Page 39 of Deviant

But at least she can sleep.

At least she has that.

It’s a small blessing, but one that I’m fucking grateful for.

I gently close her bedroom door behind me and knock on Aidan’s door, not surprised to find an empty room. Of course, the fucker wouldn’t come home early tonight. Not when he knew there was someone else looking after our mother.

Maybe it’s for the best he’s not home tonight.

I’m still in a mood, and Aidan has a knack for knowing what buttons to push.

Needing to unwind, I walk over to the kitchen, grab a six-pack from the fridge, and go outside to the porch, preferring to chain-smoke the night away while getting a little light buzz going.

But as I crack open a beer and light up a cigarette, tonight’s events come to the forefront of my mind, reminding me how Blackwater Falls is run by a bunch of sanctimonious pricks.

That whole spiel from the mayor about how his precious daughter is now eligible to be selected for the harvest reeked of him trying to garner sympathy to win more voter points. Leveraging such a thing just so he can guarantee next year’s election is all sorts of fucked up.

Not that anyone in the auditorium saw through his bullshit.

In fact, they lapped it all up.

They’ll probably even start a prayer circle just so his daughter isn’t called upon.

Fucking sheep.

And don’t even get me started on our town’s pathetic excuse of a sheriff.

The audacity of him telling me…me,to stay home the next time there is a meeting.

Like he can order me around.

As if it were his right.

‘Everyone in this town sacrifices one thing or another for the greater good. You can at least do the decent thing of sacrificing your pride and prevent further heartache for those who lost their loved ones. It’s not too much to ask, is it, son?’

“I’m not your fucking son,” I belt out, whiteknuckling the beer bottle in my hand as I recall his words.

What does he know of sacrifice anyway?

Fuck.

Okay.

Maybe he knows a thing or two.

He did lose his wife, Sarah, toThe Scourgewhen Rowen was basically still a toddler.

I was ten when it happened.

Rowen must have been five or six at the time.

I only remember the event vividly for two reasons—the first because Rowen’s mom had been my fourth-grade teacher the previous year and I kind of liked how funny she was, and the second because it was unheard of a mom ever being selected for the Harvest Dozen.

This town never saw that happen before Sarah, nor since.

Perhaps it was a test to see just how much heartache one town could stomach—if we would retaliate or just submit to our fate like we always do.

Almost fifteen years later, and we’re still submitting, so I guess they got their answer.

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