Clara

  My heart pounds with every step I take. The staircase that I've walked up and down for so many years feels long, and the top seems menacing.

  When the maid told me, the second I walked into the house, that my parents had called me to the study room, I knew it was something bad. Not the kind of bad that could be brushed off with a flimsy excuse.

  I've flipped through all the pages in my mind, trying to guess what it could be, so I can mentally prepare myself. What did I do wrong this time? Did they find out I lied about today? About having evening classes just so I could go to that gas station?

  I take a deep breath and enter the room. Golden lights from brass lamps bathe the space in a warm glow. It's a double-floored sanctuary, with a wooden staircase curling up to a second level where more books are stacked from floor to ceiling.

  But what always pulls my gaze is the wall dedicated to his love for firearms. Guns of every kind are displayed like trophies. Each set in perfect rows against a deep green velvet background. Above, three taxidermied heads watch over the room–a wolf, a bear, and a lion. I used to stare at them for hours as a child, captivated by the idea that they had once been real. Powerful, until someone stronger came along.

  Dad sits in his throne-like chair, his attention fixed on some documents splayed across his massive desk. He glances up as I enter, before returning to the paper.

  But Mom, on the other hand, stands in front of the desk, her posture screaming hostility. Her cold dark eyes lock onto mine with a fury that makes the air in my lungs freeze. She's gripping her phone in one hand, white-knuckled, like it's a weapon she wants to use.

  "You insolent brat!" she screams, storming toward me. In an instant, her hand flies up and hits my face with a sound so loud, it echoes through the vaulted study like a gunshot. Pain blooms like fire as my fingers rise to cover the sting.

  "Why is it so hard for you to behave yourself?" she snaps. "Do you have any idea what you've done?!"

  "I...I don't understand...what did I do?" I ask, trying to remain calm despite the fear clawing at my chest.

  "Really!?" She raises her phone in front of my face.

  I feel like I've been punched in the gut. My heart drops and all blood drains from my face as I stare at a photo of myself sent by an anonymous number.

  It's me, behind the campus building. A cigarette between my fingers. Eyes closed, leaning against the wall, looking relaxed.

  "Calm down." Dad calls out without looking up from his work.

  "What!?" She turns to him. "She's smoking! When we've never smoked in our lives!"

  Pure blatant lie. And the subtle smirk on Dad's face tells me he knows it too.

  "I'm... sorry." I say, barely above a whisper and keep my head bowed.

  She exhales, long and heavy. "Are you not satisfied with the life we have provided for you? The love and luxuries you enjoy in this house are too much? That you need to do these things to feel, what, 'refreshed'?"

  "No!" I say quickly. "It was just one time. I was very stressed about exams, and I just... wasn't thinking straight."

  The moment the door opens behind me and Maria walks in with a smug sort of glee shimmering in her eyes, I can tell it's trouble.

  "Your suspicion was correct, Miss. This was hidden in her room." she says, and my blood turns to ice upon seening two packs of cigarettes in her hand.

  She's lying.

  "Those aren't mine!" I burst out, panic wrapping its cold fingers around my throat. "I swear, they're not mine! Please, Mom. I don't know where she got those from, but they're not mine! She's lying!"

  But my words barely register. Mom's eyes are narrowed as if she's on the verge of slapping me again.

  She doesn't. Instead, she snatches my bag from my hands and starts rummaging through it.

  Thank goodness I threw out the empty box. But...

  My fears come to reality as she pulls out the silver lighter and holds it up.

  My cheeks burn hot with humiliation. I can feel it rising up my neck, flooding my face, searing my ears.

  She tosses it onto Dad's desk. "Your daughter carries a lighter around in her bag. Are you still going to stay quiet about all this?"

  He stares at it for a moment before looking back at his paper. That only fuels Mom's fury. "Lock the door and hold her down." She orders Maria, who waste no time doing what shes told.

  "Wait, wait-Mom, I'm sorry-I didn't mean-!" Before I can even take a step back, Maria grabs me. Her hand clamps over my mouth, while her other arm snakes around my body, dragging me down onto my knees. She kneels behind me, locking my arms to my sides.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Mom pulls a cigarette from the pack and lights it up. Dad clicks his tongue, glancing up with a tired expression. "Must you do this here?" he voices. "You'll get ash on the new carpet."

  Mom doesn't even pause. She grabs my right arm and yanks back sleeve, exposing my skin.

  I squirm, panic rising as Mom crouches slightly, bringing the burning tip close. My eyes lock with hers, begging, pleading for mercy. But what good are eyes when words have never been enough?

  "Let this be a lesson." She says. And then the cigarette touches my skin, just above my elbow. A flash of blinding pain surges through me. I try to scream, but the sound dies in my throat beneath Maria's hand. My body jerks violently, eyes squeezed shut as tears form in them.

  She does it twice. It feels like my flesh is being torn open with every second that passes.

  Dad groans loudly from across the room. "Alright, that's enough."

  He doesn't raise his voice, just a flat command, like he's tired of the scene. He gets up. His posture and build, along with his neatly trimmed greying hair, show a man who doesn't look a day older than 40. The years have been kind to him and my mom, who still moves with grace and poise. She eyes him, but after a beat, she flicks it away and gestures Maria to release me.

  The second her grip loosens, I jerk my elbow back at her, catching her off-guard. She stumbles, falling back into a chair behind her.

  "Maria, leave us." Dad looks completely disinterested in the drama. She doesn't argue and quietly leaves the room.

  "Just thinking about how many people must have seen this." Mom frets, running a hand through her hair in frustration. "After I preached to everyone about keeping an eye on their teenagers while maintaining a distance and trusting them, my own child betrays me and does all this behind my back."

  I've heard it before. Her lectures about perfection. It's her thing. Mom's an author, known for 'My Model Child', her book on ideal parenting. She attends endless gatherings all about how to raise children like me. Disciplined, respectful, and "squeaky clean," as she likes to call it.

  Which puts immense pressure on me.

  "For goodness sake, she's 19. And this is not as big a deal as you're making it out to be." Dad steps forward and looks at me as I get up, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand.

  He places a hand on my shoulder, which feels cold to the touch.

  "Don't ever do it again, alright?" he says tiredly, like this is all an inconvenient interruption.

  I nod and glance at the guns on the wall to my right.

  To an outsider, my dad might seem very calm, composed, and caring. Who loves his child enough to forgive her mistakes.

  But then I think back to when I was three years old, wandering into his study. A curious toddler who didn't know better, and saw the gun on the table. I didn't think much of it, just a shiny object waiting to be explored. Fascinated by the metallic surface, I placed the barrel into my mouth, sucking on it as if it were some kind of toy. Dad sat at his desk, watching it all. He didn't move or stop me. It wasn't until Mom walked in that anything changed. She yanked the gun away from me and scolded him.

  If this is one of the many forms of love, I wish someone would tell me what kind.

  "Go." he says, already turning back to his desk. I pick up my bag, my legs moving on their own, carrying me outside. The door doesn't close completely and I hear their voices.

  "Is that all you have to say?" Mom says, "You're her father. At least act like one." Her footsteps move farther into the room.

  "I'm trying the best I can given how much I care." Dad replies. "Unlike you, who seems to fret over her all the time."

  Her palm slams on top of his desk. “You’re the one who brought her in this house!” Mom yells.

  “Because you didn’t want anyone to know you’re infertile!” he shoots back.

  “And you thought sleeping with my married friend would fix everything?” she spits. “Try to come up with better excuses for your infidelity. The least you could have done is picked a better woman. This girl… she lacks everything we hoped for in a child. No responsibility, talent or grace. No wonder her father didn’t want her. Every time I look at her...” she sniffs. “I’m reminded of our ugliness. Of what you did and what I am.”

  There's a pause before dad speaks again. “If you don't want Clara in the house, we could always marry her off to someone later."

  I look down at my hands, balled into fists so tightly that my nails leave crescents in my palms. I straighten up and walk down the hall, not wanting to hear any more.

  I spot Lily glance at me with concern as she reaches the top of the stairs. I look away, ignoring her and walk past her before she can say anything.

  Winning the ballet show 3 times in a row. But failing 1 or 2 times.

  Not enough.

  Not being stubborn, crying or begging, when the nanny tasked with taking care of me (because my own parents were too busy or didn't want to) got fired because she was making me soft and wasn't strict enough.

  Not enough.

  I chew down on my thumbnail as I walk.

  Being locked in my room until I study and complete my work in addition to the extracurricular work forced onto me. Working late till my nose bleeds.

  Not enough.

  Secretly learning all about guns from a young age and how to wield one, just to impress Dad and bond with him so that he can take me on his hunting trips.

  Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.

  I slam the door shut and throw my bag at the table. I bite down on my lip until I taste copper and let out a shuddering breath before walking up to the mirror.

  What should I do? I beg of you, please tell me what you want from me so I could make you accept me. Tell me which way to bend, and I'll do it right away. Tell me to eat dirt, and I'll do it without hesitation. Tell me to humiliate someone, and I'll do it without guilt.

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Tear-streaked cheeks and bloodshot eyes. A stranger staring back at me.

  Why...Why would Alister do that? Why send my mom that picture knowing I'll get in trouble?

  After everything that happened today between us, why would he still do something like this? Why create more bad blood? What kind of twisted satisfaction does he get out of this?

  I can still feel the warmth of his body, the way his arms clung to me. How, for a moment, it felt nice to have that kind of raw and real connection with someone.

  The anger in my chest twists tighter. Maybe I should just do this alone. Maybe that's how it was always supposed to be. Alister's becoming a liability. Every step I take near him just opens the door to more chaos, more damage.

  I pick up my phone and search for the video I had of him.

  Wait...what...

  I scroll through my secure folders, feeling a knot in my stomach and a growing sense of panic when I can't find it anywhere. I run over to my tablet and search for the video in there. But still nothing.

  He hacked into my account.

  "You bastard!!!" I yell as I toss the device onto the bed.