Page 3 of Daughter of a Monster

This is not paranoia.

“Is what true?” I turn to my bag, busying myself and trying to pretend there’s no hidden agenda in his question.

“Are you her?”

I laugh, but it comes out weak and pathetic. “Her, who?”

“Oh, come on.” Monique lifts a hand and swipes her hair over her shoulder as though it is loose and long, but it’s not and the motion just looks strange. Theatrical. “We all know who you are. There’s no point in pretending anymore. Your secret is out.”

“I really have no idea what—”

“You’re the daughter of that monster, aren’t you?” Her tone is accusatory.

“Excuse me?” my voice breaks.

“Your father kept all those women in his basement.”

I swallow as the blood drains from my face. I feel faint. Anxiety rises.

“So it’s true?” Dominic asks again. I glare at him, trying to convey my desperation but he just stands there waiting, one eyebrow cocked.

My silence seals my fate.

“Oh my god,” one of the other girls pipes up. “It really is true.” I can’t remember her name. It’s something like Jessica or Janet. Something starting with J, anyway. Joanna maybe. “Was it true he had a sex dungeon?”

My feigned fumbling through my bag becomes more forced and aggressive. My heart beats rapidly. Nausea twists in my gut. I need to get out of here.

“I heard that he held auctions where all his sicko mates would buy girls to use as sex slaves. Did you ever go to one? Were you ever afraid he was going to sell you?”

I keep my eyes on my bag, stuffing my clothing inside, desperation causing me to tremble as the questions fly.

“What was he like as a father?”

“Did he ever like, you know, touch you and stuff?”

“Gross, Anthony, trust you to ask something like that.”

“Were the reports true that he kept women in stables like horses and would choose which ones to—”

I can’t take it anymore. Grabbing my bag and stuffing my headphones in my ears, I run out the door and escape outside. I keep running. I run through the rain. I run until my lungs are bursting, begging for relief and then I run some more.

But there will be no escape. I’ve been through this before. I’ve been this girl before.

The daughter of a monster.

And I don’t want to be her again.

chapter two

BERKLEY

My apartment is small. Tiny, in fact. There is a bed that pulls down from the wall in my living room. A single sofa. No space for a television. The walls have been painted a stale green color that hides the mildew. The kitchen is narrow and painted in the same shade of green as the living room. The bathroom is so small I have to almost hug the toilet in order to close the door. The only saving grace is the one free wall that props up my full-length mirror. If I fold the bed to the wall, shut the bathroom door and alter the angle of the sofa, there is just enough room for me to be able to practice. Sort of.

Standing in front of the mirror, my legs naturally form first position. I’m still wearing my mud-stained leggings and my leotard is covered by an oversized sweater that hangs to one side, exposing my scarred shoulder. Reaching upwards, I yank my hair tie out, allowing my hair to tumble from the messily knotted bun. It falls down my back in delicious agony, the roots protesting at being set free.

I’m a pretty girl. People have told me that all my life.Heused to tell me that. He would buy me beautiful dresses and tell me how pretty I was. And I would preen under his praise like the pathetic, naïve girl I once was. Then everything changed. Now I don’t look in the mirror and see pretty. Now I see blue-gray eyes haunted by nightmares. I see limp and greasy hair, not washed in days. A body bruised by the demands of dance. A face without a smile.

Hands reach for me, stroking my skin, grabbing me.

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