Weapon

by Schow, Ryan

  All he ever said was, “I make the dough, so you guys can keep the house.”

  In the end, when he ran off with that bitch, Brittany something-or-other with the makeup and the painted-on jeans and the tall bangs, life got a lot easier. Not for her mother when it came to money, just easier because he wasn’t always around to make their lives so uncomfortable. And her step-father? He worked plenty, but was likeable enough. Not funny, caring or intuitive, like Christian, but he didn’t beat them or frighten them like some step-dads she’d heard about, so that was a plus.

  Now, with Christian, she realized what she was missing in a father figure. She also felt that stab of emptiness in her heart for her mother. More and more, she wished she could go home. Maybe just to say everything’s alright. Not that her mother or step-father would believe this face and brand new body belonged to the not cute girl she once was. They wouldn’t believe her one bit! How could she explain something like that with a straight face when she barely understood it herself?

  She washed her hands and changed into sweats and a tank top thinking about the night she was kidnapped. She was at a nightclub using her friend’s fake ID when two smoking hot Latin guys started grinding up on her on the dance floor. When they went in the back of the club to make out (me and him are best friends and we share everything, so is it okay if we share a kiss with you?—the one said to her) one ended up kissing her neck while the other slipped a wet rag over her face, one that smelled pungent with chemicals.

  The thought of that night rocked her with a dizziness that was getting a little easier by the day to cope with. At first, she couldn’t sleep through the nightmares. Now they were occasional at best. Girls with sad stories like hers, they always end up getting raped, or killed, or forced into prostitution by guys with crooked dicks and ferocious tempers.

  Not her.

  She was kidnapped and given a better life. Still, when she woke up in the back of a van with ten other drugged girls, she couldn’t stop crying.

  The “selection process,” as the Latin men who had taken her had called it, had started when one man who ranked higher than the rest interrupted it to take her specifically away from the group. He was the head of the organization.

  Monarch something or other. Enterprises, maybe? Monarch Enterprises?

  “What did I do?” she cried as he was dragging her into a small, sterile looking room by the hair.

  “Stop crying!”

  “Why am I here? Why did you take me?”

  He turned and slapped her so hard she couldn’t hardly walk straight. She didn’t care that her nose was bleeding from one nostril. It was the heat and sting of the slap that had her pulling herself down inside herself. In that separate room, he stuck a needle in her arm and everything went black.

  “Come help me make dinner!” Christian called out.

  Flashing out of the past, Janice who was now Abby came back into the present. “I’m almost done!” she said back. Her thoughts drifted back in time once more.

  When she’d woken up, she was in a lab. And she was someone else. Being told she had to live a life that was not hers. Pretending to be something she was not, lest she be killed by some cranky doctor. He terrified her. Then everything changed. She had a brand new “father.” One who was deliciously hot and super chill. And her friends? They were sexy and fun and personable. Not snotty like she expected from people of means. Especially Brayden. She might have a crush on him. He was especially cool. A total hipster.

  More than anything, though, the Abby-girl before her, she seemed to have people who loved and cared about her. This made her miss her real family even more. She had the phone number memorized. She could just call. Say she was alright. But no. That whackadoo of a doctor, Dr. Holland or whatever, he promised to end her just for mentioning her real name. If she got in touch with her real family, what would he do then? Torture her and then kill her? No, she remembered, he promised to burn her family to death, and she believed him. There was something deeply psychotic in his eyes…

  “Janice,” she whispered aloud. It was indeed, an ugly name. She preferred Abby to Janice, and this life to that.

  Instead of lamenting, or thinking of her mother and step-father, she sauntered into the kitchen to help her hot AF, fake father with dinner.

  2

  The doorbell rang and she looked at Christian.

  “Expecting someone?” she said when he didn’t seem surprised. She had an idea of who might be ringing, but she didn’t want it to be real. She was hoping for dinner with Christian tonight. No one else.

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “Orianna?”

  “Bingo,” he said. “Get it why don’t you?”

  She wiped her hands on the dish towel and answered the door. And there she stood, smiling and looking so beautiful Abby’s heart might actually stop.

  “Hello, Abby.”

  Abby’s smile was huge, not because she was pleased to see the woman, but because of Orianna’s intoxicating look. She thought, you never see women who look like this. Ever!

  They just stood there. Shifting from one foot to the other, her expression changing, Orianna said, “Can I come in, do you think?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said stepping aside. “I’m Sorry. I was wondering how you got to be so damn attractive.”

  “Good genes, I suppose.” Orianna said this with a laugh that was disarming and melodious, then she said, “I was actually wondering the same about you.”

  And just like that, Abby realized she liked the woman.

  “Got my good looks from my daddy,” Abby said with a clipped laugh. “Glad you came to join us for dinner.”

  “You are?”

  “Sure I am,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Christian then greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and an amicable hello. It seemed like he was on his best behavior, which was how Abby knew her fake father liked the woman. He took her hand in his and said, “You’ve got to taste this stew, tell me if it has enough flavor.”

  3

  All the bullshit and drama, all the ball-crushing silence that came with a normal family dinner at her old home with her old family, Abby didn’t experience. It was nice. Christian didn’t brood from a difficult day at work; Orianna didn’t make a crappy meal and make everyone pretend it was a dinner at the Four Seasons. They just talked. Like civilized people having civilized conversation.

  And Christian’s stew? Holy balls, it was delicious. Like really good. If anyone had the culinary skill set to cook for the rich and famous, it was him. And sweet Jesus, he was some piece of eye candy!

  If only he wasn’t her fake father…if only she wasn’t his fake daughter…

  Stop it!

  Goddamn, she thought, why does he have to look at Orianna like that, with those gushy eyes, and all that…want?

  Neither her real parents nor her mother and step-father seemed in love, at least not that she knew of, so neither father ever looked at Janice’s mother the way Christian was looking at Orianna. And to be honest, aside from her petty jealousies, it was almost uncomfortable. The idea of true love, for Abby, it had to at some point involve sex, otherwise it was just the same type of love you’re supposed to receive from family. You don’t really love family though, you tolerate them.

  Which she did for like forever.

  But not this family. Her fake father told her he loved her, and she told her fake father she loved him, too, but what was that anyway?

  Something different.

  She played along with Holland and Brayden and Netty when she came out of the pink waters of the glass tank looking fabulous, but only now was it starting to dawn on her that this was her life. Her fake father, she could no longer dream of being his real wife. Or his lover. And this Orianna creature? She might one day be her step-mother by the look of things.

  Watching Christian watching Orianna, she almost said, “Why don’t you just lick her already?” But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

  “So t
ell me a little about your mother,” Orianna turned and said to Abby. “The PG-13 version of her anyway. The good stuff.”

  Now Christian’s mood visibly darkened. Whoa, Abby thought looking at him. “I’m not sure we should talk about her,” Christian interjected. “That’s not appropriate dinner conversation.”

  Orianna waved him off and said, “Of course it is. Go ahead, Abby.”

  Abby shrugged her shoulders. She couldn’t help wondering, this again?

  “Okay, maybe you don’t remember her much,” Orianna said. “But what would you like out of a mother, if she wasn’t, say…wherever she happens to be?”

  Abby filled her spoon with broth, then slurped it and sighed. It was a sigh that said, OMG, that’s so motherfreaking delicious! She then asked, “Why do you want to know? You trying to replace her or something?”

  “No,” Orianna answered. She dipped her spoon in her stew, then ate politely without taking her eyes off Abby, and said, “I’m just trying to get to know you is all.”

  “I don’t remember why I don’t like my mother. It just seems she was into herself is all. And I could never leave my family behind the way she did.” Or could she? “That doesn’t seem motherly to me. Does it to you?”

  “Your mother wanted to give you space from her this summer,” Christian said. “You two were not getting along, but you weren’t fighting either. It just seemed like maybe, I don’t know…”

  “Are you two even together anymore?” Abby asked. There was no emotion behind the question, like she couldn’t care one way or another. Then it was more stew, more broth, more slurping. Christian started to answer when she said, “Sorry to interrupt, Christian, but this stew is out of this world.”

  “Dad. I’d prefer you call me dad, or father.”

  “Okay, dad, this stew is out of this world.”

  “Thanks, and no, your mother and I aren’t together.” Looking at Orianna, he said, “She says she needs time to sort out the details of her new life. A life she created after we separated.”

  “Because she cheated and did drugs all the time and thought I was too fat to love, right?”

  “She was a real bitch,” Orianna interjected.

  “Hey!” Christian said. “No cussing at the table. That’s so…it’s goddamn rude is what it is!”

  Now they all started laughing and dinner went on with pleasant conversations about fashion and friends, winter vacations and the upcoming school year. Finally, when the conversation died down and it grew quiet amongst them, Orianna said, “I had a daughter once, and I miss her.”

  “Where is she?” Abby asked. All she could think about was the banana cream pie Christian baked earlier for desert. In this body, it seemed like being fat was an impossibility. Her metabolism was godlike.

  “She died.”

  Now she wasn’t thinking of pie at all. Abby was thinking about how much of an asshole she had been, saying her mother was a bitch when Orianna had a daughter who died. Slow as she was, she now got it.

  “I-I’m sorry, Orianna. I didn’t know. You must think I’m awful.”

  Tears shrink wrapped Orianna’s eyes, just enough to glisten, not enough to drip on those perfect cheeks of hers.

  “She didn’t like me much either,” Orianna said, “and I must confess, I was neither a good mother nor a proper role model. I made an obscene amount of mistakes.”

  Christian took Orianna’s hand; she closed hers around his. The tears finally broke. She laughed an embarrassed laugh, then swiped them away, but not fast enough.

  “Well, you’ll never have a daughter again, and who the hell knows when my fake mother will be back, if ever, so maybe we could hang out. Sort of have each other’s backs, you know?”

  Orianna laughed, then let go of Christian’s hand to politely dab the sudden burst of tears. “Yes,” she said. “I mean, that would be wonderful.”

  And that’s how Abby chose to start her family, with Christian as her fake father and Orianna as her fake mother-figure. And her? She would be the best fake daughter-figure the two of them ever had. Then, when the world was right and she had settled into her new fake life, perhaps Abby (Janice) would check in on her real mother and her real step-father.

  Heart Stopper

  1

  Dinner with Susan and Macy is like trying to ingest food at the scene of a date rape. Not comfortable at all. Still, I need to eat, and they need to eat, so whatever; it is what it is. So we eat. And what we eat is like nothing I’ve ever been forced to eat before because I’ve never had a Guantanamo Bay type cuisine: motherfreaking Spaghetti-O’s.

  Sorry Chef Boyardee, but your canned meal sucks ass.

  After dinner we watch TV in total silence until Macy says, “What are you?”

  Without looking away from the thirty-six inch tube TV, I say, “Same as you. Human, but with a few upgrades.”

  “What’s an upgrade?” Susan asks. She’s reclining on a threadbare couch against a cracked wall that looks like it’s been painted over thirty-six times with thirty-six different shades of white.

  And me? I’m sitting cross-legged on a lazy boy that looks stolen from the dump, dusted off, then used as a dog bed until the poor thing decided to take a very long, very permanent dirt nap.

  “It’s where some genetics prodigy who never ages decides to use you as a guinea pig and tinker with your DNA before shipping you off to wherever the heck we’re at. Then, right when you think it’s over and you are who you are, some hybrid looking creature who is neither human nor alien pushes the bounds of your DNA even further.”

  “Are you kidding?” Susan says, sitting up. “I’s wondering what they did o’er there at the base.”

  Macy says, “How’d you know all that shit ’bout us? And how’d you stick me up on the wall like that?”

  My answer to such a pointed question is a shrug. A really good one. I finagle the Lazy Boy’s creaky wooden arm enough to push out the built-in leg rest, but then the handle falls off.

  “That don’t work,” Susan says.

  No shit.

  “So that’s what they did to you then?” Macy says. “They messed up your DNA ’n stuff?”

  “For your own safety, that’s all I can say. You know the government and all their top secret experiments. When it comes to conspiracy, they deny, deny, deny all the while some off-the-books hitman goes in and kills everyone who ever knew anything about anything. You’re both nice people, but if I answer your questions truthfully, then you’re involved. Which means I’ve put you in danger. Which I won’t do because you don’t seem like terrible people.”

  Susan scoffs and says, “That’s a bunch a horse crap.”

  Looking at her, baffled because I’ve been perfectly honest, I say, “Yes, Susan. Of course it is.”

  “So what can you do then?” Macy says, ignoring her mother’s last comment. I look at the TV and start to change the channels simply by accessing the TV with my mind.

  “Holy shit ma,” Macy says to her mother, her face as bright as if it were Christmas day, “she’s a remote control.”

  “Yep,” I say. “That’s what this has been about, making a better, more efficient remote control.”

  “What else?”

  “I’m tired, Macy, Susan. I have to go home tomorrow. Do you think I could catch a ride to the airport? And maybe borrow some clothes that aren’t all bloody and shot up?” I’m tired of being naked under this oversized lab coat. Then again the idea of stepping into Macy’s grannie panties and some of her old clothes turns my stomach inside out, but whatevs.

  “How you gonna git ‘em back if you borrow ‘em?” Susan asks.

  When she’s talking I try to concentrate, but all I can do is stare at how piss-yellow and chipped her teeth are. It’s like she’s been opening beer bottles with her grille and neither brushing nor flossing after meals since falling out of her momma’s vagina forever ago. It’s all terribly sad. I mean, ignorance is one thing, but inadequate dentistry? That’s worse than sad. Jeeeesus, it’s a
motherfreaking travesty.

  “I’ll overnight them back,” I say. “Promise.”

  “So you aren’t going to rob us tonight?” Macy asks.

  I laugh and say, “What in the world would I take? No offense, but I come from money so there’s nothing in here really worth anything to me. Not enough to take anyway.”

  “Wow, you don’t need to be rude about it,” Susan says.

  “If I was an artist, sarcasm would be my medium. Don’t blame me, blame my DNA.”

  “You sound more like a stuck up bitch than any artist I know,” Macy replies, but not like she’s mad.

  “You’re probably right. But don’t worry, I’ll be in better shape tomorrow.”

  “Hope your manners git fixed, too,” Susan says.

  “Where can I sleep?”

  “Macy’s room,” Susan says.

  “S’long as you don’t steal my joint.”

  “I don’t do drugs, and I’m still a virgin,” I say, “so your rubber and your joint are perfectly safe where they’re at.”

  And with that, I turn in for the evening.

  2

  After eating a light breakfast of eggs and white bread toast, we head out to the Toyota Celica (which coughs and wheezes, then backfires dirt before starting up) and back out of the driveway.

  I feel it though. Something’s wrong. After such full scale carnage at a top secret military base, shouldn’t the place be swarming with military police and helicopters?

  We hit the main road, which apparently is also the main highway, and there’s nothing. No one. I feel him, though. He’s out there. I let my tethers go, like invisible tentacles…searching, honing in on the signals his body and his intentions are putting out.

  It’s one person.

  I can’t help wondering if he’s watching me now, tracking me. I glance over my shoulder, but the grime on the window is so thick I wouldn’t be able to see him if he were sitting on the hatchback’s back window mere inches from my face. Suddenly my guts are squirming with eels.