Page 183 of Bad for Me

“Pop! Goes the weasel.”Barbie smashes into Mr. Ashton’s jaw, dislocating it and tearing the flesh to shreds. I don’t want or need to hear his pathetic excuses.

When my parents died, this piece of shit sold me. During my captivity, they forced me to service the needs of the sick men who wanted me to call themdaddyorsir. They didn’t care that I was only a child. In fact, most of them preferred it.

Teachers. Husbands. Fathers. Judges. Lawyers. Priests. I marked each of their faces and committed them to memory. I’ll never forgive. Never forget.

I gained my freedom two years ago, and I vowed I’d make every one of them pay. The corruption in Arcadia may run to the highest levels, but I’ll take out as many of them as I can. I’m under no illusion I’ll ever leave this city alive. One of them will overpower me, and I’ll find myself floating in the Aries River or in a shallow grave in the Olympian Hills. Just another statistic.

But that’s okay. Because with death will come peace and the end of the nightmares that torment me every night. I’ll never have to remember the innocent little girl I once was or relive the tortures forced on me.

“Pop! Goes the weasel,”I repeat in a whisper, and bring the bat down on Mr. Ashton’s face, over and over again, until even his mother wouldn’t recognize him. Bits of flesh, bone, and brain matter decorate The Dollhouse and my pretty dress when I’m done, but it’s nothing a little bleach can’t handle.

4

DOLLY

Sittingin a dark corner of the bar, I keep my hood up while listening to the chatter going on around me. Although they would claim otherwise, men are as much gossipers as women. The topics might differ, but the result is the same.

I dredge a french fry in ketchup as I strain to better hear the conversation in the booth to my left. Three men, most likely fishermen by their clothing and the scent of fish hanging over them like an aura, drown their woes in cheap beer and greasy burgers.

“The man was skinned!” the eldest of the three says, thumping his fist on the worn wooden table. He pushes back the royal-blue beanie he wears, revealing shoulder-length hair the color of snow.

“Someone told me he was one of those kiddie diddlers,” another one says. I risk a peek in their direction, my lip curling into a sneer. He must sense me, as he tries to peer over his friends’ shoulders in my direction, but I put my head back down. Staying invisible is the name of the game.

“Betcha it was Sinister that’s done it,” the third says, a portly fellow with sun-damaged skin and heavy lines etched in his brow.

“Shh!” the eldest admonishes. “He has ears everywhere.” He lowers his voice, but I can still make out when he adds, “Roddy told me there was an S carved into his back. It was definitely The Carver.” The other two nod wisely, as if that explains everything.

I’ve recently discovered that Sinister and The Carver are the same person. Since moving back to Arcadia City, I’ve heard his name whispered in both reverence and fear. I haven’t been able to glean too much information about the man; it’s as if he’s a ghost.

But I made a vow to help rid this city of corruption, and my conscience won’t allow what appears to be a serial killer to run loose on the streets. The men finish their drinks before tossing a few notes on the table and vacating their seats. I dart a glance around before reaching over the seat and helping myself to the newspaper they left behind.

The Herculean Gazette’s stories must always be taken with a pinch of salt. Or better, an entire bucket of salt. Once corruption settles into the heart of a city, it gradually spreads like a fungus. It creeps into every home, every office, every street. It lies dormant, waiting for its opportunity to strike before spreading anarchy, malfeasance, and apathy throughout the population.

The Gazette is no different. The editors print what Governor White wants the people to believe. His specialty is dividing the populace. One week he attacks minorities. The next, the disabled. The following, the poor. It keeps the people in a constant state of hatred and discontent—all to prevent them from looking too closely at what he does behind their backs.

But news is news, even if I can’t trust all of it to be truthful. The front-page picture takes up half the page and displays a body bag sitting at the edge of Hera Bay. “Fuck,” I whisper as I scan the article. The body was dumped a mere three hundred yards from my warehouse—far too close for my peace of mind.

The article mentions the S carved into the victim’s back but doesn’t accuse Sinister directly. They never do—at least in the ones I’ve read. It hints at him having power or some kind of sway, and that makes me nervous.

Especially if he’s dumping bodies in my neighborhood.

Some rumors say he’s a vigilante, killing only the most evil of society. Others claim he’s nothing more than a hitman for Aidan O’Brien—the head of the local Irish Mafia. And some refute both of these, dismissing him as nothing more than a scapegoat, a convenient fictional character they can blame their crimes on.No, officer, it wasn’t me that killed that man. It was Sinister. See the S?

How convenient.

I scan the rest of the paper before dropping a twenty on the table and making my way out of the bar. The thick clouds and heightening winds predict rain, so I lower my head and pull my hood tighter over my face before disappearing into Arcadia’s streets.

Trying to decide if I should focus on luring another victim to The Dollhouse or searching for more information on Sinister keeps my mind occupied as I weave through downtown. There is a disproportionate number of homeless here, begging outside of businesses. Passersby ignore them for the most part, turning them into nothing more than scenery.

I drop a few dollars into cups here and there. I have little myself, but I like to spread around the money my victims pay me where I can.

After checking both ways for cars, I dash across Styx Avenue and turn right onto Eros Lane. Even though it’s only 4 p.m., prostitutes already line the street, dressed in skimpy clothes grossly unsuitable for the weather. At least the street receives a bit of protection from the wind because of the tall buildings lining both sides.

My gaze jumps from one person to another, my heart breaking at how young many of them are. I wish there were more of me, an entire army that could clear the city of corruption and make it new. A place of safety, where kids could play outside and women could walk down the street. But I’m only one person, and I can’t solve it all on my own.

“Mary,” I murmur, coming to a stop alongside one of the women. She’s thinner than she should be and wears a hot-pink miniskirt and matching crop top. Goosebumps cover her arms, blending in with the fingerprint bruises decorating her forearms. She startles, a hand coming to rest over her heart.

“Dolly! You need to stop sneakin’ up on people.”

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