She was the adopted daughter of a war hero and the ace pilot of her country. After tracking down and capturing the enemy's own pilot general, her only equal in the air, she realizes that she has captured her own biological father. Regardless of his blood relation to her, she still deems him her worst adversary. Late that night, in the prisoner's cells, she goes to speak with him, hoping to learn about her past, but not yet willing to accept it. Not long after the conversation begins, she looses her temper...

She had had enough of his pathetic father-wanna-be talk. If he wanted to persuade her that he was sincere in his affections for her, he could at least sound realistic. He does this purposely, she thought. He's mocking me.

Furious, she drew out her pocket knife and slammed it into his chest, just under his left collarbone. The knife would have gone through is body if the guard hadn't held against his flesh. She wondered if he knew the precision of her strike, how she missed his heart, how the wound would be nothing but pain. She allowed her anger to vibrate thought the knife, scratching and scraping the bone and cartilage of his ribs and sternum, as her clenched teeth and troubled tears revealed her unquenchable rage. She wanted him to cry out, even to whimper. She wanted to know he could feel the pain she was passing from her heart to his body.

His jaw locked tightly, tears streaming from his clamped-shut eyes he took every measure of pressure from her. As her father, he would have had the right to strike her in reprimand. Were he at his full health, the chains that bound him wouldn't have held under his anger at her rebellion. However, he had relinquished that right the day he set her in another's arms. Now he would have to earn it from her. He indeed regretted the day he lost her as his daughter, but unlike her, he knew the past could not be changed and there was nothing to gain through living in it.

But even all he had given up as her father, he was still a man, and would not cry out for the satisfaction of this angry little girl.

Frustrated that her efforts for a vocalized reaction produced only liquid, she ripped the blade out as fiercely as she had brought it in, tearing down on the flesh as she pulled out. I suppose I should be satisfied, she thought as she watched the mixture of blood, tears, and sweat swirl on the floor. I just can't make you hurt enough! She prepared a thick mass of mucus and saliva to express the remainder of her contempt--

He lifted his head and locked his eyes with hers. The tears had stopped flowing and his pupils were large and penetrating. They seized down into her heart firmer than a dead man's grip and declared her the very monster she had accused him of being:

Betrayer

They were the fierce, stern eyes of an angry father. She froze before them, and found herself swallowing the globule of hate. This look he was giving her, she was afraid of it, she hated it, and immediately thought to stop it.

The pop of her hand slung across his cheek echoed throughout the cold room.

"You have no right to look at me that way!"

Before he could recover from her strike she had turned her back on him and was leaving the room. She knew she was leaving just then to run away from his expression. Of all the times she lost her temper she had done so with herself. No one else could affect her. How could he? She was a coward for not being able to face him, and she hated herself for it.

I just can't make you hurt enough!

She didn't mean it. She wanted to, but she just couldn't get past it. If she meant it, she would have done it. She would have made his body suffer greater tortures. Or she could just end his life in the hope of ending her pain, but she knew better. Besides, how could I dispose the body? she casually reasoned.

She couldn't get out of her mind the picture of him hanging there against the wall bleeding all over the floor. When the morning warden came to deliver the prisoners breakfast, he might be concerned about it and investigate. They might trace it back to her...If anyone were to find out I was his daughter...

...Damnit.

She jumped out of bed and threw her clothes back on. She stopped by the infirmary to pick up a needle and stitching thread before heading back to the cells.

Rachel Quinn © 2002