I’m standing in the bathroom, the harsh fluorescent light reflecting off the mirror as I examine my wounds. Angry red burns mark the places where the metal rods touched my skin, leaving painful blisters and scorched flesh. There is still the strong smell of rubbing alcohol from the so-called medic who was called in to tend to my wounds. I wince as I gently probe one of the wounds with my fingertips, feeling the raw, tender skin beneath. I don’t want to think of how I got myself into this unfortunate situation where I just made a deal with the devil who had his friends almost electrocute the skin off my bones.
I don’t know if looking for my father is even worth it at this point. I wish I could give up, but this is for my mother. I’ve already gotten myself this deep; I can’t give up now. I
