2. Unlucky Prey
UNLUCKY PREY
DALTON
M y skin itches and I fight the urge to claw at it until it bleeds, red painting the black and white ink decorating my skin. From suffering emerges the strongest souls or whatever some dead fuck said. I must suffer to get what I want and what I want is to cut open my biological parents until their insides spill out, along with the reason for why they gave me up.
It doesn’t bother me. I’m beyond such trivial issues. Some adopted kids wonder why, wallowing in their self-pity. Oh, no. I’m comfortable with who I am. I’m Zachary fucking Dalton Lewis, who enjoys spending the Lewis’ money at his leisure.
What I didn’t enjoy was the meat sack that was my adoptive mother, Samantha Lewis or Charles Lewis, who’s worm food now. I wish I could say I’m responsible for both of their fates, but can only lay claim to one. I’d have killed Charles too if he hadn’t tolerated my existence and made half-assed attempts to care for my needs.
My nails drag along the length of my pants, hands needing to do something other than sliding down to my ankles, pulling a knife free and stabbing into chatty Becky’s chest, who’s sitting in the creaky plastic chair next to me. Why the fuck do they make these chairs so small and what’s up with the magazines?
No, I don’t give a fuck about flu season. I’m sitting in the waiting room of the adoption agency that handled my case because I’m looking for a referral for a urologist. Are some dicks really that small? My hands are half tempted to pick up the pamphlet on testicular cancer just to compare sizes. Those guys are advertising for the wrong health issue.
“Lewis!” A clear, feminine voice calls out and I abandon my disgruntlement with the entertainment options. It’s showtime. Rising from my claustrophobic seat, I brush imaginary lint away, tugging on my cuffs. A collar digs into the sensitive skin of my neck but I ignore it, striding over to the smiling receptionist.
Brown pupils widen, drifting up and down my form. Black suits me, absorbing the light and conveniently hiding blood stains when necessary. It’s my second favorite color after red. For blood, duh.
I flash a dimpled smile at—a quick glance at a name badge sporting a blurry photo—Amanda. Her brown roots override the blonde streaks through her hair, contrasting with the tale the badge tells. Not my problem.
Leaning over the polished counter, the scent of lemon polish floating on the air, I lower my lids, letting them drift into a half-hooded look. Females eat that shit up.
“Hi. I’m Zachary Lewis. I was wondering if I could peek at my adoption file,” I belt out smoothly, keeping my smile firmly in place. Red stains Amanda’s skin as she shoots a flustered look from me to the computer in front of her. Deft fingers fly over keyboards, each jab stabbing into my sensitive earlobes.
God, why can’t I kill her and pull up the information myself?
Oh, right, that’s “illegal”. So is intentional starvation but that never stopped Samantha or me from slitting her throat. I smile at the memory while waiting for Amanda to pull up my information. She harrumphs softly, sliding a cautious look my way. I lock onto it.
Reading prey is a skill I fostered and nurtured. They disgust me but studying them is a necessary evil. All the better to kill you, my dear.
“Problem?” I ask in a smooth voice. She mumbles slightly before clearing her slender throat. It begs for my knives.
“Actually, yours is a closed adoption. I’m not allowed to disclose details,” she mutters in an apologetic tone, avoiding my glare. It’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard. But I can’t tell her that. Charles Lewis prided himself on his ability to conduct business in the middle of the most improbable conditions. I channel my adopted father’s ghost, loathing the slimy feeling coating my skin.
“Of course. I understand you’re doing your job. But this is such a personal issue for me.” My lips pull down into a grimace, insincere eyes lowering to shield the hard glint that whisper “I want to see your insides”.
“Could you possibly tell me who worked the case? I’d love to hear whatever stories they have to tell, to make me feel closer to my parents.” I bat my lashes, and flash only a half of my dimpled smile.
Dark pupils expand, invading the brown irises. A pulse throbs in her throat, a throat I’d love to slice cleanly across with the blades hidden beneath my clothing. That's it, take the bait. My tattoos end just below my jawline, lining my throat. But my face remains unblemished, luring prey into a false sense of safety.
My smile says “I’m safe” and “I’d never dream of hurting you.” Fucking idiots. Never trust a pretty face or a smile. But people don’t listen to their elders anymore and all the better for me. Amanda returns her eyes to her computer, pressing buttons in a rapid pattern and a whirring sound starts up behind her.
Dark hair whips forward before falling to rest against her back as she hastens to the printer, slender fingers pulling my documents free. White teeth nibble at soft lips. I’m close to losing her. I feel it slipping from my fingers like vapors of smoke. I need her more than she needs me.
My instincts burrow deep, grasping at ages old acting lessons. Tears swell and I temporarily wonder when the last time I genuinely cried was. It’s too late for such thoughts now. One fat droplet falls, landing on the swirling streaks of brown in the marble countertop.
“Oh, my God,” a soft sympathetic voice intones. I fight the smile wanting to curve my lips. It’s not about the pleasure of luring prey. It’s the hunt, the chase, the search for the truth. That’s all I need, to know who my parents were and why they gave me up. If they won’t willingly tell me, I’ll cut it from them.
Simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. It’s how I operate best.
But I must play the game, lifting the mask from my face while still shielding my true nature behind layers of civility. I despise it but it's more than a necessary evil. It’s survival.
“I just don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t find out more about them,” I whisper, letting tears leak free and slide down my cheeks. The blatant display of weakness sinks into me, gnawing into my tender, fleshy layers. A true predator would never stoop to this level, it whispers. I want to jam a knife into the imagined throat of my inner monologue. I detest it.
But the time isn’t right to eliminate all traces of my adoptive mother and father’s essence. It permeates every atom of my being. I can’t peel back enough skin to root out the source.
Amanda whimpers softly, paper sliding across the marble countertop.
“You didn’t get this from me. They’re just names, the names of everyone that worked on your case. I can’t tell you more.” Her voice fades into a soft, pathetic whisper. Sincerity lances me. My defenses deflect the carefully targeted blow. The cute brunette tried and failed to slide beneath my defenses. They remain resolutely closed. Just like she shouldn’t trust a predator, I’d never trust prey.
“Thank you, Amanda,” I whisper softly, keeping my eyes downcast. It’s easier to hide the madness this way. Her fingers slide across one of my tattooed hands. Unmarred flesh contrasts entirely too nicely with the ivory bones painted on my skin.
Damn. She shouldn’t have touched me. Pity, I was considering letting her live past this encounter. How sad that it just might be Amanda’s day to die and she doesn’t know it yet. It’s fucking unlucky. For her. Sucks to be meat, I guess.