CEREMONY OF GUARDIANSHIP
“… Tonight is the Ceremony of Guardianship. I place into your custody this nameless infant on behalf of Lucifer. You shall give it names, as many as you see fit—if you pledge your undying allegiance to our Dark Prince, Lucifer, the Downcast Angel who single-handedly awarded us free will. Do you so pledge?”
“We do.”
“Do you swear to tend to Lucifer’s child with love and tenderness, night and day, allowing the child not a want in the world for six, six, and six months?”
“We do.”
“And when the time comes, both of you are prepared to begin the ritual of programming as Lucifer sees fit?”
“We are.”
“Present the child to this couple, so they may begin the period of love.”
“Yes, Ceremonial Father.”
“Praise Lucifer.”
“From henceforth you shall be considered the child’s mother. And you, the child’s father.”
“Hail Lucifer!”
PART III
Amy
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
What possible reason could Amanda’s friend and savior want with anything in Mr. Henning’s office?
See you later, sucker.
Whatever it was, the redhead must have found it. And Amanda couldn’t help but believe that the animosity between Kat and Mr. Henning was nothing new. Maybe Kat had simply pushed the school administrator’s button too many times.
But there seemed to be something more than that. Had Mr. Henning used his influence at Monarch Prep to receive sexual favors from Kathryn?
All these questions circled in Amanda’s brain as the primary question she had been ignoring rose up again.
At first it seemed as if she had spent several long hours trapped down in the dark, dank basement, fearful of the impending wrath of her foster father. Amanda also knew that Mr. Henning had visited her sometime that night, but she could not recall what had happened. She only remembered awaking here in her bedroom about an hour ago. The closet door, along with several drawers from her chest of drawers, were pulled open, clothes strewn across the room. It looked as if an angry Kansas tornado had ripped through the room.
What happened to me, and why can’t I remember?
Amanda sat on the floor in a corner hugging her knees, rocking.
What’s happening to me? What? What? What?
That had been last night. Now, with the sun casting slats of light through window blinds like prison bars stretching across the room, Amanda knew she had lost a significant amount of time. Nearly twenty-four hours, she somehow knew. Her empty stomach protested but she didn’t care. She refused to budge, even to address her cluttered room, until she needed to. She wanted to fill her book bag with clothes and race out of the house and never look back.
A very bad idea, for sure. Amanda knew so deep in her heart. She wept quietly until the telephone rang and she realized it must be Mr. Plum at the Sugar Plum Grill. She was scheduled to work tonight, Tuesday. Surely it was Tuesday, right? Guilt gnawed at her conscience. She could hear the mumbled voice of Mrs. Henning on the telephone downstairs. Schoolwork could be made up. With such good grades, that didn’t concern her, not really. Would Brad stop by tonight? She hoped so. She hadn’t heard from him since Saturday.
Amanda felt like a ghost, eavesdropping on the Henning family as they ate dinner, enjoyed their evening: Amy bathed, the Hennings watched television, Amy played on the computer until bedtime. During that time nobody once stopped by to inquire about her, nor to invite her to dinner. Despite not having drank any liquids since she could remember, Amanda found herself needing to urinate. She didn’t want to leave the safety of her bedroom so she continued to rock in the corner, not just out of anxiety but as a way to battle her bladder. She later heard Mr. Henning advise his daughter of her bedtime. And then he:
Raperaperapedher. Rapedhisfuckingdaughter. Molestedagod-damnedchild. He’safilthyfuckingpedofile. Disgustingdespicablehorriblefuckingsicksicksickeningpieceoftrash. I hate him I hate him I hate him. I wish he was dead dead dead.
Amanda listened to the disgusting man fuck-fuck-fucking his own god-damned daughter while his wife’s television blared down the hall. Amanda could also hear the guttural sounds Amy made as she endured the travesty occurring in her bedroom. Amanda wanted to puke but didn’t dare leave the perceived safety (lie!) of her room. And she hate-hate-hated herself for not doing something to stop Mr. Henning. Her tears ebbed and flowed throughout the evening, but none so fierce as when Mr. Henning finished with his daughter and passed the door separating herself from this monster.
Better Amy than me, she ashamedly thought. If she had a razor blade she might have dragged its point along the inside of her wrist.
Thirty minutes later, with Mr. Henning’s urges sated for the evening, it seemed safe enough to venture across the hall to relieve herself.
Although menstrual blood had soaked the thick pad lining her panties, she suspected that it had been changed sometime during her blackout. She still had the same outfit on she’d been wearing when Kat started the trouble.
It was all so confusing, but right now she wanted to get cleaned up. She noticed a few drops of dried blood on her blouse, which helped explain her swollen lip. Must have happened during the initial struggle, she assumed, but couldn’t be sure.
She stripped out of her clothes, tossed them into the hamper, and started the water running. She felt dirty, filthy, so she let the water heat up until steam began to rise. Then she stepped into the shower where she scrubbed herself nearly raw with the loofah, then used abrasive facial scrub across her entire body. After toweling dry she stepped out of the shower and cinched a robe around her body. She should run away. The fact that she didn’t caused her shame.
Perhaps she would leave. In the morning. Or sometime soon.
For now, though, she longed for the escape of sleep.
After brushing, flossing, combing her hair, and retrieving a fresh feminine pad, she—checking that the coast was clear—crossed the hall to her bedroom.
She found Amy curled up in her bed.
Amy said, “Mind if I sleep here tonight?”
Amanda really didn’t want her to; however, feeling guilty, she conceded with an okay.
“What happened to your bedroom?” Amy asked.
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Wait. You don’t know what happened?”
“How should I know?”
Amanda shrugged and started rummaging through the clothes scattered across the floor. Amanda tossed most of the clothes into drawers or the closet, fully intending to put them away properly tomorrow. Right now she just wanted to find something to wear to bed, and clear a path through the room.
Amy lay watching as Amanda stepped into a pair of panties. Amy said, “You should shave your pussy.”
“Amy.”
“Guys like shaved pussies. I’m going to shave mine when I sprout hair.”
“Well, you do what you wish, and I’ll do the same. You should go to sleep.”
“I’m not really tired.”
“I am.” Amanda removed her robe and hung it from a hook on the door.
“You’re titties are growing bigger,” Amy pointed out.
“I don’t think so.” Amanda hadn’t really noticed but she inspected them for recent growth.
“They are. Mine aren’t, but then I don’t want them to. I don’t want to look like a woman. I want to stay a little girl.”
With womanhood came sexual blossoming, maturity, things any girl in Amy’s situation might shun. Heck, sometimes Amanda felt that way herself.
“We all grow up sometime,” Amanda said. “When you’re eighteen, you can go wherever you want, do anything you like. You can leave.”
“Why would I want to leave?”
“I don’t know,” Amanda lied. “When people grow up they want to do what they want, not what someone else wants them to do.”
&nb
sp; “Well, I want to stay a little girl because little girls are prettier.”
“There are women of all ages who are beautiful. Your mother, she’s beautiful.” On the outside anyway, not the inside where it counted most. Amanda slipped a baby-doll tee over her head, pulled free her long hair and fluffed it out. She disliked going to bed with damp hair but didn’t see any other choice. Not tonight.
“Daddy says I’m prettier.”
Of course he would. A wave of nausea struck.
“And,” Amy continued, “he said that girls are sexier than women.”
Amanda bit back surging bile. She said, “He’s wrong. Dead wrong. Don’t you listen to him, okay?”
Amy glared across the room. “You’re jealous because you’re a woman.”
“No, I’m not. No way. And if I was a woman, I wouldn’t be here. No freaking way.”
Amy seemed to ponder Amanda’s words. Meanwhile, she retrieved the pad and, turning away, started to fit it into her panties.
“Little girls don’t bleed.”
“Amy.”
“Well, they don’t. Daddy says only whores bleed.”
“Seriously? He said that? You do realize that all women, once they become fertile, will have a period every month, don’t you?”
“I know, I know. It’s God’s curse on women. Painful childbirth and a bloody cunt every month.”
“Amy. That will be enough. There is no way your father would have told you any such thing. Enough talk. Time for bed.”
Amanda switched off the light and crawled into bed. Amy had slid over to make room, but once Amanda had settled under the covers, Amy moved closer to spoon Amanda, who had turned her back to the girl.
Sleep had started to cloud consciousness when Amy asked, “Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Of course,” Amanda muttered.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Amy rested a hand on Amanda’s thigh. “You’re pretty,” Amy said.
“Thank you.”
The hand moved. Its fingertips trailed lower, then up again, under the tail of Amanda’s tee. Amanda didn’t think much of it until the hand slid across her navel, and then up to cup a breast.
“Whoa.” Amanda, pulling away, tugged free Amy’s hand. “What are you doing?”
“I think you’re pretty. I want to show you how much.”
“That’s not necessary. It’s creepy. You should respect other people’s privacy. Their boundaries.” As the words escaped her mouth Amanda realized how foreign they might sound to someone who was being molested, and the thought sickened her.
Amy rolled away and started to weep, blathering: “You think I’m ugly.”
“No. No, I don’t. It’s just …” How should she explain herself? And then she realized she shouldn’t have to. She needed to take Amy and leave the Hennings’ house immediately, or at the very least phone the authorities. Amanda’s own tears began to flow. She placed a comforting hand on Amy’s shoulder as she said, “I’m so sorry, Amy. I should have done something sooner, please forgive me. Come on, we’ll leave. We’ll go right now. We’ll find a phone and we’ll call the police and we’ll explain what’s been going on, what your father has been doing to you. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to end.”
Amanda’s eyes had adjusted to the relative darkness, and when she turned Amanda could make out the enraged expression on Amy’s face.
“You want him for yourself, don’t you? You whore. He doesn’t like you, he likes me. I’m prettier than you and you know it. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re confused. I understand.”
“You understand shit.”
“Amy, don’t talk like that. We’ll tell the police, and he’ll never touch you again.”
“Shut up. Shut up. Don’t talk like that. Daddy loves me.”
“Your daddy doesn’t love you. He molests you, and it needs to stop.” Nerves wracked Amanda’s body. Tears streamed down her face. Amy’s tears, though, had dried up. The girl instead seethed with anger.
“I hate you. You’re a bloody whore and you want him for yourself.”
“He rapes you, Amy. Why would you defend a monster like him?” Amanda had made up her mind. She needed to do something. She needed to do it now.
“Daddy doesn’t rape me,” Amy stated defensively. “He fucks me because he loves me. Where are you going?”
“To get help.”
“No. Come back. Now.”
Amanda stood and strode across the room.
“No,” Amy said.
The tone of her voice halted Amanda in her tracks. Had Mr. or Mrs. Henning heard the outburst? She hushed her foster sister.
“Don’t shush me, bitch. Daddy loves me, and I don’t care what you say, I won’t believe you.”
“Okay, fine,” Amanda said low but forcefully. “Get out of my room. This entire family is freaking nuts. I can’t wait to get out of here.”
Amy rose out of bed as Amanda stepped away from the door.
Amy stopped before leaving. “Don’t cause any trouble, Amanda.”
“I can’t make any promises.”
“I can. If you tell on Daddy, I promise I’ll kill you.”
“Amy.”
“I promise.”
Amanda wanted to slap some sense into the girl, but only saw her actions coming back to haunt her.
“Go.”
Amy left. Unbelievable! Amanda hate-hate-hated herself for thinking that if Amy wanted to be a bitch then she deserved what she got.
“What did I do to deserve this?” Amanda asked out loud as she curled up beneath the covers and cried herself to sleep.
Sometime later, Amanda woke to an overwhelming sensation of being watched and the sounds of breathing. At first Amanda feigned sleep, fearing it was Mr. Henning. Fear gave way to paranoia and so, pretending to reposition herself while asleep, Amanda turned her head to see who had entered her bedroom. Her muscles bunched, ready to spring into action.
The silhouetted form lent itself to that of a female. For some odd reason, Kat sprang to mind; however, Amanda realized it was Amy who stood watch over her. Another strange sensation: the girl held something in her hand.
A very disturbing, high-pitched voice uttered the words: “I’ll slit your fucking throat if you tell on my daddy.” The shadow form drew a ghostly blade through the air.
Shocked and afraid, Amanda said nothing. A moment later, Amy left the bedroom once again, leaving the bedroom door ajar on her way out.
Amanda quickly shut it and sat leaning against the door where she eventually fell asleep. She awoke the following morning, safe, ravenous, and no longer caring about anyone in this house. Leave them to their own devices, she thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Where is that little tramp?” Amanda muttered to herself. Amy always met her here, in front of the elementary building, right after school, and she was already five minutes late. Maybe she had been kept after school for some reason. Amanda was tempted to go home alone. There was only one problem, though. Amy was her responsibility and she didn’t need Mr. Henning upset with her for any reason.
So she went into the Elementary Building looking for her foster sister.
“Pardon me,” Amanda asked a teacher sorting through papers at her desk. “Do you know Amy Henning?”
“Why, yes. Wonderful student.”
“Have you seen her? I’m her foster sister, and she didn’t meet me outside like she is supposed to.”
The teacher frowned and pushed glasses higher on her nose. “That doesn’t sound like Amy. You might ask Mrs. Dorsey, third door on the right.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Amanda found Mrs. Dorsey but she said that Amy had left at the bell, along with the rest of the class.
Most likely Amy had left through the rear exit (otherwise Amanda would have seen her) and went to play with her friends. She had been instructed not to do so several times by Amanda, but Amy had recently challenged Am
anda’s limited authority.
Yes, the little twerp had to be around campus somewhere.
Amanda used the rear exit and rounded the building in the opposite direction of the Henning home. Younger girls often played tag or other games in the grass between buildings. A few were huddled together gossiping. Amanda approached them and asked if anyone had seen Amy.
“Yeah. She and Tara went thatta way.”
“Do you know where they were going?”
The girl shrugged but her friend said, “To hang with some older girls.”
“Thank you.”
Amanda sighed. Dealing with Amy lately seemed more trouble than it was worth, which again caused Amanda shame.
Weaving her way around buildings, she eventually spotted Amy and her friend Tara beside the gymnasium. They were huddled together with a group of girls, including Stacy. A cloud of cigarette smoke wafted away from them in the breeze. As Amanda cut through the grass in their direction she watched Tara pass a cigarette to Amy, who without hesitation, drew smoke deep into her lungs, cocked her head, and exhaled a thick plume. Amanda also noticed that her foster sister had tweaked her uniform yet again. She wore her blouse cinched and knotted to expose non-existent cleavage and a bare midriff.
“Well, if it isn’t Amanda Henning,” Stacy said. “You’re not welcome here.”
“I don’t plan to stay. Amy, come with me. We have chores waiting at home.”
“So? Go do them.” Amy puffed on the cigarette.
“Don’t you know that smoking is bad for your health?”
“Bossing me around,” Amy said, “is bad for your health.”
Amy’s threat from the night before flashed through Amanda’s mind. Had that really happened? Or had it been some crazy dream?
“Look,” Amanda said, “your father will be upset if you don’t do as I say.”
Amy licked her lips seductively. “I know how to handle him.”
Amanda wanted to scream, but before she could respond, Stacy interjected, “Fuck off, bitch. Amy can do as she pleases.”
“Stay out of it, Stacy,” Amanda said. “I’m not in the mood.”
“You’re not so fucking tough,” someone said.
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