He catches her tear with his thumb, and murmurs, “Don't cry, my darling.”
It was that interaction that ripped hearts out, only for the public to turn to Dread and demand to know why he'd put a hole in their chests.
My mother whispers she's okay and dabs a napkin at the corner of her eye, daintily sniffling while my father takes hold of her other hand, squeezing it tight and offering whispered assurances. Meanwhile, I sit on the other side of him, my feet swinging idly and my gaze glued to my plaid skirt.
It’s clear I’m uncomfortable, but it’s easy to assume I just don’t like the spotlight, considering it's how I always looked in interviews—which was the exact opposite of both my parents.
Regina possessed a natural, ethereal beauty that gained her just as much devotion as it did vitriol. She never wore makeup, and trash magazines loved to publish article after article accusing her of Botox and plastic surgery, as if that’s anything to be ashamed about even if it were true. Her light blonde hair fell around her dainty shoulders in natural waves, and her wide, full lips consumed her entire face when she smiled, not to mention her baby blue doe eyes. However, what she was most known for was her sharp jawline and even sharper tongue, quick to defend her husband with little reserve for whose face she screamed in.
Where Regina was fiery, Lionel was calm and charming. With his thick black hair peppered with silver at the temples, unusual copper brown eyes, a crooked grin, and charismatic personality, women flooded our mailbox with handwritten love letters, having no regard for his wife.
They werebeloved.
But I couldn’t understand what the world saw in them that I couldn’t. I remember being so conflicted, loving my parents so much because they were all I’d ever known—all I had—yet being absolutely terrified of them, too.
It was hard to compute when, most days, they were normal. We acted like any other family. Ate breakfast and dinner at the table together every day. Asked me about school and helped me with my homework. Took me to amusement and water parks, zoos, and other fun places. Spoiled me rotten and gave me whatever I asked for.
Except… there’d be moments I’d look at my father and see a glimpse ofthe face I saw when I was six—evil. Just a flash, there and gone in the blink of an eye. I’d look at my mom and feel this uneasy, ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach, afflicted with the knowledge her own husband was a danger to her—yet feeling like even after she got better,shewas still a danger tome. I couldn't escape the feeling of her hand on the back of my head, but I still felt this urgent need to protect her from the monster who saved my life.
“What about you, sweet Charlotte? Surely, it must be hard to see your daddy going through this.”
I lift my stare to Connor and offer a timid, wobbly smile. My incisors on either side of my front two teeth are stubs, the adult ones having only just started growing in.
“It’s hard,” I agree quietly. “My dad would never hurt anyone.”
I grimace, knowing it was a lie both then and now but having no choice but to tell it.
A flash out of the corner of my eye startles me and has my heart jumping to my throat before I process what it is.
As the interview continues, our voices fade into the background, and I watch as several people approach the pool house. My heart drops, and the blood drains from my face. Unease, fear, and adrenaline flood my bloodstream all at once, sending me into a panic.
I quickly turn and lock the door behind me, my heart now pounding against my rib cage, just as desperate to escape.
Four girls step up to the windows on either side of the door, two at each. My mouth drops, and I step back in shock as they press into the glass, pinning me with dead, soulless eyes.
For several seconds, I can only stare at them, speechless and utterly disturbed by their white shirts, bloody necks, and expressionless faces.
Almost dazed, I slowly spin, taking in the dozen or so girls standing around the pool house, all of them pressed against every window and dressed exactly the same, save for the different dates written across their chests.
I fight back the tears threatening to well while I just stand there, completely paralyzed, watching them watch me with their blank, unmoving faces.
What… thefuck… is going on?
Tremors build in my extremities, and adrenaline steadily rises. I don’t know what the fuck to do right now. Obviously, I could leave, butthe thought of going outside with all of them out there is even more terrifying.
But there could be a back door somewhere.
It takes a few extra seconds for my brain to convince my bones to unlock. Once they do, I’m gunning down the hallway, passing the kitchen and several closed doors. It’s dark as shit, and I’m forced to pause and scramble for my phone. I switch on my flashlight, but I stop short. I’ve already reached the end of the hallway. In front of me are double doors, already slid open to reveal laundry machines.
Chest heaving, I swing my flashlight around, confirming what I already know.
There’s no other exit.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Cold sweat blooms across my back, and anxiety viciously claws at my stomach as I consider what else to do. My only other option is to hide out in one of the rooms and hope they eventually get bored and leave.
I turn to the closest door, only to find it locked. Confused and panicky, I jiggle the doorknob, but it doesn’t budge.
