One Month Later
(Day Before the Gala)
"I want you to be on your best behavior tomorrow. That means no drinking, no snarky remarks, no fighting, and absolutely no killing." My father narrows his eyes at me, emphasizing that last point especially.
Slowly, I draw my eyes from the scotch bottle behind him, nestled in between a burboun bottle and some gin. The need to down it in seconds time is becoming more and more appealing throughout this lecture, what feels like hours of him complaining about my courtesy and ability to welcome people.
I cock my head to the side when our eyes finally meet, as I delicately decipher each emotion hanging behind his matching green ones.
For the most part, it is his favorite emotion of the month: frustration. Typically goes hand in hand with irritation. And I have the pleasure of being the cause for both. Then there is something lingering within, not as prevalent. Yet it is my least favorite one: sympathy.
If I could count how many times I've seen that expression this month, it would stack up more than my kill count.
And let me tell you, that tally has certainly been increasing, to say the least.
I give him an innocent smile, making sure to bat my eyes lashes a few times. "I would never." He sees right through my bullshit.
Dropping the facade, my face goes flat again. With a resounding sigh, I lean forward, the legs of my chair groaning under the pressure against the soft, padded carpet beneath me. "I've been to enough of these events to know how to act." I deadpan, gaze unwillingly shifting back to the large array of hard liquor, then back to him.
His gaze is inquisitive, searching in my eyes but I'm sure he'll find nothing. Everyone is expecting me to burst into tears at any second, like a fractured fucking China doll. His face contorts. "I'm worried about you." He states, brows furrowing to mimic that exact emotion.
"Oh for fuck's sake." I grit, abruptly standing up, the chair wobbling behind me before settling two of its legs on the carpet, situated between it and the hardwood floor. "I. Am. Fine." I say for the umpteenth time.
I am so done with this goddamn question.
Quickly turning on my heel, I burst out of the stuffy room, making a bee-line downstairs, ignoring my father's unhappy calls after me.
I may have cried that... one time. But I can assure you, those days are long gone. Not a single molecule in my body feels any emotion other than boredom and rage. And my father can't fault me for it. It's what he fucking taught me to do.
Furiously marching downstairs, I whiz past everyone, staff, family members that my father asked to stay here indefinitely, no doubt some ploy to "fix me". I don't need to be fucking fixed.
Finally, I reach the garage door, swinging the metal thing open violently, ignoring the harsh sound that echos when it slams against the wall, and swings back closed into place again.
I pick up a random car key from the small bowl planted next to the entrance. Still moving at a remarkably fast pace, I move to the car with the flashing headlights, watching as they flicker in response to the button on the key.
It's a Lexus LC 500, it's not my favorite thing in the world, but it's fast enough and not exactly painful to look it, as long as you ignore its foul mustard color.
