Page 5 of Daughter of a Monster

“But you’re his daughter. It’s there for you to use.”

“I don’t want it.”

I never would. That money was made from the pain of others. It’s blood money as far as I’m concerned. I will never touch it. One day when I’m strong enough, I will claim it and then give it all away. But for now, I pretend like it’s not there. It doesn’t exist. Besides, to claim it I would have to admit who I am. Be known as his daughter. It was his only requirement.

She’s quiet for a while, the pause making my rebuke sound even harsher. “I miss you,” she says finally. “I’d like you to come home, even if it’s just for a day or two.”

I swallow the knot of guilt lodged at the back of my throat. “I can’t.”

“Maybe I could come to you?”

“No,” I say a little too quickly. I scramble for an excuse. “The position starts immediately.” I should be worried about how easily the lies fall from my lips, but I’m not.

“Very well.” She sighs again and I steel myself against the emotions that come to the surface. “Will you at least return my calls a little more often? I miss you. I miss the sound of your voice. There were so many years we spent apart, I just—”

“I will,” I interrupt, not wanting to hear her go over everything again. “I’ll do my best.” Another lie. Only, this time she knows it. But my mother will keep calling. Keep trying. “Bye.” I hang up before she can respond.

For a moment a wave of sadness rushes over me, almost crippling me and making me fold over in pain. My stomach cramps as though I’ve ingested poison. It twists through my bloodstream as venom, igniting my veins and sending me crashing to the floor.

Breathe. The voice of my therapist sounds in my head.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

Out.

Inhale.

Exhale.

As the pain subsides the flashes start. That’s what I call them. They are visions. Fantasies. Nightmares. My therapist says it’s my brain’s scrambled way of reconciling all that’s happened.

Faceless men claw at my body. Strong arms shove me against hard walls. Lips devour me. Muscles twist and turn. Sweat glistens. My hands are bound behind my back, my legs open and exposed.

Shame snakes through me, replacing the darkness of the venom. Shame that I have these thoughts. Shame that my body heats in places it shouldn’t. It makes me worry that even though I despise him, maybe I’m exactly like him.

From my position on the floor, I can just see the pile of unopened letters on the kitchen table. They’ve appeared sporadically over the last few years. None of them have my address, only my name, the name he wants me to go by, and yet they always find me. The handwriting has been scrawled across the envelope as though someone has written it in a hurry. I’ve always wondered if it was his writing or if it was his lawyer’s, or maybe a trusted friend’s. But the return address is always the same.

Prison.

chapter three

BERKLEY

Curious eyes turn the moment I step foot inside. Hushed whispers. Hidden smirks. I wanted to stay away, I wanted to gather my things and run and not have to face them ever again, but I have nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. This tutoring position is my only hope. And I’ve already told my mother I have it.

So I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. I’ve done it before. I’ve ignored the comments and sniggers. I can do it again. But at the back of my mind still lies the question of what I’ll do if this doesn’t work out, if Mr Priest chooses someone else. I can’t allow him that option. I will dance like I’ve never danced before. Prove to him that I’m the best person for the job. Dance is a cutthroat sport. I couldn’t afford to be cutthroat before. I couldn’t afford the attention. But this is different.

Monique is the first to audition. As usual, she is flawless. But Mr Priest watches with a bored expression, no emotion, no flicker of admiration passing across his handsome face. His eyes follow her movements but that is the only indication that he’s noticed she’s in the same room.

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