*****

TRIGGER WARNING

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*****

DANE

"What are we going to do?" Dane asked casually as they walked through the door.

Felix flashed him a grin. "Let you in on a few things," he said, waggling his eyebrows. Take a seat.

There was a thick gray table in the middle of the room, and several locked cabinets and compartments either built into the walls, or sitting on the floor. Dane pulled out the metal chair on one side of the table and sat as Felix unlocked and dug through a cabinet on the other side of the room. He pulled out a large tablet and placed it on the table in front of Dane, its cover closed. Then he sat down facing him. Dane waited. So did Felix.

"Do you want me to look at the tablet, Felix?" he asked slowly, like he was being sarcastic.

"In a moment. I'm just waiting."

Dane looked around the room but couldn't see any outlets or suspicious marks on the wall. Then he turned back to Felix, who was smiling widely.

"Okay, you win. I get it. Someone's watching. What are we doing?"

"Always so impatient," Felix said, then picked up the tablet and flipped it open, tapping the screen a couple times before sitting it on the base and turning it towards Dane. "We're going to take a walk down memory lane, Dane. I wonder if you'll remember these. I know I do. It was a sad day when you left us, son. We've been waiting for you to come back for a long time."

"Why?"

Instead of answering, Felix indicated the tablet.

Dane swallowed. The screen was blank except for the triangle play button. He blew out a breath and pulled it closer then tapped the triangle.

*****

He thought he'd felt sick before. Now he was looking for any trash can or corner where he might empty his stomach, but he knew he wouldn't find one. His father's ploys were always designed to keep the human mind as uncomfortable as possible.

On the screen, Dane watched himself as a teenager—just turning fifteen—smiling and laughing, his eyes alight with anticipation. He did remember, though he wished he didn't. He knew that behind the camera—an old style camcorder—were several men, including his father. It was Felix who held the camera. And Felix who handed his younger self the wicked looking knife.

Young Dane's eyes went wide when he saw it, and he looked at his father, the first flicker of uncertainty on the face that had never been good at hiding his emotions when he was surprised.

"Happy Birthday, son," came the call from off-camera. Young Dane smiled wider, but Dane the man knew that it was becoming an act.

He'd walked out there with those men, told he was going to become a man, and been excited. He'd envisioned strippers. Or a car. Or… something. Not what came.

The camera followed young Dane across a cement driveway and into a garage, still holding the knife. He opened the door into the building, peering slowly inside, then stepping in. He turned back for a moment confused.

"It's only Barry," he said over his shoulder, stepping into the garage. Stupid kid had been relieved, reaching down to pet his excited, wiggling dog.

Old Dane knew the garage had smelled like piss, like the dog had been in there for some time and hadn't had a choice. He yipped and curled his body, his tail wagging madly, and young Dane kept looking deeper into the garage as the men, chuckling and murmuring to each other followed him into the dark building.

"You remember what we talked about, Dane?" his father's voice said, close to camera.

"Yeah," young Dane was starting to click, and didn't want to.

"A real man handles his shit."

"Yeah?"

"Well, you're old enough to be a man. And your dog shit all over my garage, Dane. And he takes a lot of attention and time away from much more important things. So it's time for you to handle it."

On camera, the young Dane turned to face his father, his mouth slightly open and his hands at his sides. And with that sick sinking in his stomach, Dane watched himself lose the last of his already shredded innocence.

Dane was old enough at that point to know when his father gave an order you didn't question it—especially when there were witnesses. He also knew what his father meant when he said handle it.

Barry had been his dog since he was twelve. One of the few decent gifts his father had ever given him. And in that moment, he'd suddenly seen the last three years in a new light—the ways his father encouraged him to love the dog and care for it, the ways he'd put up with the inconvenience of a pet whenever Dane was visiting. All the little things that had surprised Dane, because his father wasn't the kind of man to nurture anything, yet he'd seemed invested in seeing Dane and the dog thrive.

And now Dane understood it was time to handle his shit.

He watched his own young face harder, and his hand clenched around the handle of the knife. "Happy Birthday to me," he said. And then he smiled.

Dane thanked God that the old technology didn't do great in the low light. He knew what was coming and almost threw up. But it would have been harder if it wasn't just in shadow and silhouette.

The cries of the dying animal, and the grunts and strangled whimpers that came from the boy were heart-wrenching enough on their own.

The applause though, from the surrounding men… Dane hadn't remembered that.

He had remembered his father putting his arm around him like that after—and that he had gotten the car after all. At the time he'd told himself it was worth it.

But he'd never given in to the desire to have a pet again.

It was his first lesson in learning how dangerous it was to love.

Anyone.

*****

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