The Canary Who Learned To Fly

Seraphina Vitiello POV The music upstairs had finally died away. The guests had been ushered into the gardens for the grand finale, their eyes turned toward the sky for the fireworks. I was not in the garden. I was buried beneath them, in the basement of the estate. The room smelled of old rust and sharp, chemical bleach. There was a drain in the center of the concrete floor, waiting. Dante stood by the heavy steel door. He had already removed his tuxedo jacket. Now, he was methodically rolling up his sleeves, exposing the tattoos on his forearms. My father sat on a wooden stool in the corner, calmly smoking a cigar. "Fifty lashes," my father said, the smoke curling around his words. "For theft. For disrespect. And for ruining the toast." I was on my knees. My hands were zip-tied to a cold water pipe running along the ceiling above my head. My back was exposed to the damp air. The expensive black dress had been sliced open from neckline to waist. Dante picked up a leather strap from the table. Isabella stood behind him, peeking out from the hallway. She looked excited, her eyes bright with a cruel curiosity. "Make sure she learns, Dante," she said, her voice high and demanding. "She needs to learn her place." Dante paused and looked back at her. "Wait outside, Isabella," he ordered, his voice flat. "This is ugly. You shouldn't see it." "No, I want to stay," she pouted, crossing her arms. "Turn around then," he commanded. "Cover your ears." He was trying to protect her innocence. But he was about to flay the skin off my back. He walked behind me. I didn't beg. I didn't cry. I just rested my forehead against the condensation on the cold pipe and closed my eyes. One. The leather cracked against my skin with a sickening snap. Pain exploded across my shoulders, white-hot and blinding. Two. Three. He fell into a rhythm. Methodical. Precise. He was a professional. I could tell by the swing that he wasn't doing this out of anger. He was doing it out of duty. That made it worse. By the twentieth lash, I couldn't distinguish the individual strikes anymore. It was just a continuous wall of fire searing into my flesh. Blood began to trickle down my sides. I heard the soft *drip-drip* as it hit the concrete floor. I bit my lip until I tasted copper to keep from screaming. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction. I forced my mind away. I thought about the London ticket hidden in my room. I thought about the plane taking off, the engines roaring. I thought about the clouds looking like cotton beneath me. Forty-nine. Fifty. Dante stopped. He was breathing hard behind me. He dropped the strap. It landed on the floor with a wet, heavy thud. "Cut her down," my father said, standing up and brushing ash from his trousers. "Leave her here to think about it until the flight." Dante took a knife from his belt and sliced through the zip ties. I collapsed immediately. My legs wouldn't hold me. I hit the wet floor hard. The pain was blinding, radiating from my spine to my fingertips. Dante stood over me for a second. For a brief, delirious moment, I thought I saw hesitation in his eyes. He reached out, his hand hovering as if to touch my shoulder. Then Isabella called his name from the doorway, her voice impatient. "Dante, are we done? The fireworks are starting!" He pulled his hand back instantly. "We are done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He turned and walked away without looking back. The heavy metal door slammed shut. The lock engaged with a final, echoing click. I was alone in the dark. Again. I lay there for a long time, shivering against the concrete. I was waiting for the darkness to take me. But it didn't. My survival instinct—the one thing they couldn't beat out of me—kicked in with a vengeance. I dragged myself across the floor to the corner where the janitorial supplies were kept. I found a bottle of cheap vodka my father's guards kept hidden behind a bucket. I found a sewing kit in the emergency box. I uncapped the bottle and poured the vodka over my raw back. The scream tore from my throat then. A raw, animal sound that bounced off the basement walls. I threaded the needle with trembling fingers. I couldn't reach everything. But I stitched what I could. I stitched my own skin back together in the semi-darkness, with shaking hands and a heart that had finally turned to stone. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, the screen illuminating the blood on my hands. A text from Isabella. It was a photo. She and Dante, standing under the explosion of fireworks. She was kissing him. *He is finally mine,* the caption read. I stared at the screen. I didn't feel jealousy. I didn't feel sadness. I felt nothing. The love I had for him died on that concrete floor, washed away with the blood and the cheap vodka. I deleted the photo. I put the phone away. I curled up on the cold floor, the needle still clutched in my hand. I wasn't waiting for London anymore. I was waiting for my chance.