Page 3 of The Female

Men like the ones upstairs who invited themselves to our house so they could leer at my mother.

Disgusting, dirty men.

2

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CHARLOTTE

MOM PUSHES HERthin gray hair out of her face before smacking Dad’s arm, her movements quick and decisive.

I laugh as he snorts and pivots away in a sad attempt to avoid her half-hearted attack. It’s been a few hours since their guests left, but the effects of the alcohol they drank still seems to be coursing through their veins.

Their laughter quiets as Mom rises from the couch and begins gathering my dinner dishes. I didn’t get to eat with them like I usually do, but there were plenty of leftovers for me to munch on.

“Thanks, Mom!” I beam, offering her a toothy grin as she takes my plate.

I can tell both she and Dad feel guilty about me having spent all evening in my hideout, and no amount of assurances on my end seem to be helping. It’s not the first time I’ve had to hide down there, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

It’s a part of life, and I accept that.

Dad turns to me as Mom wanders into the kitchen, his brows pulled tight and lips pursed. I take a moment to look him over, noting the deepening lines that stretch across his forehead and the slight sagging of his cheeks. It feels like he’s aging in front of my very eyes, the healthy young man I still think him to be a painful contradiction to the one that sits here now.

If it weren’t for our matching brown hair and prominent noses, I doubt you’d be able to tell we are father and daughter.

“Come here,” he says after a moment.

Throwing out his arms, he gestures for me to squeeze into the small space between him and the edge of the couch. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I stand from my chair and meander toward him. He does this every time he has guests over and as sweet as it is, the news of the human captures has me too on edge to pretend to enjoy it.

Dad lets out a low grunt as I plop down and throw my legs over his thighs. I lean against the sofa’s armrest as I get comfortable, my cheeks heating as I take in my dad’s pained face.

I’m not a child anymore, and his body isn’t exactly equipped to take the impact of a full-grown adult’s legs dropping onto his lap.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

Dad forces out a laugh as he grabs my shins, his hands warm and comforting.

“Don’t be,” he responds, giving my leg an affectionate pat.

As always, he takes a few moments to collect himself and set the mood for the conversation I’ve had with him hundreds of times at this point. We both know I don’t need to hear this, but it’s more for his benefit than mine.

He’s always so filled with guilt after having guests over.

The sounds of my mother messing around in the kitchen fill the silence between us, her quiet humming a comforting background noise.

“It’s important to me that you know I don’t think of your mother as property. I don’t enjoy showing her off like that and would never”—he pauses and turns to make eye contact with me, his solemn expression showing just how much he needs me to believe his words—“neverlet anybody touch or hurt her. I love you both more than anything else in this world.”

I nod, my lips twitching upward as I acknowledge his confession. I’ve never doubted this, and if I ever did, I’m sure it was squashed between the ages of five and fifteen when he repeated these words nearly every week.

My lips purse as we progress to the next part of the conversation, and my body tenses as I wait. Dad’s reaction is the same as mine, his fingers wrapping around my shin like he’s afraid I’m about to disappear into thin air.

I suppose, in his mind, that’s a genuine possibility.

“If you are ever taken from us, I want you to know that no matter what happens, you’re not property. You are your own person, and you deserve nothing less than to be treated that way,” he explains, his voice thickening as he continues. “Say it.”

Sighing, I lick my dry lips before repeating his words.

“I am my own person, and I deserve nothing less than to be treated that way,” I say, trying and failing to ignore his intense gaze on the side of my head.

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