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Chapter 5

Iwas exactly thirteen minutes and twenty-six seconds late to the meeting.

I know. I’m a smartass. Sue me.

From the glower D.O.D. gave me, one would think that I was two days late and had arrived wearing a fedora dipped in the blood of my enemies. Okay, maybe Daddy would’ve appreciated the whole blood thing. He had always been a sick, twisted bastard.

He held his hands in front of him, folded on top of his desk. To anyone that didn’t know him, the gesture might’ve been considered relaxed. Comfortable.

But I could see the vein bulging in his forehead and the noticeable grinding of his teeth.

“I’m sorry,” I began immediately once I entered his stuffy office. I learned at a young age that an apology was always the best first step when it came to my father. Correction, it was theonlystep. “With the earthquake and everything-”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” he snapped. “Sit.”

He pointed to a plush, leather chair directly in front of his mahogany desk. As I made my way there, I noticed the occupant of the second seat. I recognized the receding hairline and beady black eyes instantly.

Buttlicker. He had returned to lick more butts...my father’s, I imagined, because D.O.D. wouldn’t allow him to kiss it.

Daddy stared at me, eyes penetrating, for a few seconds longer before turning towards Buttlicker. He then began discussing their contract, and I deflated in relief. Maybe, just maybe, he’d forgiven me for my transgression. After all, it wasn’t as if I could control the weather. Not even my dad could, though I supposed that he wished it.

I realized the mistake of my earlier relief when the meeting concluded. I had spent the hour nodding occasionally; the majority of what they discussed went through one ear and out the other. Oh well.

I had just climbed to my feet, stretching my taut muscles, when I noticed two sets of eyes trained on me. One was darkened in anger, another with lust. I’m sure you could guess which eyes belonged to which psycho.

“You know that I hate intolerance, Adelaide,” D.O.D.. reprimanded, his tone cold and calm. I hated when he used this voice - it was like the tranquility before a storm. Frankly, it was his shit-your-pants type of voice that instilled justifiable fear in anyone who heard it.

“I was on my way to the meeting,” I lied (because who would want to show up an hour early?). “I told you. It was the earthquake-”

The, not altogether unexpected, slap interrupted my excuse. I barely even winced when my head snaked sideways. No, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. It was something that I could call my own. My pain. When did I start coveting pain? God, maybe I was sick.

“Don’t lie to me.” Spit flew from my dad’s mouth. Buttlicker, still leaning back in the seat next to me, smiled smugly. “I have a source that said they saw you whoring yourself out.”

For a moment, all I could do was blink in disbelief. “Whoring myself...?”

Slap.

I rubbed at my cheek. From the self-satisfied grin on Buttlicker’s face, I could hazard a guess at the identity of that source.

You stupid perverted son of a bitch-

Buttlicker’s face reddened, and I realized I had spoken aloud. Buttlicker confirmed this when he leaned forward to slap my other cheek. Yay! At least I’d have matching bruises. It’s all about symmetry, my friends.

It took considerable restraint to stop myself from cutting off Buttlicker’s balls and feeding them to D.O.D.. Heaven knows that D.O.D. preferred the pickle over the muffin, if you know what I’m saying.

“Take off your clothes,” D.O.D. sneered. Knowing I was already in trouble, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to poke the bear a little more. I had so many suppressed emotions, so much pent-up anger, whirling inside me that demanded release.

“Wow. I knew you were a psycho, but I never imagined incest on your list of perversions. Is that how you came into being? Were your parents brother and sister?”

The following punch was hard, landing right in the stomach. I doubled over.

Yes.More.

I enjoyed the pain. It reminded me of what I often forgot - that I was alive. Sort of alive, at least. I mean, I knew that my heart beat and I continued to breathe, I wasn’t living. I couldn’t even remember what that felt like. The closest I had come to happiness was earlier today with the guys, the few times I had talked with Calax, and my friendship with Ducky. All I had now was the pain, and though not ideal, I would take it over the nothingness I often wanted to succumb to.

I barely paid Buttlicker any mind as he ripped my dress off. His hands groped me, fondling my breasts like the pervert he was. Fortunately, he left my bra and underwear on.

From this angle, I knew my dad could see the scars marring the length of my arm. It was impossible not to. They etched themselves into my skin like an ugly tattoo. A few, the ones closest to my wrist, began to well up, blood rising to the surface, for the cuts had yet to heal.