Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(100)

“Daddy?” she whispered, carefully approaching.

“I thought I told you to run along.”

He didn’t even look up as he said that, legs spread out, his body slouched. His voice was low, like sandpaper again.

“I did,” she said, “but...”

His eyes rose, bloodshot but gray. Not all black today. “But?”

“I drew you a picture,” she said, holding up one of her drawings.

He regarded her in silence for a moment before motioning for her to approach. She walked up to him, holding the drawing out, standing still as he took it. It was a picture of the beach, the one he’d taken her to months ago. She’d even drawn the rides that had been nearby, like the Ferris wheel. She’d hoped he’d take her back there, maybe when it was open, but he hadn’t let her leave the house since then.

After looking at the picture, he set it on the table. “What else do you have?”

The little girl looked at the second drawing, her heart racing. “A picture of Mommy.”

“A picture,” he repeated, “of your mother.”

She nodded before reminding herself: use your words. “I drew it for her for Christmas. I didn’t know how to draw her, really, I didn’t know if her hair got long or what she wore or maybe she got taller, but I drew her like I remember, and maybe I can see her on Christmas, or you can give it to her?”

He frowned and held his hand out. “Give it here.”

She handed it to him.

He clutched the sides of the paper, his knee moving, rocking back and forth, as he stared at the picture in silence.

“I didn’t know if you had wrapping paper,” she continued. “Can we get a tree now? I can decorate it and put the picture under it. Mommy liked the star on top.”

He sighed. “We are not getting a tree, kitten.”

“We’re not?”

“What is the point? So you can climb it?”

“It’s Christmas,” she said. “Santa Claus brings presents.”

“We do not celebrate Christmas.” He set the picture down in his lap. “We are not religious.”

“But Santa—”

“Is not real.”

She gasped. It felt like he hit her. “You’re lying!”

“No, your mother lied,” he said. “She lied to me. She lied to you. That is all she ever did. Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie!”

He shouted the word ‘lie’ so loud that she flinched, taking a step back, tears stinging her eyes.

“No!” She shook her head, clutching Buster tightly. “Why are you saying that stuff?”

“Because it is true,” he said, snatching up her drawing, crumpling it as he waved it at her, nearly smacking her in the face with it. “This woman? Your precious ‘Mommy’, with those eyes and those hips and those lips? She lied to you, kitten—hideous lies! She made you think I was the bad one, but that was her. She betrayed me. She kept you from me, my own flesh and blood. You were mine! I would rather you are dead... I would rather end your life than ever let that suka have you for herself. She gets nothing!”

The little girl took another step back, away from him, her bottom lip trembling. “Stop saying that stuff! It’s not right, so stop it!”

“You do not tell me what to do. I tell you! What I say goes!”

“I hate you!” she yelled. “You have no heart in you!”

She ran out, heading upstairs, moving as fast as her legs would carry her, tears streaming down her cheeks. She hated him. She hated him so much. She went to her room and slammed the door, jumping into the bed.

“He’s lying,” she whispered, hugging Buster, squeezing her eyes shut. “Mommy loves us. Mommy doesn’t lie. He’s just mean, and big, and ugly!”

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, coming near, stomping against the wood, determined. Angry. Her bedroom door flung open, slamming into the wall, and the little girl curled tighter into a ball. The moment she felt the mattress dip, she saw his face, bitter and bloodshot and right there.

“You want to hate me?” he asked. “I will give you reason to.”

She held her breath, terrified, waiting for the hurt she thought he’d make her feel, like the way he hurt mother, but it didn’t happen.

No, this hurt was different.

He grabbed her arm, yanking Buster from her grasp.

She gasped, trying to snatch him back, but the Tin Man was too strong. He clutched Buster, hand wrapped around the bear’s neck, and stormed away without another word.

“No!” The little girl jumped out of bed, chasing him. “Please, Daddy! No! Please! I’m sorry!”

She tried to shove around him, to get Buster back, grabbing ahold of his shirt, clutching it tightly as she tried to stop him, but he just dragged her along.

The little girl begged the whole way down the stairs. He headed for the den, still utterly silent, on a mission, she realized, as he neared the fireplace with Buster.

“No!” she screamed, collapsing to the floor. “Please, Daddy! I don’t hate you! Please, can I keep him? I’m sorry!”

He walked straight to the fireplace, ignoring her words, acting as if she were invisible. He held Buster out, over the fire, the flames lapping at the bear, a spark setting his foot on fire.