Page 10 of Shadows Within
There’s a part of me that itches to crack him open, and to figure out what makes his brain tick.
Clean Up
Callum
The smell of bleach lives on my hands no matter how many times I wash them. It’s been a couple of weeks since the “accident” with Emily. I still can’t believe they’re calling it that. It was an overdose, or the wrong mix of drugs, or both. By the look I saw on Jasper’s face, I know that what happened to Emily was a result of power and recklessness combined. The Society eats its own, and I cleaned up their mess like the good Mercer boy who chooses this burden.
I look up from my notebook, around at the classroom. We’ve done this case study twice now—either some of these students are stupid, or they just don’t give a shit.
There’s no protocol to follow when someone dies at the hands of The Society, but there is a rhythm to the silence after. Over time, I’ve learned to fall into it.
I scan the room and survey my peers.Half of the students aren’t paying attention—they’re playing on their phones or almost asleep. The other half are almost too engaged, they are the ones with high hopes that will be crushed the moment they step into their careers. Most of them have no clue that twice a week they sit in the same room as a killer, someone who hates the act but loves the release. Outside of school, they all go through life sipping expensive coffees and driving fancy cars because all they care about is fitting in and spending money. I’ve earned everything I have. I’ve put my time in with The Society.
It all started with selling drugs at parties—we all start that way. From there, I quickly became the drug runner and dealt with money, earning their trust.
My father always knew this was my path. He paved the way—I started the same way he did in The Society. He only had to put in a couple of years of grunt work before he climbed his way to the top and became our silent leader.
It wasn’t long before my tasks turned from selling drugs to annihilating people with my fists. Not only does The Society supply drugs, they use them to sedate women and film as they violate them. They use masks and secret rooms so their identities are never revealed. You’d be surprised to know what kind of sick fucks love that.
I refuse to be a part of that horror—it’s one thing they know they can’t push onto me. They tried once, and the pledge who thought he had that kind of power over me has since relocated, six feet under.
“The most dangerous leaders are those who are born into power but are never taught to respect it.”
Professor Blakeson catches my attention with his lecture.
“Legacy can be a weapon.”
I’m intrigued, I look over at him.
I know that my family’s legacy is ingrained in everything I do. Maybe his words are a coincidence, but they feel personal. My back shifts restlessly against the chair.
As the lecture finishes, I make my way across campus to my car. Rain starts to fall. People run to shelter to avoid the cool shower, but I’m in no rush. I sympathize with the rain. So many flee at the feel of a few drops, rejecting any chance of a down pour. Many also reject me. I smile at the comparison and slide into the driver’s seat of my car.
The Mercer residence is not a home. It’s not meant to feel comforting. I’m greeted by iron gates, perfectly leveled gravel, and the long stretch of manicured hedges. I feel suffocated.
This house belongs on the front of a magazine. There’s not a frame that’s out of place or a cushion that isn’t fluffed. I pull intomy spot in the six-car garage and move purposefully through the mudroom, into the kitchen. The air is still and cold, with a faint smell of aged wood and expensive cologne. I hear ice dropping into a glass before I see my perfectly put together mother. I brace myself. It’s expected when she greets me like a guest and not her son.
“Hello, Callum,” she cocks her head and pours herself a stiff drink. “Don’t forget, the gala with the DA’s office is tonight,” she takes a sip. “It’s for the children’s hospital so I expect you to be on your best behaviour.” She smiles, easing the sting of her words.
“Yes, Mother,” I say as I walk toward my side of the house.
While I spend most of my nights here and the rest of my days at The Society, I wouldn’t consider either of them my home. There’s a roof over my head, but a home? That’s just a word people use when they have someone who cares for them waiting at the door.
My room is clean but not warm. Everything has been handpicked for me, from the leather furniture and perfectly made bed, to the large desk with my grandfather’s portrait above it. Apart from the books on my shelf and the punching bag hanging by the window, everything has been selected by an interior designer, to “fit the mood.”
I pick up a dark navy Tom Ford suit that lies out on my bed. It’s crisp with tags still on it. Mother doesn’t even trust that I can pick out a nice suit and forgets that I have ten of these exact ones in my closet.
I don’t hate her, she is my mother, but I hate what she stands for. For years she’s been Dad’s puppet, playing dress up and planning charity balls. She’s traded silence for status. While the world rots under her Christian Louboutin high heels, she sits at marble tables and drinks champagne, carefree. Molded intoa perfect shape that my father carved out, she’s bent into The Society’s rules. No spine, no voice, just a polished smile.
I don’t have it in me to pretend and admire women like her. I respect women, more than most men I know—not because I was taught to, but because I’ve seen what happens when they’re treated like property and discarded.
Father has tried to arrange marriages for me with such future generic molds. I’ve never allowed him and convinced him to lay off until I’m done school and begin working for my grandfather. He agrees that I should stay focused on my studies, for now.
After hitting the bag a few times and lingering in a hot shower, I change into the perfectly pressed suit. By the silence in the house, I can tell that everyone’s already left.
I stride into the lavish hall. Only the most elite in our small town of Millhaven fill the massive ballroom. Glitter illuminates from a crystal bottle of champagne and bounces off the bright lights overhead. I spot my parents in the distance talking to some of the Highers. Father forces a smile toward me as I approach them.
“There he is.” Father grabs my shoulder. I try not to show my discomfort.
