The Contradiction of Solitude(74)

“What is this about, Lay? You can tell me. You could always tell me anything.” Whisper soft and full of so much love.

For me.

His little girl.

The little girl he created to be just like him.

Was it intentional? Or was it, just like so many things, a victim of circumstance? Genes and DNA wrapped up in dark hair and black eyes. A soul as wicked as his.

“I feel it, you know,” I let out. I patted my chest. “In here. I feel it all the time.”

Daddy smiled.

“That’s because you’re like me, Lay. You always have been. My little, little girl,” he said softly. Reverently.

“Tell me why,” I insisted.

I thought about Elian waiting for me out in the car. His sister Amelia. The way her death shaped the person he had become.

Broken.

Because of the man on the other side of the glass.

I should hate him.

And I did.

But there were other things mixed up with all the loathing. All the fear.

Home.

“They were my stars,” my father said, scratching at his chin again.

“What does that even mean?” I demanded, feeling myself getting irritated by his evasion.

Elian. Sweet, unconditional Elian. He loved me no matter how horrible I was. No matter what monsters lurked inside.

Now was the time I either slayed the beast.

Or embraced it.

“You tell me, Lay. I know you have your own stories to tell.” He smiled again. That sick, confident smile. This man had been my entire world for so long. Even when I despised everything that he was, he still existed as the focal point of it all.

Just by being alive, he dictated the life of his daughter. And his son. And his wife.

“Aren’t you going to ask about Matt? About Mom?”

Did he even know that the woman he had married; the woman who had slept ignorantly beside him had died? Finding her oblivion at the bottom of a bottle of pills?

His expression was perpetually neutral. No smiles. No heartfelt sentiments. Those were reserved for me.

I thrilled at being special.

Always.

Daddy didn’t respond. He didn’t ask any questions.

Because he didn’t care.

He bowed his head down, rubbing at his temple before looking at me again. “Tell me your stories, Lay. Just like you used to.”

Is this what I came here for?

The emotional games? The mindful manipulation?

The way he twisted me up into knots? Dangerous knots that I could never break free of?

So I could tell him my stories? And lay my soul bare for him to pick apart and take the things he liked?

The things he wanted to keep…for himself?

I swallowed thickly. My tongue felt numb in my mouth. My lips incapable of creating words. This was the same indirect conversation I had always had with him.

“I told you to stay in the car, Layna,” my father scolded. He wasn’t angry. Frustrated?

Flustered?

No. My daddy didn’t get flustered.

I looked at the girl in the chair. Her mouth gagged, her hands tied. Her feet bound.

“Who is she, Daddy?” I asked, my voice small.

“Who do you think she is, Layna?” he asked, changing in an instant. Bestowing his patient smile on his favorite child. A devoted father. A caring parent. Not a man who had a terrified girl strapped to a chair.

I felt scared.

So scared.

And then I wasn’t.

Daddy pulled out my fear and threw it away. Reminding me again why he was the best daddy in the world.

“Who do you want her to be?” Daddy asked. His grin stretching high. So high. I couldn’t help but smile back.

“I don’t have any stories,” I denied. I refused to give him what he was looking for. I should leave. I should go back to Elian. I should forget about this man and his demons once and for all.

But I couldn’t.

When it came to my father, I was always helpless.

“Please, Lay. Tell me. Yours were always better than mine.”

I snorted. Then I laughed.

It was so easy to smile with my daddy. My mouth relaxed and I handed him something real. Something I gave to no one else.

“Tell me about your stars,” he urged eagerly, his eyes—black, flashing eyes—burrowed in. Burrowed deep.

I took a deep breath. I thought about Elian.

No.

I wouldn’t give him that one.

Elian was mine.

So I gave him another story. The first story. One that didn’t matter.

Not like Elian.

He was different.

So carefully planned.

Because of who he was.

But I could give him others. The ones that didn’t mean anything.

“There was a man named Christopher with sparkling blue eyes. He was smart. He was lonely. He saw a pretty girl with long, dark hair and loved her instantly. As they all do…” My voice carried off. Carried on. And on.

My dad chuckled and clasped his hands together. “Oh, I like this one. Tell me what happened to smart and lonely Christopher.”

I shook my head. My hair fell in front of my face, shielding me. From my father. From the person he made me become.

“I can’t tell you,” I moaned. Tired. So tired. I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to fly away.

My father always made me feel like I was flying.