Empire of Lust

AGE

That’s the prominent emotion coursing through me right now. I want to go back. Or disappear somewhere where I’m not under a microscope. I thought escaping Aunt Sharon and Uncle Bob’s house was all I needed, but this scene is probably not what will make me feel better. So I take a drink—or two. Okay, maybe three. It’s diluted alcohol anyway, but it tastes like rosemary and something exotic. Definitely better than the beer Caroline stole from her alcoholic father so we could try it. That was no different than unsanitary water mixed with the stench of cigarettes. Caroline smacks my hand when I reach for another drink. “Don’t look so desperate.” “Uh, hello? I only came for the drinks and food, Callie.” “Then do that in a corner, not where everyone can see you acting like a ghetto rat.” I stare her square in the eye. “You’re a ghetto rat yourself.” “I don’t act like it.” “When was the last time you had a proper meal, Miss I Don’t Act Like It?” When she doesn’t reply, I scoop up some luxurious-looking snacks and push them against her mouth. “That’s what I thought. Now, eat before your stomach starts making embarrassing noises.” She grumbles something, but she does eat, and then accompanies me on the mission to be full for days to come. After a while, though, her focus returns to her previous mission, and she rakes her gaze all over the crowd. “Maybe desperate should’ve been your costume, not an angel.” She smiles at my dry sense of humor. “Don’t know about you, b***h, but I’m getting out of that hellhole even if it’s the last thing I do.” “I’m getting out, too.” “Wanna bet who’s going to do it first?” “We can do it together.” “Not with your ‘I’m gonna do it myself’ attitude. Now, help me hunt.” I definitely don’t, and keep stealing food and drinks behind her back. What? I’m malnourished at home and started working part-time to pay for my meals. The drinks, however, are an extravagance I’m allowing myself in order to forget and bide my time until I can leave. My chance comes when Caroline finds her prey for the night—a blond guy in a fallen angel costume. As soon as she hits it off with him, I slip out of their little group before she shoves me at one of his friends. I pull the strap of my dress over my shoulder, cradle a plate of pastries and a drink, then disappear out back. The night’s air stabs my bare arms and I consider looking for my jacket. Stuffing my face with some chocolate cake, I start my way through the vast, dimly lit garden. My steps are wobbly due to the massive amount of alcohol I’ve consumed, but that doesn’t stop me from taking a sip of my drink anyway. I feel light and free, and I don’t have the brain capacity to think about my life. Maybe alcohol isn’t so bad, after all. Hushed male voices catch my attention and I freeze when I hear, “…It’s Devil’s Night. They won’t suspect we burned it.” s**t. I was definitely not supposed to hear that. I must hiccup, because there’s a pause before someone roars, “Who the f**k is there?” My legs twitch and I don’t think about it as I run, causing the drink to spill all over my hand, then I hide behind the bushes. My breathing shatters when footsteps approach my hideout. If they find me, I’ll be in huge trouble. I’m very familiar with being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve experienced it first-hand and have the mental and physical scars to prove it. I also used it to my advantage and made my father disappear from my life. Some would call me too cunning for my age; but when you come from the wrong side of the tracks, the first thing you learn is to survive. Even if it means locking away your abusive father. “I’m sure I heard them go this way,” one of the male voices says and I shrink into my hiding place. My mind crowds with fight-or-flight options and just when I’m considering where to escape to, a leaf crunches right next to me. I stare up at the larger-than-life shadow hovering not far from me. Even though I’m partially camouflaged by the decorative tree, I’m almost sure he can see me. “No one’s here,” he says with a calm that chills me to my rattling bones. His face is veiled by the darkness, but I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a mask. Before I can make him out, he turns around, and the sound of retreating footsteps echoes in my ears like a symphony gone wrong. My shaky fingers release the plate and cup. They hit the grass with a muted thud, the alcohol slowly soaking into the ground. Despite my plans to stuff myself full so that I don’t feel hunger for a few days, I abandon my haul and inch toward the back door. I have no doubt they’ll continue searching for me until they find me. My hands are clammy as I retrieve my phone. My teeth chatter—not sure if it’s due to the cold or the haunting fear—and my vision is blurry, partly because of the alcohol, partly because of the unusual kick of adrenaline surging through me. Bodies are special like that, they know danger, even if our minds are oblivious to it. I retrieve my old phone that Uncle Bob got for me. To say that made me suspicious would be an understatement, but he told me they needed to know where I was at all times and that if they called and I didn’t pick up, they would kill me. Sure enough, there are five missed calls from them. I wince at the thought of a beating, but it’s better than being in this unfamiliar place. Ignoring them, I type a text to Caroline. She said she received her phone as a gift from a boy she was talking to, and her father has been trying to sell it ever since. Aspen: There’s been a complication. Let’s leave. No reply. Aspen: I’ll wait at the back door for fifteen minutes, then I’m taking the subway home. Aspen: Callie, please. Let’s go home. I’m scared— I delete the last text before sending it. So what if I’m trembling all over? If I’m sweating? If I feel like throwing my guts up? I’m not a weakling. I really shouldn’t have had so many drinks and put myself in a vulnerable position, where I can’t even defend myself or run properly. The rustling of leaves reaches me first, followed by thudding footsteps. The next thing I know, two guys are approaching me. I can’t see their features, because the one in the purple suit has his face painted as the Joker and the one in all black is wearing an “Anonymous” mask. Joker approaches me with purpose, but Anonymous stays back, a hand in his pocket and the other toying with an unlit cigarette. For some reason, I think I should be worried about him the most. Not only because he’s taller and way buffer, but also because those who wield the actual power often stay in the background. “Told you I heard someone here,” Joker says, his voice resembling a frat boy from an Ivy League college. My feet automatically falter and I hit 911 on my phone, but before I can call, Joker snatches it and throws it out of my reach. “That’s not a wise choice.” “I didn’t see anything…” I whisper, fruitlessly trying to control the tremor in my voice. “Oh, yeah?” He grabs me by the arm, his meaty fingers sinking into my flesh. He smells like foul cologne that should be a crime to wear. “We’ll have to take insurance.” “Insurance?” “You’ll let us have our way with you as a show of obedience, won’t you?” “No.” It takes everything in me to stare into his glimmering eyes in the darkness instead of hyperventilating. “Let me go.” “Wrong choice.” The sadism in his voice freezes me for a second. Only a second, though. Adrenaline kicks in my veins, and I can see straight through to where this is headed. It’s my sixth sense. Predicting scenarios before they come along. It’s not that I have witch blood, as many of my classmates say. It’s that I’m really good with connecting patterns and seeing the bigger picture. And the picture currently says that I’m the prey in this scenario. And I have to do something about it if I don’t want to be eaten. When I twist my arm in the Joker’s hold, he tightens his grip and pulls me down. I try to stay upright, I really do, but he’s strong and I’m so drunk that I don’t feel the thud until I’m flush with the grass.