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“Shh. Try to hold still,” Miles comforted. He sat on the edge of the bathtub fully clothed, the spigot running with luke warm water. Before him was a 14-year-old Franziska Von Karma in a training bra, her shirt thrown aside on the bathroom floor to reveal the long red lines running over her arms, her shoulders, and her cheeks like lines of tape. In their centers the lines gave way to a blacker red, crusted around the edges, blood drawn from her father’s whip. She was inconsolable, gasping so hard while she sobbed that Miles feared she would pass out. He gingerly touched the wet cloth to a wound on her shoulder - he’d get the ones on her face when she’d calmed down. “It’s all over now,” he muttered, composed and calm as ever, “It’s alright, I’m here. Hold still, breathe, shh…”
He went on saying these things in perfect calm, hoping it would do some good, but she barely seemed to hear him. The young boy wore few things on his face - part of it was just who he was, but especially since the loss of his father and the start of his training, he’d learned to be particularly difficult to read. Better for court, he remembered. Never wear your heart on your sleeve. Even still, it was hard to hide the disgust behind his eyes. It hadn’t been this bad for quite some time, but even still, little run-ins were frequent. This was because her debate team got second place in the local championship and Franziska had the gall to claim it wasn’t her fault. And it wasn’t - another girl on her team, Indrid, was a total dud who couldn’t prove a point to save her life. But even if it had been her fault - it was hardly a crime that warranted this.
As Miles briefly scratched the cloth along the cut she gasped louder and more hysterically, swaying on the edge of the bathtub as the extra oxygen finally threatened to knock her out. Miles put down the cloth, and held her arm. “Franziska,” he said, and his voice took on a somewhat harsher tone, “Breathe. Breathe slow, he’s not here. Look at me, look at me.”
The last command she was able to obey, making desperate eye contact through hazy tears. He took her other shoulder, finally holding her absolute attention. “Breathe slow, Franziska. In… and out… It’s just us here now, it’s over. He’s gone.”
After a few moments, she was able to comply, her breath at least slowing enough to keep her from passing out. She looked pale faced, shaking violently where she sat. “M-Miles…” she whimpered.
“I know,” he assured her, “It’s only going to feel worse if you panic.”
“ Es s-schmerzt . ”
Miles’ german was deplorable, but he knew that phrase all too well. “I know. I have to clean them off, alright? I don’t want them to hurt more later on. But you have to breathe slow, or you’re going to pass out.”
She nodded in understanding. He could see in her face she was finally starting to come out of it. Thank God, he thought. It had been almost an hour now since he found her like this. Now please just don’t let Manfred come home… he was supposed to be at work all tonight, but his hours were always unpredictable. She went on crying silently, forcing herself to breathe in and out through the nose and the mouth, occasionally gasping for air and then steadying herself again.
“There now,” Miles said softly, “They’re not too bad. Only a few real cuts to take care of.” As if that was any comfort, he thought. Once she was calm enough, he went back to dabbing gently at the spots of blood. She didn’t flinch at him, putting her hands on the side of the tub beside her. Her head fell, and as the panic drained, it was replaced by a deep, deep exhaustion. She was still shaking. “It’s alright,” Miles whispered again, “It’s over now, he’s gone.”
“I…” she whispered, out of breath, “I couldn’t finish the cross-examination in time… I faltered at the end…”
“Shh…” Miles encouraged, “You did very well.”
“Our perfect record…”
“The school had lost many times before you entered it, it was far from a perfect record. You got in first place last year, and there is no reason getting in second place this year is anything shameful - you remain the most beneficial member of the team in years.”
She didn’t seem to catch the last part of that sentence, gasping frantically at the phrase ‘second place’ - he should have known better than to use that phrase. Chances are, that’s what he was shouting while he…
“Franziska,” he said sternly, “Stay with me, stay with me. Don’t think about that now.” She didn’t look at him. He was losing her again. “Franziska, tell me about your studies. Name the noble gases.”
She panted, chin hitting her chest, before she gritted her teeth and muttered out, “...He-helium.”
“Good, what else?”
She swallowed, breath slowing again. “Neon…”
“Good.” Miles dabbed at the blood on her arm again, watching bits of tension slowly leave her shoulders.
“A-argon… Krypton…”
“Very good,” he encouraged some more. He moved to a cut that stretched along her abdomen, making her flinch briefly, before she allowed it.
She breathed more slowly. “Xenon… Radon…”
“Right, one more.”
“And… oganesson. The highest… atomic number on the table…”
“Very good,” Miles said again, stretching out the words in a soothing tone. He made a point of avoiding words like ‘perfect’ - they were almost as bad as words like first or second ‘place’. “Very well remembered, very good.”
Franziska let out a long breath, and then half-collapsed into Miles’ shoulder. He wrapped a gentle arm around her. She sighed, and shut her eyes, all the tension flooding out of her body. Miles sighed too, a sigh of relief. At last, he was able to get her out of it. This was one of the most resilient panic attacks he’d seen from her. Then again, it was also one of the harshest beatings. After a long time, the first thing she said was, “I am dizzy…”
“You were hyperventilating for a while there. I was worried you’d pass out,” Miles informed her. “Just breathe slow and it’ll wear off, don’t try and move too suddenly.”
She nodded, obeying. “What time is it?” she asked.
Miles looked up to a clock on the wall. “8:34,” he told her.
“And what time was it when you found me like this?”
“Somewhere around 7:45,” he answered honestly. She shut her eyes at that, looking disappointed. She touched her head, wincing. Then she nodded.
“I’m sorry I… don’t know what came over me.”
Miles shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I should have been home. I’m sorry I wasn’t.”
She nodded, swallowing. “It was the teacher,” she said, “She is a fool. She called the house wishing to give us… ‘congratulations’.” She scoffed, running her hands through her hair, the sweat pushing it back. “When my father heard, he came into my room and demanded why I had failed to take the gold, why I had tarnished his name. I told him that it was the fault of one with… weaker skills than mine. He said that… only a failure blames others for their mistakes. And then he…” Unable to finish, she pressed her head into Miles’ shoulder. He said nothing, running his hand slowly along her shoulder. “The worst part is, I know that he is right. Look at me. I am… crying to myself like an infant. I am breaking down over something anyone would kill to have. I am the daughter of Manfred von Karma!”
“You were beaten,” Miles corrected sternly, “With a whip, so ruthlessly you bled, by your own father. There is no part of that series of events that does not warrant a panic attack.”
She scoffed at that. “I should have done better,” she argued, “He only did it because he wants me to be like him. He knows what’s best for me.”
Miles began to feel sick. “Whether that is true or not, this cannot be the answer. No one has the right to do this to you - not him, not anyone.”
Franziska let out a long sigh, her eyes shutting. “Miles,” she asked, her voice hardly a whisper, “What was your father like?”
He flinched slightly at the question, then looked out at a point on the bathroom floor, and went on rubbing circles into her back. “He was… he was very serious. Stern, but… you could talk him into getting what you wanted, most of the time. On nights when he won cases, he’d take us out for iced cream and after very little convincing we’d have more than we could eat.” He half smiled, tears welling in his eyes. “He was often busy, but when he wasn’t, he’d give me every ounce of his attention. Like nothing mattered more to him.”
Franziska, now totally limp against his chest, nodded and sniffled. “What would he have done to you,” she asked, “If you made a mistake in school?”
Miles sighed, an ache running through his chest as his voice got softer. “He would have calmly asked me why I had failed. After that, he would have instructed me to focus more - and told me that if I was not engaged, I would never live the life I wanted to live. When I made real mistakes he might have revoked privileges - a toy, or an ability to go somewhere I wanted. But most of the time his disappointment was enough that I didn’t make those mistakes again.” Thinking about that, Miles had to struggle harder not to cry, lip starting to shake as he bit his cheek.
Franziska was crying too, tears running in silence down her face. She opened her eyes to see him wincing, knowing he was seeing it again - the scene of his death. She knew Miles had watched his father die, but she was never privy to the details. But whatever it was, it must have been horrible - he cringed like there was a whip on his back every time he talked about him. She took a turn to console him, rubbing his shoulder with her own, still shaking hand.
“You must miss him very much,” she concluded.
He nodded sternly, sniffing and wiping the glimmer from his eyes.
“Is it strange,” Franziska went on, “That even though I’ve never met him I sometimes miss him too?”
Miles shrugged, and then shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he whispered. They stayed like that for a few more moments in silence. One was deep in a memory, the other deep in a fantasy - but oddly enough, both of them saw a smiling, stoic man putting a hand on their shoulder, taking them out to iced cream after court cases, kissing their foreheads as they went to sleep.