-conditioning that fizzes quietly, and even the reek of the fake ocean-smelling fragrance. I'm about to join it, vaporized. I could scream all that I want, but the walls look super thick and there is no echo.
"Don't be shy, come in," Papa says, and I jump in. He closes the door behind me and Hunter with a heavy clang. He locks it and drops the keys into his pocket. I manage to stand on my own, without Hunter's support. Even the floor is padded here. I curl and uncurl my toes, partly for balance, partly to relish this feeling of softness.
Now that my eyes have adjusted to the bright light, I see something else, and my blood chills. No, it freezes, making me feel like an icicle. What I took for a wall to my left is not a wall at all. It's a smoothly spread white cotton cover. Judging by the edges and the size of the thing it's hiding, I assume there must be a gigantic aquarium beneath it. I sniff the air. There is a faint odor of chlorine and a faint whispering of water. The aquarium must be filled to the brim, but I detect no movement. I don't want to know what's in it or what was in it, yet my mind can't stop. Images of sirens contained behind the glass, floating with their mouths open in a silent plea, make me gag. For a second, I wonder what happened to Canosa and the rest of the sirens in the public restroom. Had he killed them all or not? If he didn't, where are they now?
"There is nobody there. Come," Papa says, as if reading my mind.
That's right, Papa, seal me off from the world of the living in your soundproof cave. Shelter your neighbors from the horror, yes. Give them no reason for insomnia. I'm glad I can't say these words out loud. This is no time to be angry, this is my time to die.
"So, what do you think? Oh..." Papa passes the gun to his left hand and raises his right. I instinctively duck and then immediately hate myself for showing him my fear. He rips off the tape from my mouth in one practiced movement. My lips burn and so do my cheeks, but I don't show it. "Well? I asked you a question." His eyes turn from blue to steel.
I gulp air through my open mouth and then, of course, say the stupidest thing, the first thing that comes to my mind. "Is this your man cave then?"
"Precisely, sweetie. Do you like it?" He tilts his head to the side, like he always does when listening to his clients. They are big, important people with money and with a taste for antiques, so why in the world would he deem me important?
"It's...big," I say, honestly mesmerized, not by the cave, but by his attention. He heard me, he's talking to me, he's not angry, and he answered me like a normal human being. Despite the horror of what's to come, I'm elated. "Yes, I do. I like it very much."
Hunter watches our exchange with utter puzzlement on his face, glancing back and forth between us. I feel him edge toward me, perhaps to hold me or to provide support, just in case.
"Good. I'm happy you appreciate the work that's gone into this. You're about to see it in action. We both need to see it, don't you think?" He saunters off toward his desk, hangs the gun he is holding, and picks up a larger one. He turns and aims at the covered aquarium, playfully, smiling at his thoughts. I chill to the core, wondering what the significance of this is and how I should take it.
Our gazes cross. In a split-second, I think of all the movies I've ever seen with the bad guys giving pep talks to the ones they're about to shoot. It looks so romantic. The danger, the suspense, the thrill of what's about to happen. The last words from the victim's mouth that can make all the difference. Sadly, that's not how things work in real life. In real life, things happen without a warning.
Lightning fast, he shifts his body in my direction, aims at me, and pushes the button. This is my father, my only family, my bloodline, killing me. I make no attempt to escape, frozen, ready to die.
Blam!
The sonic blast hits me straight in the face, not on the right cheek like last time, but directly into my nasal bridge, in that space between my eyebrows. My ears explode with brilliant pain and my head thrums with a pulsing energy, as if I dipped it into the world's largest waterfall and it's about to suck me into a rushing stream and throw me over the edge. I double down and roll onto the padded floor with a soft thud that doesn't travel far, dying instantly. I suppose you could kill a whole whale in here, and nobody would hear.
"Ailen! What...what the fuck are you doing?" Hunter's voice hushes the second he's done yelling. His heart beats so loudly, I can hear it. His soul still sings Vivaldi's Summer, but it's barely audible now, as if dampened.
"I simply stunned her. She's still alive for you, don't you worry. You'll get your turn. Patience, Hunter, patience," Papa says. Although I suspected it, it still hurts to hear the confirmation to a terrible guess and know it's real. Hunter is supposed to kill me. That sounds so much like my father, always having someone else do his dirty work. I can't think about anything else, because pain from the blast spreads from my head to the rest of my body, ripping through muscles in pangs akin to electric shocks. I twitch, wincing at the metal ropes digging into my skin.
"Dude, this is not what we agreed on!" Hunter nearly shrieks now, taking one step, then another, in my direction. "You said you were only going to—"
"Enough!" my father yells. There is no echo and his yell dies quickly, without the typical grand effect. "I haven't forgotten. I would appreciate it if you would shut your mouth and step aside."
Hunter steps back without another word.
A deal. They made some kind of a deal. What was it, to let me die painlessly, from one shot only? I wait. Papa comes to me and leans over.
"Come on, sweetie, show me what you're made of." He aims at me again, at close range now, from the five feet and ten inches of his height. I look into the black muzzle of the gun and pretend I'm looking into a subwoofer blasting one of the Siren Suicides songs. I'm blasting them so loudly that the air hits me in the face with every big boom of the bass drum. My muscles contract before I realize what I'm doing. I smile and open my mouth. Terror darkens Papa's face for a split second, enough for me to notice.
"What's wrong, Papa, can't kill me yourself? Aren't you supposed to be the siren hunter? The one who disposes of us sirens, cleans the planet of our womanly filth? Yet even you have to hire a hit man." I attempt to raise my head to look Hunter in the eyes.
I don't get a chance, because another blast hits my chest and, for a second, I think I'll sink into the concrete floor below the padding, then flatten and burst into nothing. The force of the focused sound wave is that strong.
I don't exactly black out, but rather swirl in my own consciousness and awareness of the terrible pain that's in every single cell of my being. I feel them all inflate with a desire to fly, to rupture and be no more. Then, somehow, they deflate and shrink back together into what's supposed to be Ailen Bright, body and all. Sounds become jumbled, light pulses with colorful circles, and I taste bitterness on my tongue, as if I turned toxic.
I see my father's face above me, strangely happy. "What do you say now? Come on, tell me everything you ever wanted to tell me. Isn't that what's been eating you for years? I'm listening."
I understand why he's giddy. I'm supposed to fight back, to be angry. He wants me to prove to him that I'm not weak, that I can change my life, that I can stand up and shed my female frailty. He's doing to me the same thing he did to my mom. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps she died not for herself, but for him. Perhaps she loved him so much that she decided to rid this world of her own presence, to make him happy, because she felt she contributed to his misery. All of this flashes in my mind in barely a second, and I decide not to fight. Anger leads to pain, and I know this pain first hand. I regret having said what I told him earlier. No matter what it will cost me, I don't want to be like my father. I won't, ever, even if it means having to die.
"Papa...just tell me one thing, please. Did you love mom? Did you really love her? I want to know before, before I, before..." I don't finish, because a look of disgust contorts my father's face.
"You're no use, after all," he says quietly, and it's worse than his rage. It's pure hatred. It can't be all for me, can it? "What a paradox. How can a vessel of such beauty house so much evil? Women..." The tip of his Gucci loafer nudges me in the ribs, as if to probe road kill, to see if it's still breathing. "I always wondered. Then, I realized...it's all a test for us. For us men. To make us stronger, more resilient. It pains me to do this, oh, if you only knew how much it pains me. But it must be done."
I know what he means, and I swallow, but say nothing.
Papa turns away from me and walks toward the door, then pauses there, jingling his keys.
"Hunter, finish her off."
"What?" Hunter's voice sounds sleepy, like it always does after he drifts into one of his daydreaming spells.
"I changed my mind. Be quick about it, please. Call me on the intercom when it's done." He inserts a key into the first lock, then another and another, opening them one by one, until I feel a draft of fresh air reach me. It's raining.
"What? What do you mean, finish?" Hunter says again, not comprehending. I twist and roll over on my other side so I can see. Hunter's whole body appears to have shrunk, frail and somehow old in his damp hoodie and jeans and sneakers, his arms hanging uselessly to each side. My father stands in the doorway again, framed by white light this time.
"You heard me. Do your job. I'll have your payment ready." At that, he shuts the door with a soft metal clang and locks us in.
"But..." Hunter is in shock, I can tell. He shakes violently, and then, a few seconds too late, finds his voice and shouts, "What the fuck is wrong with you, man? You're fucked up. You're fucked up in your fucking head! You're..."
I drown out the rest, shutting my eyes and willing myself to be still. It takes another minute for him to stop shouting and swearing, then for another several minutes he pounds on the door, and then on the walls. He runs to the desk and throws down the lamp. He throws down what looks like an intercom device and stomps on it until it cracks. Then, he grabs the sonic guns one by one and smashes them into the floor. Except they don't break, because the floor is padded and they are made of unbreakable plastic.
"You're one sick fuck!" Hunter shouts once more and slams his fist into the wall. Then, he slides onto the floor and starts crying. I've never seen him cry before. He buries his head into his knees and yanks handfuls of his hair as if attempting to tear it all out. He sobs loudly, wailing like a child. It takes a few minutes for him to calm down and notice me staring.
I'm on the floor, twisted up, about twenty feet away from him, searching his eyes, feeling lost in this huge, padded vastness of space. Now it's in disarray, with sonic guns and whips and lamp shards scattered all over.
"It's okay, Hunter, I don't want to live anyway."
He looks at me. "Oh, God, Ailen, no..."
"I mean, not like this, I don't. Today is my birthday, remember? I'm sixteen, so it's kind of a big deal. Can I ask you for something?"
"No, no, no, don't. Don't talk like this." Hunter wipes his nose with a sleeve. "It's...it's my fault." He hangs his head.
I ignore him. "Can you kill me, please? It'd be easier if you did it. It's okay if you can't, though, just let me know. I'll do it myself," I say, as I bend my legs, lift my torso, and sit up. Moving hurts, but I'm strangely numb to all of the pain. I stretch out my legs and study the metal rope around my ankles. The nearest sonic gun is about five feet away, made of matte-plastic so no wires are visible, showing only a single blue button.
"Ailen...what did I do? I fucked everything up." Hunter's words scatter and die in the low whiz of the ventilation system that clicks on. Father must have turned it on remotely. At this noise, Hunter shakes like a leaf on the wind and lowers his face into his hands.
"Do it. Please," I repeat.
He holds my gaze, stands, and walks toward me. Then, he pauses, color creeping into his cheeks.
"All right, Hunter Crossby, mister fucking chicken shit, do it already! It's your job, isn't it? Then do it! Do it!" I scream at him. I wait, but Hunter doesn't take the gun. Instead, he runs up to me, sticks his hands under my arms, pulls me up, and drags me like this toward the aquarium wall. He leans me against it, grunting. Then he takes my face into his hands and leans so close that our lips almost touch.
I peer at him, breathing fast. He looks strangely delicate and fragile against the vastness of the cave.
"If you die, I die," he says quietly, his eyes cold, his breathing ragged.
"Really?" I ask, momentarily deflated.
"Really," he says.
My heart beats so hard it feels like the entire aquarium is pulsing. Maybe it is. I freeze for a second, with my back pressed against the thick glass, sensing movement through its cotton cover. Then all is still. It's nothing. I feel nothing.