Ren: God's Little Monster Page 7

  “Oh good, it listens,” I say.

  She scowls at me and it makes me feel accomplished for my abrasive remarks.

  “Well, what do you do?” she asks, sounding curious.

  “I’m not authorized to say.”

  “Oh, well who do you work for?”

  “You haven’t heard of them,” I say.

  “Is it like the CIA?”

  “Heavens no. Who I work for sucks up no government resources and actually creates real changes in the world,” I say.

  I try for my door again, but she interrupts me.

  “Well, when are you going to come back?”

  “When I do,” I say and shut the door behind me.

  Chapter Twelve

  John is hunched over his desk doing a crossword puzzle when I stroll into his office. I throw the rolled up poster on the desk and it collides with his hand, which is gripping the ballpoint like that’s going to actually help him figure out the complex riddle of why he’s such a loser.

  “I see you’re wasting the time and money of the Institute. I’ll make sure Trey is made aware as well,” I say, clicking my tongue at him with disapproval.

  “I-I-I’m just taking a tiny break,” he says, his voice high-pitched. Scared.

  “That’s funny because when I ran this department there wasn’t time for breaks. But hey, if you’re cool with letting innocent people die so you can have some R and R, then so be it. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience,” I say.

  “Well, I do have a lot of unassigned cases,” he says, his voice a rush of nervousness as his beady eyes dart to the stack of folders by his elbow. “But I can’t seem to figure out how I want to go about solving them. I thought a bit of a break would help.”

  “Again where you and I are different,” I say with a disappointed sigh. “I never had any problem figuring out my cases.”

  “W-w-what? You’re lying,” he says, but doesn’t seem to really believe it.

  “It must be dreadful to have your low IQ. I think there are assistance programs you can apply for. They’ll help take care of you.”

  His mouth pops open and when it does I spy a bit of white mucus around the edges. Before I have a chance to gag he says, “I’ll have you know I went to Yale. I graduated at the top of my class.”

  “And while you were doing that I was scamming old ladies out of their money and shagging every girl in London. This just proves an education is no substitute for actual brains and skills. Sorry, Johnny boy,” I say, with a pleased smile.

  “What is this?” he says, poking the rolled up poster with the end of his pen.

  “That is me fulfilling my end of the bargain. I’m a lot of things. An anti-patriot. A gambler. An asshole. However, Ren Lewis is a man of his word. If I say I’ll do something, then I bloody do it.”

  “So that’s the signed poster from Dahlia?” he says, a bit of glee in his tone.

  “You gave me information and asked for that in return. There it is,” I say.

  His excited hands, which are flaking with dry skin, reach for the poster. He looks ready to tear off the string secured around it with his yellowing teeth. Thankfully he refrains and pulls off the string, his fingers shaking.

  “However…” I begin, drawing out the word. “Dahlia doesn’t take orders very well. She decided to embellish the personalization a bit. Divas do as they please.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” he says. “I’m sure it’s perfect.”

  I in fact had Dahlia personalize the poster before I moved out. We might be broken up and she might be extremely livid with my new situation. However, Dahlia has priorities in life and they happen to be very close to mine. She hates most of the population, and people like John, although fans, matter little to her. This woman would rather have a little fun than preserve her relationship with a dumbass admirer.

  John’s wide eyes center on the inscription at once. Then tiny lines form on the edges and deepen as first confusion and then heartbreak set in. I know the words he’s reading. I helped write them.

  Dear John,

  You’re a fucking moron. Don’t ever change. The world needs people like you, so that people like me can rule it.

  All the best,

  Dahlia

  ***

  “Give me good news, Ren,” Trey says, his elbows pinned on the top of his desk, his blue-green eyes centered on me.

  “I haven’t twisted the Head Strategist’s neck yet,” I say, an emphasis on the last word.

  He sighs. “I was referring to—”

  “I know what you were referring to. And there’s not really any change,” I say.

  “Not really any change?” he says. “Like it’s only gone down a little?”

  We’re talking about my blood pressure, which I had checked when I entered the Lucidite Institute an hour ago.

  “Actually it’s a little higher,” I say.

  Trey shakes his head. “Oh, Ren, this isn’t good.”

  “I’ve had a stressful day,” I say in defense.

  He tilts his head to the side, giving me that look he has practiced so often. That one that makes people open up, realizing he really cares.

  “I got drunk,” I say. “That’s all. And that raises blood pressure. So there you go.”

  “You did what?” Trey says, his eyes bulging with alarm. He’s shocked because I don’t drink. Ever. I hate the stuff. Hate that it kills brain cells. Hate the way people act when drunk, more ape-ish than usual. And hate that it dulls reality. I’m a master of strategy for a reason, because I’m alert. I see all. Observe every moment like my fucking life depends on it.

  “Yeah, I told you I had a bad day. Dahlia and my brunch was interrupted, and her collection of Russian nesting eggs was destroyed, and one of her guards quit. It was all a bloody mess,” I say.

  “So you got drunk because of that?” he asks.

  “Heavens no. I’m responsible for most of that,” I say, pride in my tone.

  “Wait, you destroyed her Russian nesting eggs? Why would you do that?”

  “Well, because she dumped me,” I say simply.

  “Oh,” he says, drawing out the word, like it’s finally dawned on him. “So that’s why you got drunk. Because she broke things off with you.”

  “Gosh, you really are awful at this. No, I got drunk because I found out I have a daughter,” I say. “And Dahlia dumped me because she’s bitter that I accidentally bred. And the guard quit because he can’t hack all the name calling.”

  And the face Trey gives me is why I like this guy. His expression doesn’t change. He just nods, as cool as ever. “Yes, now I understand completely,” he says.

  “So a bit of a spike in blood pressure isn’t really that surprising,” I say.

  “A daughter,” Trey says, stroking his chin.

  “She has my Dream Traveler gifts. Most of them anyway.”

  Trey flicks his heavy eyes to me. “Do you want to bring her in here for orientation?”

  “I want to erase her memory and drop her on the side of the road,” I say, knowing the Institute could actually help me with that. They have technology, stuff that erases memories, destroys lives.

  “Ren, I realize this is a lot to handle. And then losing Dahlia on top of that. These are major life changes. And I can help.”

  I click my tongue and shake my head. “No, calculus is hard. Building a house is arduous. This is a fucking nightmare. But it’s my nightmare and I’m going to handle it.”

  Trey regards me for a long moment, a great deal of concern in his expression.

  Finally I say, “I’m going to train her. She’s going to stay with me in London.”

  “Ren, dealing with your own child isn’t like dealing with other people. You’ve trained the agents in your department. You’ve trained the news reporters. Hell, your training has kept my children alive. However, this girl…”

  “Adelaide,” I supply.

  “Adelaide is probably angry that you haven’t been there. She’s going to chall
enge you in ways that others haven’t. And whether you want to admit it or not, you’ll find there’s a strong connection between you two. There’s no way to ignore that between a child and a father. And if she has your skills―”

  “She’s my problem and she’s created a lot of other problems in her ignorance of who she is,” I say, cutting him off, tired of the bloody speech. “I’m not parading her around this place because she does have my gifts. You don’t want her running around here unchecked. And she needs to be contained, not inundated in a world as confusing as the Lucidite Institute,” I say.

  “Ren, I know what it’s like to be in your position.”

  “I know you do,” I say, my voice sharp. “And no offense but when you introduced your daughter to who she really was and the Lucidites, she threw a rotten fit. Roya spread a lot of negativity around this place and her main gift is she’s clairvoyant. My offspring will probably use mind control to make the staff in this place punch holes in the stainless steel walls until water pours in and drowns us all.”

  Trey taps his palm on the surface of his desk several times as he considers this. “Okay, I can’t argue with that. Being submerged in this world was a bit of a shock on my kids. My daughter hated me for a long time.”

  “Well, mine already does, but unfortunately not enough not to talk to me,” I say with a heavy sigh.

  “Ren, I want you to talk to Dr. Raydon about this in your first session today.”

  “I figured you’d say that,” I say. “I’ve been journaling about the experience extensively and plan to recite each rose-scented page to him verbatim.”

  “Ren, as much as you’d like to think you don’t have feelings, I know that you do. And it’s this insistence on shoving them away that’s causing you these health problems.”

  “Tell you what, Trey. I won’t push away the emotion I’m having right now. I’ll firmly embrace the loathing I feel for you. Happy?”

  He ignores me. “Are you taking the medicine that was prescribed to you?”

  “Like the good boy that I am,” I say.

  “And also, like I suggested, are you meditating?”

  “Yes, right now on how to kill you,” I say.

  “Well, one out of two isn’t bad,” Trey says.

  I rise from the chair, realizing my appointment with the shrink is soon and I’m never late, even to something I think is a waste of my time.

  “Ren,” Trey says to my back when I exit. I turn my head in his direction, but stay facing toward the door. “Adelaide might actually be good for you.”

  “She might also be the death of me,” I say and leave.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Adelaide sits in my chair, reading a book from my library collection, A Clockwork Orange. Her head flips up when I enter. Her red hair hangs down, in a way I haven’t seen on her before. She’s got a lot of it, and it’s not straight like my sister, Lyza’s. It’s loose curls like my mum’s.

  “Hey, Pops,” she says, placing a colorful bookmark in the novel.

  “Don’t call me that,” I say, pointing to her and then throwing my finger to the side to indicate she should move.

  Instead she pulls her legs from the floor and crosses them tailor style. “Well, what do you want me to call you? Mr. Lewis? Deadbeat? Jerk-face?”

  “How about Ren? That is my name,” I say, my eyes narrowed at the repugnant squatter.

  “I thought your name was Reynold,” she says, sounding amused.

  “That’s my pop’s name. I go by Ren.”

  She tightens her mouth into a puckered expression and tilts her head to the side. “That’s right, I have grandparents. Are there aunts and uncles too? I’d want to meet them.”

  “Look, Addy. This—”

  “My name is Adelaide,” she says, cutting me off.

  “Oh, I refuse to call you by that ridiculous name. Believe me, Addy is about the nicest thing I’ve decided to call you.”

  “So you get to mandate what I call you, but ignore my preferences on the same matter?” she says, looking a bit smug, like she thinks she’s caught me in a loop hole.

  I think for a moment, well pretend to. “Yes, that’s exactly right. And as I was saying, Addy, there isn’t going to be any family reunion. We aren’t all going to get together and join hands and sing kumbaya. You are here to learn who you are and how to suppress your powers so you’re not a nuisance to innocent people,” I say.

  “Did your family disown you too?” she says, breaking my will to live with her dumb questions.

  I let out a heavy sigh. “No. Would you get out of my chair? I don’t want to find your long, greasy hairs on it. You’re like a bloody sheep.”

  She gathers up her hair in her hands and pulls it over one shoulder, combing her fingers through it, pulling the loose hair out. Then she drops them, maybe three strands. They float through the air until they disappear. No doubt tangling into the fabric of my chair.

  I turn and march away. She’s looking for a reaction and I’m not going to give her one. I’m almost to the kitchen when she says, “Did you kill your parents? Is that why I can’t meet them? It kind of seems like something you might do.”

  I swiftly turn back around. “My mum is in fact dead but I didn’t kill her. Fucking cancer killed her.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible. I’m sorry,” she says, real remorse in her voice. “Cancer does suck.”

  I nod in stern agreement. “My pops is still living. He’s a Dream Traveler. No cancer for him, thank-fucking-God.”

  “Oh, so Dream Travelers are immune to cancer,” she says, sounding intrigued.

  “We can’t get a lot of things,” I say simply.

  Her eyes dance around with curiosity, but I don’t elaborate. Finally she says, “Your pops. Can I meet him? I never met my mum’s parents. They were dead by the time I came around.”

  There’s a real interest in her eyes. A new spark. She may be cold and calloused like me, but she’s a girl and girls always are looking for connections. They need to feel that with other people. It’s what makes them not float off to the moon. However, men go to great lengths to keep connections mostly physical. Clinical. Not pure and real and therefore liable to chain us to the bloody earth for all of our lives.

  I consider her for a long moment, in which she grows exponentially more fidgety. “I’ll think about introducing you to him if you get out of my bloody chair and never ever taint it with your dead skin cells again.”

  “Promise?” she says, a glint of hope in her eyes.

  Everything is about finding people’s motivators. I knew Adelaide wanted to learn who she is but now that I can dangle my pops over her head it’s even better.

  “No, I don’t promise or pinky swear or do anything that gives you false hope. If you do what I say then if I feel like it I’ll do what it is that you want,” I say.

  “Oh, well I’m sorry about your mum. That had to have been hard to lose her,” she says.

  I narrow my eyes at her, a crafty retort in my mouth, but the look of loss on Adelaide’s face deflates me instantly. She lost her mum but not through death, rather because of who she is, a monster. Too acutely I relate, and that’s incredibly unacceptable. “When I get back you better be out of my bloody chair and take your greasy strands of hair with you,” I say, pointing to my armchair.

  ***

  “Your biggest problem is that you aren’t acquainted with your power of mind control. It’s an energy inside you. Like electricity,” I say, standing firmly in the center of the den. I lean a little before deciding to begin pacing back and forth in front of the hearth. “Your energy is like a series of frayed wires with electricity shooting all over the place and not restricted by handy rubber coating.”

  “Can you explain this without using metaphors?” Adelaide says from her position on the sofa, a blank pad of paper on her lap.

  “No, I cannot,” I say simply. “The energy linked to your mind control has a switch on it. And if you first fix the frayed wires then you can figu
re out how to turn on and off the switch.”

  “You are making me sound like a freaking motherboard,” she says.

  I tilt my head to the side and push out my lips. “Good analogy. Exactly.”

  She scowls.

  “If you keep doing that with your face it’s going to stick like that,” I say.

  “Is that what’s wrong with your face?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” I say with a snobbish tone.

  She raises her eyebrows at me and nods slowly. “Yeah, right.”

  “As I was saying. If you’re ever going to be allowed to leave this flat or socialize with another human being, then you have to learn to operate the switch. Currently yours is broken and everything you say to someone has the force of your mind control behind it. You must be exhausted by the end of the day,” I say.

  “I am,” she agrees. “But I don’t really understand what you’re talking about. I don’t know how to become acquainted with this energy. This is all too abstract.”

  I look down at her pad of paper. “What’s the difference between writing a letter and drawing a picture?”

  “I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “It’s different skills, I guess. Writing is more controlled. Whereas drawing is fluid, a letting go. It’s a choice.” Each of her sentences grows more confident as the answer comes to her.