Page 43 of Conquered

“I wouldn’t want you to miss it for the world. As you might imagine, I’ll be there as well. Will your family be coming?”

“No, they are busy,” she whispered more to herself. “I am eager to get started.”

Busy. Since when were a kid’s parents too busy to attend their daughter’s college graduation? I had a feeling I knew. They didn’t have the money to travel. “I can send them plane tickets if you like.”

“No!” Her exclamation was far too stern. “I mean, no, thank you. My parents own a sheep farm and this is a busy time of year.”

She was lying. Something in her background or past had pushed her into encouraging them not to come. “Well, I’m certain the ceremonies will be videotaped so you can send it to them.”

“You’re right. Can we get to work so I can get myself organized?”

“Yes, we can. However, first, I want to ask you some questions. Then I’ll give you a basic overview of what you’re going to be working on. Fair enough?” When had I ever cared about fair?

“Fair enough.”

“Excellent. Take a seat and let’s get started.” While I took out a pen and paper, I honestly had no need to write down any notes. I would easily remember everything she told me.

Everything about her was interesting, including the fact that she’d worn a similar pencil skirt and blouse on her first day working for me. My hunger was nearly off the charts, my longing to peel her clothing away another delicious surprise. But I would refrain.

For now.

“Tell me about your family, growing up.”

“Why do you want to know?” she insisted.

“Because often our upbringing shapes us more than people realize. Often society or social media is blamed for our children’s shortcomings or successes while in truth, it’s usually the behavior of the parents and the loving or violent environment that shapes their expectations, their fears, and how they’re able to manipulate society.”

“You say that as if your parents were horrific.”

I took a deep breath, noticing she had a slight smile on her face. “My mother was an angel. My father? Another story. But we weren’t talking about me.”

“But your story will be. Don’t we write a tiny part of us in every book we pen on paper?”

Her challenge was delightful. “Very true. I’ll give you that but often what we add are nothing more than memories of a friend of family member used for one of the characters.”

“May I ask you a very personal question?”

She was nervous around me. I liked that. “Go right ahead.”

“If you’re a monster like so many people think you are, why write something so personal?”

Perhaps she’s the one who’d broken through my armor, a feat no one else had accomplished before. “Because my stories come from the heart, a much more marketable book. Don’t you think?”

“Perhaps.”

“You know so, Sara. Given your excellent work in my class, I’d say whatever has driven your need to write is based on a dangerous incident in your life. Once you embrace what the moments teach you, you’ll feel much more freedom. The readers will feel it too. Don’t believe every story you’ve heard or read about my family. As we well know given we’re authors, details can be embellished.”

“True.” The way she shifted in her chair suggested being uncomfortable, but I had a feeling it had nothing to do with her parents. Unless they were serial killers in disguise, which I highly doubted. “My mom and dad are incredible, hard working. They grew up with meager belongings, learning the meaning of often grueling work, which they transferred to their four children. But along with what little we had, often wearing hand-me-downs, we also had extraordinary love and laughter. Holidays were special, not because of presents but because everyone was joyful with what we had. I adore my entire family, even if what they do is looked at with little understanding or respect. What they gave me was the ability to always be myself. For that, I will be eternally grateful.”

“Sounds idealistic. So why the foray into the darkest of minds and violence?”

The fact my question caused a tiny twitch to appear on the side of her mouth was as refreshing as it was telling. I’d been right. She did have a very dark secret she would attempt to take to her grave. She leaned forward quickly, resting her elbows on her knees. “Because the light is beautiful, much like the shimmering sun on a gorgeous spring day, but there is no depth to it, no ability to hide from itself. The darkness with shadows and subdued edges provides the perfect hiding ground for all the delicious desires lurking in all of us. That’s really why people enjoy horror movies. Because they’re allowed to overcome the day-to-day doldrums of being what others expect them to be.”

Her answer was not necessarily what I’d expected but every word was dripping with such sincerity it made my balls tighten.

“Do you enjoy horror movies?”

Now she smiled. “Very much. My favorites.”

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