One could ask how we got here.
How the seemingly well put-together family, living in the wealthiest gated community, with all the opportunities in life could produce a son with no moral compass?
Wearethe American Dream.
What they didn’t tell you is that the dream comes at a cost. Youdon’t get to rub elbows with the upper echelon of the world without offering something in exchange.
The price?
Your soul.
TheAmerican Dreamis more like a nightmarish hellscape without a single warning or map to break free from it.
What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul?
I snort at the question. It’s assuming there was something in the decaying chest cavity where a heart once was.
“Micky, please don’t do this. There’s st?—”
I don’t let her finish her diseased olive branch.It’s coated in poison.
Forcing her head back, I drag the sharp point of the blade across her cheek, slicing until a path of crimson paints her once pristine skin. It’s not deep enough to cut completely through, but it’s more than enough to prove I’m in charge.
Digging my nails into her scalp, I yank her head until she’s once again peering up at me. Tears pool in her silver-eyed gaze.
“Open your mouth,” I command, and she whimpers, making no attempt to do as she’s told. “You don’t seem to realize what’s happening here, Charlotte.”
Growling, I tighten my grip until I feel some strands of her hair rip from the root.
She cries out in pain, and I pounce, clearing my throat until I cough up a giant phlegm ball. Her eyes widen, but it’s too late. I spit the mucous in her mouth before forcing her to swallow it. Then, I slam her face into the ground.
My mother gags between choked cries.
I drown out the screams, focusing instead on my masterpiece. She was just desperately groaning for my cock. She knows the rules—she helped make them.
She should be happy I was able to control myself, because what’s about to happen is going to be far worse.
“No… no… no! Don’t do this.” My father growls like the rabid animal he is—a monster in human form set out to breed more monsters. But their generational reign of feeding innocence into a cursed state ends with me.
Smirking, I lean in toward him and inhale his nervous energy. It lasts but a minute before his icy and in-control demeanor is back in place.
My attention shifts, and I take in the room. The slate-gray walls, with their carefully crafted white trim, are filled with endless moments captured in framed photos, perfectly lined up around the room.
Releasing my hold, my mother drops to the floor, unable to maintain her position, but in this moment, I can’t find a speck of care. My gaze lands on one photo in particular. It’s the day we officially adopted Talia—four years to the day when she was dropped off for what was only supposed to be a week’s visit as her parents left on business.
Talia’s in a navy blue babydoll-style dress with pink polka-dotted and navy Mary Jane’s. Her lips are curled up into a smile, but it’s her eyes. They tell the story unspoken—the sadness of the loss of her true family. I grieved with her that day.
I see you, Tati.My urge to protect her stirs something in the recesses of my dead soul.
You saved them… you saved them—you saved her. The words ring out like a trumpet, celebrating the return of the hero as they march down Main Street.
Panning left, my attention lands on me—the navy blue Tom Ford suit making me appear nearly normal. Even at thirteen, I knew I didn’t belong in the world, not amongst people.
My focus shifts, glancing over my five siblings, ignoring the guilt roaring in the back of my mind. Instead, I continue, stopping only once my gaze lands on my parents.“The perfect couple.”
Charlotte Gordon—a trophy Stepford Wife. Her once-scarlet hair, now peppered with gray, is layered, flowing down to the middle of her back, looking brighter against the stark whiteness of her peplum dress.
Randolph J. Gordon III.The quintessential picture of old money. Even his name is pretentious as fuck. Our suits match, but he dons an ascot and his signature lapel pin.
