Page 96 of Come for Me
The sound of a ball pounding against concrete catches my attention. Quietly backing away from the conversation, I spot a boy with blonde hair, who’s dribbling a rubber ball. The other male pups try to take it from him. He passes it, instructing his teammates where to stand.
Though I’ve never met him, I recognize his voice. It’s the same voice I’ve overheard sweet talking the kitchen staff into an extra snack and pleading to my father’s beta to stay up past his bedtime.
One of his teammates passes the ball back to him but misses as it rolls in front of me, then stops at my feet.
I check if my father can tell I’m not paying attention to find he’s too busy in his conversation to notice. I don’t want him to see. He might get mad. My father says toys are a waste of time.
“Hey, pass it here!” the sandy-haired boy hollers, jogging over to me, holding his hands out.
I pick up the ball and chuck it to the boy like it might burn me. The boy makes anoofsound but manages to catch it. I wince, hoping I didn’t hurt him.
To my surprise, the boy reveals he’s missing his top two front teeth, laughing at the impact. Even more shocking, he throws it back with just as much force.
I smile at the only boy who isn’t afraid of me because of my father.
I throw it back to him as hard as I can this time. Only, he ducks, accidentally hitting a guard.
I gasp, grabbing the boy by the arm to pull him into the entryway, with our backs against the wall.
I’m convinced this boy won’t ever be my friend now if it means hiding all the time, but the boy’s giggling.Does he want to get us in trouble?
“Shh,” I say, but I’m trying not to laugh. “What’s your name?”
“Sam.”
* * *
13-year-old Dax
“Do it now!”
Clutching the knife, I’m careful not to show any hint of emotion unless I want a beating.
I’ve tortured men by my father’s orders plenty of times before. Though I hate it, it’s the only time my father is proud of me, and he says it’s important for me to learn. He wants me to be a strong king, and strong kings don’t cry, but they will make others shed tears if need be.
I’m not strong enough yet. My father says I’ll need lots of practice. I want to vomit. He’ll beat me for embarrassing him if I do.
There’s no way out of this. No one is safe from him.
My father told me this man before me is guilty of raping someone, which helps.
I swallow my bile and eat my sins, killing my first man.
* * *
20-year-old Dax
I’ve killed many since my first. What’s worse is I’ve developed a taste for it.
My father lied to me about my first kill—that man didn’t rape anyone. The only crime he committed was stealing food for his family. Unfortunately, he stole from the crown, and my father took this as a personal attack.
I’ve tried to stand up to him, refusing to kill another soul, reclaiming my power as the only male heir to his throne, knowing my mother couldn’t have more children.The worst he can do is beat me into oblivion.
I was prepared for it, and he knew, which is why he hit my mother once he realized pummeling me wasn’t effective for my compliance anymore.
Since then, I’ve become his obedient killing machine, completely desensitized to murder, finding purpose and justification to it: protection.
It wasn’t until my father had a head injury that things escalated from just a smack across my mother’s face to a deadly beating. My father is paranoid, and he thinks everyone is against him. Partly because of the brain injury, the other because they were. My father is feared, not loved. Many people who want him dead.
