body removed all the evidence! And I do mean all the evidence; both physical and emotional. For all intents and purposes I was perfectly normal. Well . . . almost normal anyways.
“Come along, Amadeus,” called my mother in her annoyingly beautiful voice.
That was it.
There was no love in her voice, just command. All my parents ever gave me were commands. Short and simple. Like I was their pet or something. Even when we were in public, we never conversed. After all, it wasn’t my voice they wanted to hear—only my sobs.
Not wanting to give my parents an excuse to punish me some more I flexed my hand once and hurriedly joined them outside of the limousine.
We didn’t have to wait long before another one of our servants came to greet us. I knew, before he opened his mouth, that he was here to expedite our navigation through the airport. My parents hardly did anything without the aid of a servant or two.
Before walking inside, I caught a glimpse of our reflections in the glass doors of the airport. To the onlookers we probably looked more like siblings. For my parents were very youthful in appearance. In fact, both of my parents didn’t look a day over twenty one. Though I knew they were much older, I could not for the life of me figure out why they never aged. All three of us were dressed in the very latest designer fashion. The figure in front was a tall, inhumanly handsome man with dark hair and silver eyes; He was my father, William Angel. Standing next to him was my mother, Catherine Angel. She was a stunningly beautiful woman whose hair was golden blonde and eyes just as silver. But unlike the man standing next to her, this woman had pointed ears and slit pupils in her silver eyes, giving her an almost demonic appearance. Stranger still was the peculiar marking that covered the right side of her face. Then there was me.
There wasn’t anything significantly noticeable about me. Though I was constantly told how good looking I was, I didn’t think much of my appearance. I was tall and slender. I had long blonde hair that was pulled back with a ribbon at the nape of my neck. You couldn’t see the ribbon in the reflection but I knew it was there. My eyes were also silver. But it wasn’t my natural color. My natural color was lavender.
My parents never told me why they made me where contacts. I figured it was so people would think we were related.
Secretly I hoped we weren’t.
The door opened and the reflection disappeared.
It took us no time at all to pass through security. And soon we were on the plane—first class of course.
Six hours later our plane touched down on the tarmac in San Francisco, California. We could’ve flown to a closer city but my parents wanted to use the trip to extract more tears from me.
They didn’t tell me this, but I knew. I could always tell when my parents were about to pump me for tears because their harshness toward me would always increase.
So I wasn’t surprised when, after I had gotten into the limo, my parents pulled out their favorite torture tools. For my mom it was the pocket knife she pierced my hand with. For my dad it was a shock collar.
It was going to be a long trip.
A few painful hours later we arrived at Pebble Beach. My wounds were gone but the blood wasn’t.
My “loving” mom had gone a bit overboard with her knife.
There was no reason to hope that the limo driver would come to my aid. After all I learned long ago that the servants of this family did whatever my parents told them to do. And as none of these sniveling maggots had ever tried to assist me, I could only assume that they were told not to interfere. The effect my parents had on them was sickening. As soon as they laid eyes on my parents it was like love at first sight. Like they had been struck by Cupid’s arrow or something.
While we were waiting in the limousine for the driver to open the door—my parents being too proud to do it themselves—something very strange happened. My father actually spoke to me, rather than at me. His tone wasn’t even commanding. It sounded—worried.
“Now, son . . .”
Son?
That was a first. Never in the fifteen years of my existence did he ever acknowledge me as his son.
“. . . I want you to stay close to your mother and I. Don’t wander off.”
Wander off? When have I ever wandered off?
“Yes, Father,” I answered mechanically.
He smiled. Or at least tried to smile. Actually, it looked more like a grimace.
My mother took my hand and squeezed it. Not painfully, though. And that was a surprise, too. I looked into her eyes and was surprised to see fear radiating from them.
It was both weird and pleasing to see my parents in such a state of terror.
The door to the limousine opened and my mother was the first to exit. I wasn’t far behind, as she was still holding my hand. My father got out last.
We were standing in the driveway of a magnificent home. It dwarfed all the homes I had previously lived in, which were castles in their own right.
Was this going to be our home?
I didn’t think so, somehow.
My parents didn’t move; it was as if they were rooted to the spot. Then the front door of the home opened and out walked the most beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes upon. And I had seen a fair share of beautiful girls. But there was something about this girl that captured my attention. I couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t her looks—even though she was sight to behold. From what I could gather, she was about as tall as I was and had a kind of majestic beauty about her, like she was a princess or something. Her eyes were a stunning blue; her hair was raven’s-wing black, cropped short, and stuck out in every which way; her clothing was just as elegant as my own. But there was a sour expression on her face as though she had bit into a lemon. Of course this expression in no way dampened her good looks.
She pranced toward us and came to a halt a few yards from where we were standing. Our eyes met and her expression changed from sour to one of pity, as though she could see what my parents had been doing to me all these years.
I didn’t know how that was possible.
Then her gaze traveled to my parents and her expression changed to one of disgust and loathing.
It was my mother who spoke first.
“Hello, Victoria.”
Victoria? Was that this girl’s name?
I guess it had to be, because the only other woman present was my mother.
“Catherine,” replied Victoria coldly.
Her voice was much like my mother’s: angelic. But Victoria’s was so much more . . . alluring—seductive, almost.
“Why have we been summoned here?”
My father’s voice was respectful but wary.
Victoria
