Page 11 of Crazy Rich Monsters (Necessary Evils 1)

And then a glass lands against the other side of the door, shattering into what I presume is a thousand tiny, sharp pieces. “Fuck you, Addison!”

I try to steady my breathing, but on the verge of a panic attack, there’s no escape from the demons in my mind. I jump to my feet with an anguished scream and clear everything off the dresser with one sweep of my arm. My gaze falls to the floor where a tray of safety pins has spilled out onto the worn carpet. I grab a single pin, my hand shaking, and then finally a tear. A real, actual fucking tear begins to fall over my cheek. I turn my wrist over to try and get a good look at the surface of my skin where the veins converge with tendons, but my vision becomes blurred. I cock my head upwards as I dig the safety pin into my flesh.

And then I’m there in the Calloway garden, lost in the memories of guilt and entropy. It’s a beautiful summer day, the sun shining bright in the sky. The greenery of the garden is serene, but the crying in the distance betrays the beauty.

And Carter’s right there too, torn between begging for empathy and the bribery of bullying me into submission. But it’s too late. There’s blood on my hands already, and that’s before I stab the knife into his gut.

ChapterSeven

ADDISON

Francis Galton coined the phrasenature versus nurturein the 1800’s. The psychology of yesterday isn’t the psychology of today, but the understanding of philosophy doesn’t change. It evolves. Choosing a side in the battle of the two leaves the purgatory of guilt on one end and the objectiveness of chance on the other. It could be argued that arguing for one or the other could be a direct result of that person’s station in life, as if nature or nurture could provide an alibi for the way people are.

The theories of nature and nurture both succumb to the limitations of fate. If we are to believe that our lives don’t happen in a vacuum of happenstance, then we must understand that we never really had a choice in the matter. If we subscribe to the belief that fate is inevitable, then how can we be punished for our sins?

Choosing to believe in fate is choosing to believe there’s an easy way out. But it’s never that simple. If it were, I wouldn’t allow myself to be swallowed whole by the sins of my past. I wasn’t always the type of girl that would stab a man in the chest. When I was a little girl, I couldn’t stomach the thought of stepping on an ant, and then the harsh reality of the world forced me to become a monster. So, it’d be easy enough to take a wild stab in the dark that I identify more with the laws of nurture as opposed to nature, while leaving the possibility open that others are more defined by nature, and that there’s evil in people’s hearts from the time they are born.

Carter wasn’t innocent. He was rotten to the core. Sometimes I lie awake at night trying to understand how he became the person that he was. Those thoughts are only intensified when I’m lost in the throes of alcohol. I saw the dastardly effects alcohol could have on people at a young age and so I’ve always tried to be conscious of when I choose to drink and when I choose to abstain.

The difference between the two lines is thinning.

This is what she wants, for me to be just like her. The last thing I want when I look in the mirror is to see my mother’s reflection staring back at me, but that’s the predicament before me. A horizontal mirror runs the length of the bar, the view obscured by the bottles of liquor that adorn the shelves. My eyes are heavier than usual, the weight of the alcohol dragging me down.

I’ll get drunk today and then fight like hell tomorrow to prove to myself that I’m nothing like the soulless woman that’s my mother.

There are two bartenders. Two men on opposite ends of the spectrum of age. One is younger, with a canvas of tattoos painted down the length of both arms. The way he constantly sniffs and scratches the base of his nose with one finger leads me to believe he’s indulging in cocaine. Not that I’m one to judge anyone. The older man’s face is lost in the canvas of his white beard as if the hands of time have tugged away at the fire that was once in his eyes. Maybe they used to burn bright, but not anymore. They’re dark and cold, hollow shells parked against the elastic wrinkles of time.

I don’t care enough to remember their names. I remember people by their faces anyways. A name isn’t unique. Faces are.

I take a sip of whiskey, relishing the way the drink wets my lips but wanting to choke when it reaches my throat. I make a conscious effort to not indulge too much. I know the risks as I’ve seen them first-hand. The threat of addiction weighs heavier over a hurting heart. Unfortunately, I’ve been running from my demons for so long that I don’t think there’s ever a proper time to take a drink.

But I’m not here just to drown out the pain. There are a hundred bars within a short drive of my mother's house. I could have chosen any one of them. I could have chosen the closest if my only intention was to get trashed. I could have chosen Tauk.

But I chose this place, this dark and dingy dive bar in the middle of the bad side of town, assuming such a place even exists in the Hamptons. From the outside looking in, this town is watched with envious luster. For those of us who grew up around these parts, we know better. We understand intimately the way this place can twist its cruel claws into the purest of hearts through corruption, envy, and greed, and that’s to say nothing of the monsters that lurk in the shadows.

And I’ve met a few monsters in my time. Some of them capable of making my mother and I look like absolute fucking saints. That’s why I chose this place, because trauma has a way of repeating the cycle, and so there are no coincidences. So, whenshewalks into the bar, I’m prepared.

She’sthe reason I’m here.

She’s taller than I remember. Where she was once an innocent kid, she looks more grown. She looks like a woman now, but I know better. She’s sixteen and should have the world at her feet, but she chooses this same bar instead of anywhere else in the city. She’s lonely, dressed in black denim with a matching black tank. There are rips in her jeans, and a pink bra peeks from beneath the tank. Her hair is pitch black and long. Her mother would never approve of her stepping out into public like this. She wouldn’t care that her daughter is in a bar. She doesn’t have the parental instincts to protect her children in that regard. The only thing she’d possibly care about is that her daughter is dressed as if she’spoor, certainly not fit to uphold the family image. Instead of looking like a Calloway, she comes off as the very people the family looks down upon.

I imagine that’s her intention.

She doesn’t notice me right away. Her eyes are anywhere else, searching. And then she’s smiling, and I don’t ever recall her being happy. From the time we first met, there’s been a dark cloud over her head. She’s smitten with the younger bartender. They know each other. She takes a seat at the bar down the way from me. The man’s attention is fixated on her. He’s smitten too. Either he’s ignorant to how young she is, or he’s another monster in disguise. It’s funny how the ugliest souls can hide in the most gorgeous faces.

The man reaches forward, his arm extended over the width of the bar, and caresses Emily by her cheek, and then he’s kissing her. Wet and fast. And that’s when she notices me, her gaze curving to the left. She doesn’t smile. The dark clouds are back, circling over her head like vultures in the sky. She whispers something to the man and then makes her way over to me, dropping down onto the empty stool beside me.

I look away, my finger rimming the glass in front of me. “You’re not old enough to be here.”

“That’s one of the perks of dating the bartender.” She’s just as deadpan as I am.

“He’s too old for you,” I say softly.

She drops one elbow onto the bar and attempts to look straight into my eyes, but I don’t take the bait. “Are you trying to protect me?”

“I think we both know that I’m not the best when it comes to protecting you.”

“I don’t need your protection just as I didn’t need it all those years ago.”

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