Page 1 of Meating Dalton

PROLOGUE

DALTON

“One, two, three,” I count out loud, hands clasped to my eyes and face pressed into the wall of a pitch dark closet. I’m scared, but I didn’t tell Mom that. She never wanted to play with me before.

We’re playing hide and seek. She’s hiding while I count. I don’t know why I had to be in the closet. I don’t like it.

“Done!” I shout, dropping my hands. My chest hurts, like when I run outside during playtime. I shuffle in the dark toward the door. I’m scared, really scared.

“Mom!” I cry, pulling on the doorknob. It won’t turn. Why won’t it turn? Did she lock it?

“Mom!” Tears spill down my face. Dad says big boys don’t cry, but it’s dark in here. I don’t like the dark. It feels like someone’s in here with me, breathing down my neck. Dad says there’s no such thing as monsters, but it feels like a fib, like when Johnny pushed me down while we were playing and told the teacher I fell.

“Mom, please!” My forehead thumps into the door and something moves behind me.

“No, no. Not real. Dad says you’re not real.” My fist bang on the door, hoping the noise will drown out the monster in the closet with me.

“Mommy!” I know she hates it when I call her that. Her lips would turn down and she’d pretend she didn’t hear me, even though I sometimes see her glance at me when I say it.

When I hear footsteps outside the door, I stop crying, and wipe my face in case it’s Dad. When they stop at the door, I curl my hands, waiting for one of my parents to open the door. Maybe Mom’s punishing me. But I don’t know what I did wrong.

“Mom?” What if the monster slid beneath the door to the other side? That can't happen. Or at least I think it can’t, but Santa finds a way in.

The footsteps start to move away. No, no. I shake my head and bang my fist on the door again.

“Mom!” Snot and tears drip down my face. I don’t care about being a big boy. I want out. Out. Out. Out.

“Please let me out! I’ll be good!” I promise, hoping she’s listening. She doesn’t answer me and I slide to the floor with my cheek pressed to the door. She’s not coming. I don’t know what I did wrong.

Maybe if I can’t see the monster, then it’s not there. Wrapping my arms around my knees, I bury my face in them. I stay like that, whispering over and over, “It’s not real. I’m alone. It’s not real.”

I don’t know how long I stay like that, but it feels like a long time before Dad pulls open the closet and carries me to bed. He doesn’t say anything about the dried tears and snot. I’m glad. I really tried to be a big boy.

DEATH & A FUNERAL

DALTON

“We’re gathered here today for the dearly departed…”

A priest drones on, his voice sounding like buzzing insects. Or maybe that’s the whispers of the congregation. Or the sizzling of my skin. Surely, a sinner like myself should burst into flames instead of calmly sitting on a church pew.

A woman keens loudly in the back of the church. Her wailful moans carrying toward me and making my palms itch to slide a blade into it and permanently silence her fucking fake crying. Nobody misses Charles Lewis that much, not even the secretary he fucked regularly, who sits near the casket with silent crocodile tears sliding down her made-up face. Must be top dollar make-up to not smudge or look out of place.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I spot black nail polish catching the light streaming in from the stained glass. My cousin, Deaton, rests a hand on my bouncing knee. I hadn’t realized my entire body’s buzzing with activity.

My other cousin, Rhys, lounges lazily on my left, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t bother touching me. He knows better and Deaton foolishly trusts I won’t skin him in the middle of my adoptive father’s funeral service. Charles Lewis tolerated me. And I’m barely tolerating this stuffy, tight suit that covers nearly every inch of skin. Maybe Aunt Shirley thought everyone would mistake me for the Grim Reaper with my skeletal tattoo stretching from the tips of my fingers to just below my jaw and that’s why she insisted on the suit.

Would Deaton miss his mother if I killed her?

“Quit fucking fidgeting,” he snaps in my ear. I gnash my teeth at him, regretting allowing him to confiscate my knives. Maybe he knows me better than I give him credit for. Either fucking way, I’m done with the droning and buzzing and wailing of sheep. Any more of it and I’ll really shock everyone by throwing the casket wide open, jumping into it, and peeling the flesh from dear old Charles. It’d be a bitch with rigor mortis toughening the skin.

“I’m out of here,” I growl at my cousin, body poised to jump out of the pew. Pain lances my wrist and I look down to see the fucker pulled one of my blades out of his pocket and made a superficial cut through the folded down cuffs at my wrist. Blood wells and makes my stomach grumble. Immediately, I want a rare steak, licking my lips at the blood.

“Your ass is staying until they throw fucking dirt on the casket. I am not,” Deaton growls, “covering for you if you bail cause your head ain’t screwed on tight. If Rhys and I have to suffer through this service then so do you. Now, be fucking still.” Metal glints then the blade gets stowed back into my cousin’s pocket. Oh, sure, he gets to have a weapon, but I’m not trusted with one.

Ears burning at the tongue lashing and feeling like a damn child that got its ass spanked, I huff back into my seat, crossing my arms to emulate Rhys. His lips curl out of the corner of my eyes and he too is lucky I’m unarmed. I’d give his pretty boy face a permanent damn smile. Deaton’s nail polish gleam as he tugs on his cuffs unnecessarily.

How the fuck did I get saddled with Hollywood and Metalhead for cousins? The world truly isn’t fair.

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