Page 15 of Daughter of a Monster

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the flash. It looks like a school cafeteria. Everything is white: the walls, the ceiling, the tables, the chairs. I expected there to be some sort of barrier but the prisoners are sitting free, right next to the visitors.

Hands creep around my body. Nails dig into my skin.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, visualizing my body moving to first position, then second, then—

“Just wait right here, love, and I’ll bring him out,” a voice says.

I nod, but I don’t open my eyes. I’m too busy concentrating, blocking out the flashes. I visualize the repetition four times before I open my eyes again.

Nothing is different.

Choosing a table at the end of the room, as far away from other people as possible, I sit on the stool, its base immoveable, bolted to the ground. Then, changing my mind, I move closer to a family. Somehow it feels safer.

Over the last few days, I’ve handed in my resignation to Miss Marchand and said my goodbyes to the dance company. They didn’t seem surprised that I was leaving. I think they felt relief. Most people become uncomfortable when they know who I am.

I also found out as much as I could about Mr Jericho Priest, not that there was a lot available. He’s a notoriously private man despite the countless photos of him at his nightclubs, surrounded by beautiful women and powerful men. It was almost like looking at a different person than the one I’d met. The person in the photos was arrogant and charming, with slicked-back hair and a wicked smile. There was none of the sternness and severity I’d seen at the dance studio.

He owns nightclubs and casinos all over the world. They all have the same name, differentiated only by the addition of the city. Black Swan. No one knows how he made his money, but he quickly became known within the high-stakes poker scene, rising through the ranks to play with the big boys. Now he holds a monthly game at his estate. It’s shrouded in secrecy, many reporters trying and failing to gain access. The flurry of media attention waned in recent years, the veil of secrecy surrounding him too hard to lift.

The door swings open and my father walks in, closely followed by the officer. I expected him to be wearing some sort of striped jumpsuit, or maybe orange, but he’s dressed in gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He looks impossibly normal. Impossibly un-monster like. His hair is a little grayer, his wrinkles defined rather than puffed tight with fillers, and his skin is pale. There are no sunbeds in prison, obviously. But other than that, he could be anyone walking down the street. An average Joe. He’s talking to the officer and she smiles at something he says. I think she even chuckles.

A wave of anxiety rushes through me, doubling me over with a sudden knife of pain in my gut.

My feet bound at the ankles. A cane lashing them. A faceless wicked smile.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I can’t do this.

I breathe deeply and determine to get up and leave, but he arrives before I can, so I tell myself I need to do this. I need closure. I need to confront my demon.

If he’s surprised to see me, it doesn’t show. He merely sits down and places his folded hands on the table in front of him.

“There is to be no touching, no raised voices, no exchanging of food. You have thirty minutes.”

And then it’s just me andhim.

I can’t bring myself to look at him now that he’s so close, so I stare at his hands. We’re both silent. The clock on the wall ticks loudly. Someone laughs. Someone else cries. His hands move and I jump, reeling back as though he’s slapped me.

Hands around my throat. Sweat dripping between my breasts.

“Thank you for coming.” He says it as though I’m doing him a favor, as though he’s asked. He lets out a low and long sigh when I don’t say anything. “How’s your mother?”

My head whips up of its own volition. Did he really just ask that? He’s staring straight at me, ducking his head as though trying to catch my eye. There’s no shame in his gaze, no remorse. He looks the same way as he did before everything happened. Before the truth came out. Before he was thrown in jail.

And for a moment, when I’m just looking at him, I forget.

He doesn’t look like a monster, he just looks like him. The man who used to smile and pat me on the head when I showed him sketches I’d drawn of his horses. The man who bought me pretty dresses. The man who used to laugh. The man I used to love.

Can love and cruelty exist within the same person?

“Did you get my letters?”

And just like that, the man I used to know is gone and the monster is back in his place. I nod and pull them out of my pocket, pushing them over the table. He picks one up, his fingers tracing the scrawled letters of my name.

“You didn’t read them?” He flicks through the pile. “You didn’t open even one?”

“There’s nothing you could say to make up for what you’ve done.” My voice sounds broken and distant, as though it belongs to someone else.

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