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Until it stops abruptly.
“No,” he finally says flatly, glancing up from his phone then right back down again.
“What are you wanting her to go see then? She already knows her mother’s a piece of shit.”
He smiles again. A big toothy grin. But this time he doesn’t give a verbal response. I know the answer anyway. He wants her to see the power he has over her life. How he could get her mother out of this trial but won’t. He wants her to feel just as trapped as I do. Every. Fucking. Day.
Bastard.
“She’s eighteen, she should just move out.” Move out. Run away. Escape.
The leather chair underneath him squeaks as he pushes out of it, walking around his desk like a lion stalking prey. My father has always been a tall man but now he seems so much taller. A giant hovering over me.
I used to fear him.
It’s amazing how much strength simple hatred gives you.
“If she moves out, I’ll still find her. You and I both know I’ll find her. So stop obsessing over your little sister, son. And stop fucking her while you’re at it. Now shut the door behind you on your way out.”
My fingers flex slowly into my palm but I don’t move an inch beneath his glaring gaze.
We both know. I know all too well; he’ll do to her what he did to me, if not worse.
I was sixteen the first time I tried to attempt running away. I bribed one of the maids to pick me up a train ticket and leave my father’s keys to one of the cars in the ignition. It never occurred to me that I could get caught, that I would.
I didn’t even make it to the train station before my father tracked me down and dragged me back home. He made the maid watch as he took a switchblade and cut open the bottoms of my feet as punishment for running. Then he made me watch as he took the maid down to the basement, had her sit atop an already spread out white plastic tarp, screwed a suppressor to the front of his gun, then shot her right between the eyes.
The maid’s name was Janet. She begged for her life. Cried until the sobs shook her body and she made herself sick. Gagging between sobs she sent terrified glances at the foolish sixteen year old boy who couldn’t stand to his feet to run to her. Some days, I wish I had taken her place.
Blood didn’t squirt out of her like in the movies. There wasn’t gore that would take days to clean up like one would expect, given the tarp underfoot. No, the bullet left with a muffled bang and I blinked. Her head slumped forward, a small splatter behind her body, then she fell lifeless toward the floor.
There was hardly any mess at all.
Sometimes her screams haunt my thoughts. And sometimes, the surprise of how simple it was drifts through my mind like the most casual memory.
She was the first person I saw murdered. My brother, Nic, was the last.
I think of the maid more than I think of Nic for some reason.
“I did you a mercy and ended it quickly,” my father huffed as he undid the suppressor and pocketed his weapon.
At the time I believed him. Every small act of “kindness” was a mercy he didn’t need to extend to me. It could have been worse. It could always be worse.
Two long strides lead me back to the door where I slide out into the hallway without a sound. A tug at the brass handle and the door is clicking firmly back in place.
Happy, Father? The door to your precious office is closed.
Tomorrow is the first day of Violet’s mother’s trial. Then after that she’ll be back at school. My father told me her extended absence will be labeled as “the flu”, oh, and “severe dehydration.” Though to give credit where it is due, that would help explain to the teachers why she looks so sickly.
Getting over the world’s worst case of the flu might leave you looking like Violet Demure.
That or having your first run in with ol’ daddy dearest.
Twenty-Five
Dee
Paper. My eggs this morning taste like paper. Warm, very mushy paper. Without a doubt it is not the cook’s fault, it’s mine. I’m all nerves. Today I’ll see my mom again.
