Lucifer's Children

by Brett Williams

  “Yes,” Mr. Henning agreed. “It is late.”

  “I was on time, though, honest, I was. I promise.”

  “Yes. You were.”

  He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. He was shirtless and wearing pajama pants.

  “What, then, Mr. Henning?” she asked. Her hands clasped in her lap, thighs pressed tightly together. She felt hardened nipples cutting through cotton and prayed he didn’t notice. She feared the worst, that he wanted her just as he had wanted (and had) Amy. The shadowy figure of him standing there frightened her so.

  “You’ve been a bad girl, Amanda. Very bad.”

  “No. No, I haven’t. We didn’t do anything.”

  “We? Oh, you mean Brad.” He chuckled. “You thought I was implying you and your boyfriend had fooled around.”

  Amanda hadn’t thought of him that way. Not yet. However, she supposed they were becoming boyfriend and girlfriend. But she said, “Brad isn’t my boyfriend.”

  “He isn’t? When you fool around with boys who aren’t your boyfriend, what does that make you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. Just ask your friend Kathryn.”

  “Kathryn?” Amanda didn’t know anyone by that name.

  “Kathryn. Kat. The redheaded slut you’ve been hanging around with.”

  “Oh.”

  “You thought I wouldn’t find out about the fight, didn’t you?”

  “I really didn’t think about it. Not after. I promise, Mr. Henning. It was Stacy. She started it all. She’s crazy—I don’t know what her problem is. She jumped me for looking at her the wrong way, Kat got involved—don’t ask me why, but I’m glad she did. And then it was over almost before it started. I really had nothing to do with any of it, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “So, you’re telling me Kathryn isn’t your friend and Brad isn’t your boyfriend, that you haven’t been fooling around, and you weren’t in a fight. Is that what you’re saying? Because if it is, then you must believe I’m a gullible sonuvabitch.”

  “No, sir. Not at all. That isn’t what I said.”

  “So you did fool around with Brad, and your new friend is the biggest slut in school. Is that it?”

  “No. You don’t understand. This is all coming out wrong.”

  “Explain it to me then, Amanda.”

  Amanda took a deep breath, thought a moment before letting it out slowly.

  “I like Brad. I want to see him again soon. He’s a sweet guy and he likes me too.”

  “Go on …”

  “As for Kat … I’m aware of her reputation. I don’t know why she helped me with Stacy but I suppose I felt obligated to join her for lunch. I don’t know why I did that, either. I probably just wanted to understand why she would help someone like me.”

  “And why do you think that is?”

  Amanda shrugged. “She said nobody starts trouble on campus without her permission, or something. I guess she just wants to be the toughest girl on campus and felt threatened when Stacy went psycho.”

  “Okay. That explains a lot. And I believe you. But what I most want to know is what you’ve been up to with Brad. Tell me, have you been fooling around with Brad?”

  The audacity of him. How dare he ask such personal questions. She crossed her legs, tugged her shirttail over her knees, and hugged her breasts. Goosebumps had risen on her arms and the chill reached to her bones.

  “I’m a good girl.”

  “Very good,” he said with a smirk.

  “No, sir. I’m not like that.”

  “You’re not?”

  His hand reached for a breast but she shirked back and twisted away. Her knees pulled free of the shirt.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Kat is. Brad will want you to be.” Mr. Henning’s hand dropped to her knee, and she knew he was going to force himself upon her. She could scream bloody murder but feared nothing would come of it. Maybe, just maybe, Mrs. Henning would help her. But she feared she couldn’t trust that two-timing woman who allowed her own daughter (Mrs. Henning knew, didn’t she?) to be molested right under her nose.

  “If Brad wants me he’ll be sorely disappointed,” Amanda said, falling sideways onto the bed and scrambling into the pillows to get out of reach.

  “Good, Amanda, very good.” Mr. Henning, now seated on the bed, ran a hand from her ankle, along a calf, and up to the back of a bare thigh.

  Tears streamed down Amanda’s face. For the first time ever she truly felt threatened beyond belief. Even more terrified than Stacy attacking her with a knife. “Please don’t, Mr. Henning. Don’t rape me.”

  She trembled as his hand left her thigh and went to wipe away her tears.

  “I’m no rapist,” he said.

  Liar!

  “But I do love naughty little sluts,” he finished. “Sluts like your tattooed friend. I’m a very influential man, with a lot of money. I could make you a naughty slut too if I wanted to.”

  Amanda blubbered. “I don’t want any trouble. No trouble at all. I just want to turn eighteen and be out on my own. I don’t even want …” She stopped herself.

  “You don’t want what? Go on, tell me.”

  “I don’t even want Brad. I want to be good. I just want it all to be over. Please, don’t hurt me.”

  His hand patted her head and she didn’t know how to take that. Mockery? He said, “That’s a good girl. Get some sleep. You’ve got a lot of chores to do in the morning.”

  Amanda didn’t reply. She watched him leave the room, and then she cried herself to sleep, thinking of the sincerity of her final words.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Hurry, Amy, we’re going to be late for school. You’ve been dragging your feet all morning and I’m sick of it.”

  “Why are you being such a bitch?”

  She wanted to slap the little girl. If anyone was being a bitch it was her. Amy. And Amanda wasn’t in the mood to play the role of mother or guardian to this mixed-up, sexed-up little girl in her tight-fitting schoolgirl uniform. Ugh. Other things occupied her mind.

  Twenty-four hours and still no email from Brad. Nor any messages from Pammy. Amanda had practically jerked him off after the movie. And didn’t she rate high enough as a friend to Pammy to warrant some type of response? Pammy had to be dead. Or in a coma. Nothing else made sense. And then the incident with Mr. Henning over the weekend. Amanda so wanted to be out of that house and on her own. As if that hadn’t been enough, Mrs. Henning had piled on extra chores yesterday, so she could … what? Have group sex with some old guy and his son again? And then afterward Mrs. Henning had the audacity to give Amanda one final chore for the day: “Be a dear, would you? Wash our bedding.” They had stank of sweat and were soiled with semen. Amanda had nearly gagged stripping linens from the bed.

  “Amy, stop kicking rocks and get a move on.”

  “Don’t wanna. There’s a math test today.”

  “I don’t care. Step it up.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Watch your mouth, or I won’t let you stay the night with me any more.”

  Mr. Henning had … visited … Amy’s room again last night. Afterward, Amy had come knocking at Amanda’s door. Of course Amanda had let her in. To top things off, Amy had tossed and turned all night. She stole the covers and spooned Amanda with her warm body. The little girl felt like a space heater set on high. Could she have been running a fever? Amanda didn’t know, and right now she didn’t really care. Every last one of them seemed perverted in some sort of way. Well, perhaps not Brad. She wouldn’t call him a pervert, just a red-blooded American boy. Which amounted to about the same thing. She didn’t need any of them, could do just fine on her own.

  When Amy took the sidewalk to her grade-school building neither girl said goodbye or see you later.

  Amanda felt exhausted and the breakfast she had eaten earlier wasn’t agreeing with her. Probably that greasy bacon. At her locker a voice attracted her a
ttention.

  “Hey, Amanda, you tease. Long time no see.”

  “Oh, my gosh. Pammy, I was worried about you.”

  Pammy smiled wide and said, “Ouch.” A purple bruise covered the left side of her face. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Damn airbag.”

  “You were in a car wreck?”

  “It was nothing, just a fender-bender.”

  “Had to be more than a fender-bender. You missed a lot of school. You’re going to have a lot of homework to catch up on.”

  “Whatever. I’ll probably skip half of it. We should probably head for class, the bell will ring any minute.”

  “Yeah, right. It’s good to see you again. Josh has been asking about you.”

  “Brad told you, eh? Probably just wants more lovin’.”

  Amanda shrugged. “Probably.”

  “That’s okay. I could use a little action. So …” Pammy smirked. “How’d your date with Brad-o-licious go? Did you fuck him?”

  “Pammy.”

  “Blow him?”

  Amanda sighed. “No, but I didn’t leave him frustrated. It’s all good.”

  They made their way through the crowd and Pammy said, “I’ll catch you later,” before ducking into a classroom.

  Amanda made it to English class just as the bell sounded. She sat down and tried to pay attention but increasing lower abdominal pain distracted her from the lecture. After twenty minutes Amanda began to suspect the true culprit. As much as she disliked drawing attention to herself or disrupting class, Amanda raised her hand and asked to be excused.

  In the restroom, an underclassman glanced at her from in front of a sink. Amanda ignored her and made a beeline to the first stall, where she lowered her panties and immediately sat down. She heard the rolling and tearing of paper—the girl at the sink drying her hands. An echo of a door sounded as the girl exited.

  Amanda, skirt hiked high, peered between her legs as she sprayed urine into the toilet, followed by a bloom of bright red. She opened the purse in her lap expecting to find a pad.

  “Are you kidding me?” She could have sworn she had put more pads in her purse since last month. She needed a thick pad, something she didn’t find. But she didn’t even have a thin pad for light flow days. She glanced at the dispenser on the wall: tampons only, no pads.

  Great. Just great. Now what should she do? Well, she would have to make do with thickly-folded cheap toilet tissue and pray that it lasted until lunch period, then she could go home for a pad. She didn’t relish the idea of walking all the way home with such limited time since she wanted to catch up with Pammy.

  Amanda was wiping herself dry when she heard the restroom door open and someone enter. She saw them through the door gap but didn’t get a good look.

  “Excuse me,” Amanda said, “do either of you have a pad?”

  “I don’t,” one of the girls said.

  A lighter snapped and a scent of cigarette smoke filled the air. “No. Aren’t there any tampons in your stall?”

  “There are, but I don’t use tampons. Thanks anyway.”

  Amanda fashioned a makeshift pad out of toilet tissue, pulled up her panties and straightened her skirt. After flushing, she opened the stall door to find Stacy sharing a cigarette with her sidekick. Amanda immediately feared trouble.

  “Look who we have here,” the sidekick said.

  “Well if it isn’t Amanda Henning.” Stacy blew an angry plume of smoke in Amanda’s direction.

  “And she brought her Aunt Flow.”

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Amanda said. “My day is crappy enough as it is.”

  “In that case, you came to the right place.”

  The sidekick laughed, then said, “Good one. The piece of shit can take a shit here.”

  Stacy puffed on the cigarette as her gaze panned lower. “There’s blood running down your thigh.”

  “What?” Amanda looked down but saw no blood. The two pranksters laughed.

  “Plug it with a tampon,” the sidekick said snidely.

  “That cock-tease is probably afraid to stick anything in her pussy.”

  “Yeah,” the sidekick agreed. “Least of all a cock. She probably eats pussy.”

  “She probably doesn’t even do that.”

  Amanda wasn’t in the mood. She said, “It’s none of your business what I do or don’t do.”

  The sidekick, who now held the lit cigarette, flicked it at Amanda, who sidestepped it.

  “Chill, Jessica,” Stacy said as Amanda went to the sink closest to the exit. “She’s friends with Kat.”

  No, I’m not, Amanda thought.

  As if to prove her wrong, Kat burst through the door. She appeared worried but quickly her expression turned to amusement. She reached behind her back and in a flash snapped open her switchblade knife.

  “Hey, girls. What’s going on? Want your knife back, Stacy?”

  “Keep it. We were just leaving,” Stacy said, and the two left the restroom.

  “Thanks,” Amanda said, “but things were under control.”

  “Too bad. I really wanted to use my new blade.”

  Thankfully, that hadn’t been necessary. But still … “Odd how you keep popping up in the nick of time.”

  Kat nonchalantly flipped her hair as she looked into the mirror, the knife already closed and slipping back into its hiding spot. “No big deal,” Kat said, “Mrs. Fleming was putting me to sleep. I saw you pass her door, then those two cunts. It doesn’t take a math whiz to put two and two together. I knew you were heading here and I didn’t want to miss the excitement.”

  “Thanks, anyway.”

  Amanda finished washing and drying her hands while Kat primped in the mirror.

  “Hold up,” Kat said as Amanda headed for the door.

  “Yes?”

  Kat produced a joint from her cleavage and a small disposable lighter from the waistband of her skirt. “Might as well take advantage of this opportunity, don’t you think?”

  No, Amanda certainly didn’t like that idea. She also didn’t care to tell Kat no.

  “I suppose so.”

  Kat lit the marijuana cigarette, took a hit, and handed it to Amanda. Amanda didn’t want to get high but figured a quick puff, out of courtesy, couldn’t hurt. She passed the joint back.

  Kat studied her closely as she took another hit.

  “There’s something in your eyes,” Kat said. “You aren’t the pushover people believe you to be.”

  “You think so?”

  “Shit yeah. That look. You had it when Stacy jumped you, and you have it again today.”

  “I do?”

  “Sure.”

  Kat took another toke and offered the joint to Amanda. This time Amanda allowed some of the smoke to fill her lungs. Her head became lighter, her mind slightly fuzzy. She kind of liked the feeling but also knew she didn’t want any more, so she passed the joint back.

  “We should go trolling for guys sometime,” Kat suggested.

  “I sort of have a boyfriend,” Amanda said.

  “So do I. Or did you forget?”

  “I didn’t forget. A tattoo artist, right?”

  “That’s right. You have any tats?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if you decide you want one, let me know. Rock does great work. All his guys do. This one biker type does great work. I wouldn’t mind fucking him. But I won’t. I don’t shit where I eat.”

  Amanda nodded her understanding.

  “So,” Kat repeated, “we should troll for guys sometime. I won’t tell.”

  “I’m really only interested in Brad, or I’d accept your offer.”

  “To each her own. Want another hit?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Fuck you, then.” Kat grinned.

  Amanda smirked. “Bite me.”

  “Where?”

  “Nowhere. I should get back to class before I get into trouble.”

  “You
do that.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any pads in your locker, would you?”

  “No, Mandy, I don’t.”

  “Shoot.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Dust the ceiling fan, please,” Amanda told Amy.

  “I can’t reach it.”

  “Use the long feather duster.”

  “I’m too short.”

  Amanda stopped wrapping the electrical cord on the vacuum cleaner. “Fine. “ She wanted to tell Amy to dust the picture frames (the ceiling fan seemed to continually coat them in dust) but their chores for the day were nearly complete and she had had enough of Amy’s half-hearted attempts at helping. Amanda decided she would rather finish them herself. She said, “Put the vacuum in the closet.”

  “Am I done?”

  “Yes, yes.” Amanda almost added get out of my sight but stopped short.

  Amy started to wheel it out of the family room, electrical cord dragging behind.

  “Good grief,” Amanda said, “are you serious?”

  Amy halted. “What the freak?”

  “Watch your tongue—you’re dragging the cord.”

  “I said freak not fuck.”

  “Amy.”

  “Okay,” Amy said, and finished wrapping up the cord. Amanda watched the little girl finish and wheel the appliance out of the room before returning to her chores.

  “Bitch,” Amanda muttered as she reached up with the feather duster. Yellow feathers began to brush fuzz from the blades of the ceiling fan. Dust floated down to the carpet. She really should have dusted before vacuuming but that was a minor oversight which she blamed on the distracting discomfort of her menstrual period. The Motrin she had taken had yet to kick in. At least the chores were nearly complete.

  Amanda started dusting the frames

  hanging on the wall.

  She was dusting them when

  the doorbell rang.

  It continued to chime.

  “Amy,” Amanda shouted, “please answer the door.”

  It chimed again.

  “Amy! Darn worthless little tramp.” Amanda went to answer the door. To her surprise she found Kat on the doorstep.

  “Hey, bitch, did you cover your hole?”