It didn’t matter if I was two or twelve, my father never fucked my mother unless I was lying beside her. It was the ultimate way to display the power he had over her. He could do anything to her, even in front of her son, and she would never say no.
Her submissiveness is one quality she and Megan share. The other is the fact they’re both orphans. My mother was a misfit runaway. Her foster parents’ wish that she abort me was what sent her to sunny California with a backpack full of clothes and a four-month rounded stomach.
My mother often preached that my father stole the light from her eyes, but over the years, my father exposed that wasn’t the truth. He saved her life, and in turn, he saved mine.
My mother’s foster parents wanted her to abort me so I wasn’t born addicted to drugs. After seeing how careless my mother was, my father decided to raise me as his own before I had even left my mother’s womb.
The rehabilitation methods he forced upon my mother were barbaric but effective. From the stories I heard, I only shook uncontrollably the first twelve days of my life.
Although my mother’s first few years as a parent were rocky, she stepped up to the plate when my father granted me permission to attend middle school. She didn’t wear a frilly apron, nor did she cut my sandwiches into heart-shaped designs. She just told anyone and everyone that my father was her abductor and that she was a prisoner in his luxury mansion in the hills of Malibu.
Everyone thought she was hilarious. Even I laughed along with them. Her story was utterly ridiculous. How could anyone be held ‘captive’ in a multi-million-dollar estate by a much-loved and revered member of society, be forced to wear clothes in excess of four figures per piece, and be draped in diamonds?
No wonder no one believed her. Her story didn’t make any sense. She was sick. Kind of like Megan.
Kind of like me.
I was fortunate to have my father’s guidance to see me through my dark days. He thickened my skin and proved I wasn’t what was wrong with society. Society is the one with the issues.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when a drunken patron stumbles into me while navigating the eight-foot-wide sidewalk. If I could look past my arrogance, I could take responsibility for some of our collision. My steps have never been so wobbly.
“Sorry, sugar,” she murmurs with a hiccup before her bare feet gallop across the cracked concrete to catch up to her friends a few steps up. She is lucky she is with company, or I would have passed on my dislike for drunken idiots.
Her slur doesn’t just break me from my thoughts. It halts my dad’s reminiscing mid-lecture as well. “Geez, Moose, you let me get carried away again. See what happens when you get locked away for years at a time? I reminisce instead of discussing business.”
His last word should fill me with worry, but his use of my nickname keeps it at bay.
A chair creaks. He must be in his office. “I’ll send the taxidermist to Vicar’s playground...”
I wait, knowing there’s more.
“But...”
Told you.
“You owe me. Vicar wasn’t just a member of my association. He was also a friend.”
“What do you want?” My voice is thick from lack of use.
My father sighs heavily, either pondering or hopeful. I realize it is the latter when he asks, “Was Scarlett present during extermination?”
“She was.” When his sigh turns into a moan, I quickly add on, “But I doubt she is anymore.”
Glass smashing resonates down the line. “You let her go! My god, what’s the matter with you?” His sneer is delivered with a memory, a vision of being slapped over the head while hearing the same screamed words on repeat.
I shake my head, ridding the confusion. Usually, the vision is accompanied by my mother’s voice, but today it was presented with my father’s. This is even more proof that I need to get Megan out of my head. She is fucking with me, making me an idiot who can’t see the entire picture.
I practically sprint to the bar. My fast strides chop up my words when I say, “Scarlett won’t talk. Joseph called me Moose—”
“I don’t care if he called you Jesus, you don’t leave witnesses. Ever!” A rustle sounds down the line as if he is cupping the receiver. “Send Micha. We have more than just a body to clean.”
His message isn’t for me. It is for his right-hand man, Charles.
“Dexter...” My father drawls my name in a long, derogative slur, ensuring I can’t miss his fuming anger.
“Yes,” I answer without pause.
I do not cower from persecution. I encourage it. His retribution will make me a better man. It will strengthen and condition me for the cruelty of life. He didn’t beat me when I was young to be mean. He did it so no one else could ever break me. I don’t feel pain. I absorb it. Even the slice of Megan’s blade when it skimmed across my skin didn’t register. If it weren’t for the faint trickle of blood dribbling down my neck, I wouldn’t have realized she nicked me.
