His Little Heir

Kill the Messanger

     Her body froze all except for her hand. She used it to wave, then held it in the other as she forced a smile; the chair woman didn't return it.

     "Would you come to the stage please?" She out stretched her hand, "And why don't you grab a mic on your way up?"

    Daya took a step forward only for Private Pansy to cut her off, "I can't let you get humiliated up there; we can-"

     "And who says I'm getting humiliated?" She tapped the side of her forehead in an effort to lay the foggy facade of sureness, and with a thumbs up, Daya ascended the stairs.

    Her palm met the microphone with a sweaty squish as she struggled to turn in on. She forced herself not to look at the crowd, the cameras, as she grappled with the green button. Her right hand could only watch as its illequipped counterpart strained to pull its weight.

     She hadn't done this in so long, too long, and now, Daya would pay the price.

    The instrument clicked in her hand, coming to life with a shattering ring. She tried to cover her ears, but realised that would require both, uninjured, hands. Daya chewed the inside of her cheeks. Then, as eye of the storm enclosed her, she prepared for the hurricane that was to come.

    "Hi, my name is Daya and.. well, we've never formally met, but that doesn't mean-"

    "Never formally met?" The crowd laughed at the chair woman' jab at her, "I think we know quite enough about you! Don't we?"

     The crowd cheered. Daya pushed her shoulders back; they were beating her, just as they always had. But the horse wasn't dead.

    Not yet.

    The chairwoman silenced the audience, "What I don't know is what 'you' think gives 'you' the right to be here, murderer!"

     Because in this moment, two roads diverged in front of her. One of lies, of a generation's bloodshed sitting liberally on sharpened spikes, and another, of hatred and its power, beckoned to Daya in unequal measure.

     The reason for her appearance had been layed out for her in every rumor's murmer. Every post, meeting, article, and dirty hand, had brought her to this moment, and it was her responsiblity to silence them all.

     To glaze over and lie.

     But is that what she wanted?

      Her own father had described Leon upon arrival as one would attribute a rabid dog with the mange; Don had told Daya story after story that sent her spine crawling and her stomach lurching, and in every word, she grew more afraid and distant.

Exactly where he wanted her.

     "I'm sorry but... you seem to have the wrong person, m'am. My name is Daya Savech, 'not' Mayella or Don, but while we're on the subject, what may I call you?" She let the words fall, well aware of their intent.

     "So you admit that your parents are murderers?"

Gotcha.

     The audience gasped and fell quiet. Not even a camera dared to flash, but even without a camera, Daya could never forget the look that swept across her adversary's face.

     Her eyes became hollow and cold, oozing bitterness. The wrinkles on her face colided in order to part her red lipstick sea of gritted teeth, and in that gallery of white, Daya could only see one thing.

Hatred.

     "I do because they are murderers. They're liars, they're cheats, and they're criminals; they're all of those things to keep their empire alive. Even befor I could eat, I was fed their lies. I had no idea, but I know that twenty- three years of hatred can't possibly sit well."