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“You know what, Drew? I am thinking about creating a new version of Bingo.”
“Bingo?” he asks with about as much incredulity as you’d expect.
“Yes. Bingo.” I plant my hands on my hips and lecture him. “The squares would include the following phrases/words:
Cone of silence.
Unreliable narrator.
Compromising position.
Damage control.
Bruised and beaten.
Reputation management.
Scapegoat.
Willful denial.
Slut shaming.
Consensual rough play.
Unfortunate choice.
Road to recovery.
Lapse of judgment.
“Get five in a row and you win...well, you win a bag of shit. Except it's not your shit. It's someone else's shit that everyone is willfully denying (B8!) the unreliable narrator (N7!) possesses. And because a massive distortion campaign (I2!) has made it impossible to say anything without becoming the scapegoat (G4!), you're fucked no matter what.
“Sounds like fun, huh? You ever played this game?”
“It sounds like anyone’s version of hell, Lindsay.” Chairs shuffle against the carpet in Daddy’s office. I’m running out of time.
“Welcome to my world, Drew.”
“I want to help you escape it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and looks away.
“You helped create it, Drew.”
His nostrils flare and he inhales sharply, the gasp cutting off in mid-breath, his self-control reasserting itself. Whatever objection he was about to register gets shut off. Shut down. Shut up, all because of his internal process that regulates him in ways I cannot understand.
“I’m not wrong,” I insist.
“No. You’re not.”
I jolt. That’s the first time he’s admitted it.
“I brought you out here,” I remind him. “You’re going to answer my questions, or I’ll tell them you’re the guy in the video.”
He snorts. “You think they don’t know that? The government controls more than enough technology to figure that out. Hell, a fifteen-year-old with a basic understanding of programming could identify everyone in that video.”
“Then why did Daddy hire you to protect me?”
My voice is low and menacing. My heart pounds in my chest, blood smacking against every cell in my body, including between my legs. I’m repulsed and aroused at the same time. It’s not a pleasant feeling. My skin feels like it’s covered with live electrical wires everywhere, and I have no idea who I can trust.
