Page 2 of Meating Dalton

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“Another!” I slur, slamming a shot glass down onto damp, varnished wood. Rhys’ baby blues look me up and down critically and with a sigh, he refills my glass. Smoke drifts from the lit end of Deaton’s cigarette.

“You should really cut him off,” he tells his cousin. My cousin? My head shakes, sloshing liquid around. Whatever. We’re somebody’s cousins.

“His dad died. I think he’s entitled to get trashed. And its fun to watch him slow down. Always bouncing around like he’s doing coke,” Rhys complains. My dad died? A laugh bubbles from me. I suppose he did but if we’re talking biological, then I don’t know that fucker. No, Charles took that information with him to the grave and not even his solicitor would tell me who my birth parents were.

“I should go find my dad. Make him pay,” I say but the words traveling to my ears sound funny, like I said them too fast. Rhys chuckles, shaking his head and causing blonde hair to brush his forehead. Deaton snorts and more smoke wafts my way. I look around the barely lit bar, taking in the gyrating bodies on the dance floor, flashing strobe lights, and the inconspicuous bouncers stationed in odd corners. Rhys must really like people to own and manage a bar. That or he’s a masochist cause he always looks constipated when he’s interacting with people that aren’t paying patrons.

“Pay for giving me up,” I mumble, rediscovering my original train of thought. Cunt Samantha—my dead foster mother—never told me the name of my birth parents either. No, she merely taunted me with the knowledge that I was unwanted and an abomination. I wish I could revisit the euphoria of slitting her throat and silencing her for good. Maybe I’ll see her in the next life.

Another laugh stumbles from my numb lips. Why are they numb?

“Let it go, Zac. It’s in the past,” Deaton says, smoke spilling from his mouth and nostrils. Some of it snakes down my throat, spurring a coughing fit. A large hand slams into my back, trying to force the smoke out.

“Damn,” I groan. “Don’t ever give me fucking CPR. You’ll crack my ribs beating on my chest like you just did to my back.” Rhys laughs, even white teeth catching the light. They think I’m joking. About my biological parents, that is.

But for too long the thought simmered in my mind. Where are they? Was Samantha right? There’s only one way to find the answers I seek and that’s by cutting it out of them.

And I don’t mean that figuratively.

“Mazel tov, Charles,” I whisper into the rim of my glass, downing the whiskey back in one motion. I hope you’re enjoying Hell, you old bastard.

UNLUCKY PREY

DALTON

My skin itches and I fight the urge to claw at it until it bleeds, red painting the black and white ink decorating my skin. From suffering emerges the strongest souls or whatever some dead fuck said. I must suffer to get what I want and what I want is to cut open my biological parents until their insides spill out, along with the reason for why they gave me up.

It doesn’t bother me. I’m beyond such trivial issues. Some adopted kids wonder why, wallowing in their self-pity. Oh, no. I’m comfortable with who I am. I’m Zachary fucking Dalton Lewis, who enjoys spending the Lewis’ money at his leisure.

What I didn’t enjoy was the meat sack that was my adoptive mother, Samantha Lewis or Charles Lewis, who’s worm food now. I wish I could say I’m responsible for both of their fates, but can only lay claim to one. I’d have killed Charles too if he hadn’t tolerated my existence and made half-assed attempts to care for my needs.

My nails drag along the length of my pants, hands needing to do something other than sliding down to my ankles, pulling a knife free and stabbing into chatty Becky’s chest, who’s sitting in the creaky plastic chair next to me. Why the fuck do they make these chairs so small and what’s up with the magazines?

No, I don’t give a fuck about flu season. I’m sitting in the waiting room of the adoption agency that handled my case because I’m looking for a referral for a urologist. Are some dicks really that small? My hands are half tempted to pick up the pamphlet on testicular cancer just to compare sizes. Those guys are advertising for the wrong health issue.

“Lewis!” A clear, feminine voice calls out and I abandon my disgruntlement with the entertainment options. It’s showtime. Rising from my claustrophobic seat, I brush imaginary lint away, tugging on my cuffs. A collar digs into the sensitive skin of my neck but I ignore it, striding over to the smiling receptionist.

Brown pupils widen, drifting up and down my form. Black suits me, absorbing the light and conveniently hiding blood stains when necessary. It’s my second favorite color after red. For blood, duh.

I flash a dimpled smile at—a quick glance at a name badge sporting a blurry photo—Amanda. Her brown roots override the blonde streaks through her hair, contrasting with the tale the badge tells. Not my problem.

Leaning over the polished counter, the scent of lemon polish floating on the air, I lower my lids, letting them drift into a half-hooded look. Females eat that shit up.

“Hi. I’m Zachary Lewis. I was wondering if I could peek at my adoption file,” I belt out smoothly, keeping my smile firmly in place. Red stains Amanda’s skin as she shoots a flustered look from me to the computer in front of her. Deft fingers fly over keyboards, each jab stabbing into my sensitive earlobes.

God, why can’t I kill her and pull up the information myself?

Oh, right, that’s “illegal”. So is intentional starvation but that never stopped Samantha or me from slitting her throat. I smile at the memory while waiting for Amanda to pull up my information. Sheharrumphssoftly, sliding a cautious look my way. I lock onto it.

Reading prey is a skill I fostered and nurtured. They disgust me but studying them is a necessary evil. All the better to kill you, my dear.

“Problem?” I ask in a smooth voice. She mumbles slightly before clearing her slender throat. It begs for my knives.

“Actually, yours is a closed adoption. I’m not allowed to disclose details,” she mutters in an apologetic tone, avoiding my glare. It’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard. But I can’t tell her that. Charles Lewis prided himself on his ability to conduct business in the middle of the most improbable conditions. I channel my adopted father’s ghost, loathing the slimy feeling coating my skin.

“Of course. I understand you’re doing your job. But this is such a personal issue for me.” My lips pull down into a grimace, insincere eyes lowering to shield the hard glint that whisper “I want to see your insides”.

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