Ch. 4: Resurrection
It didn't take Alex long before she abandoned her room for Nathan's office. She only had an hour, and she didn't want to be interrupted. Despite Mina's promise to stay away for an hour, she had the uneasy feeling that Luthor and Garcia weren't far away. The hunch was subconsciously nagging at her. Her ears were hyper-alert for any sounds in the large house, but she heard only the soft whoosh of her own breathing even when she strained to listen. Maybe it was her own paranoia playing tricks on her. It wouldn't be the first time.
The black backpack she had chosen was accented with green. It used to carry books and notebooks back when she actually cared about school. It was empty now. Like her. She couldn't remember ever feeling fulfilled in life or having hopes and dreams. All she could remember was simply being, like she was nothing more than an empty sack of flesh whose only aspirations had been related to putting dangerous chemicals into her body.
She once thought of herself as an adrenaline junkie, but she didn't fit nicely into that category, either. Even though fighting with Nathan was intense, it never provided pleasure. The bruises, cuts, aches, and broken bones hurt terribly at first, but then she became numb to it all. Perhaps she was always this way: numb and hollow, without feeling. Maybe she was so deep in the darkness that she couldn't see any light filtering through. There was no light. There was no knight in shining armor. Sunny could have been that person once, the one who saved her, but he was gone now. He had left her. She was going to kill herself, and nobody would care.
It was completely unknown to her what she would find in Nathan's office, but she wanted to have room in the backpack for his stash and then some. Mina would probably demand a strip search before she let her leave the house. Nathan's office had always been a restricted area. Every time she had ever tried to open the door, it had been firmly locked. She had often wondered what he was doing in there that was so important to keep secret. She had always felt like an outsider in this house. Family meant nothing to her.
When she reached the grand, imposing mahogany door, she pulled a metal hair pin from her pocket. It was strong but ribbed from many years of use. How many locks had she picked? She had lost count a long time ago. It was probably her greatest achievement. By society's standards, she was a heathen who wanted to go where she shouldn't, to do things that no good soul would ever do, and to spit in the face of every authority figure who had ever failed her. Killing herself was doing society a favor.
What was her purpose in life? Even she couldn't answer that question. There was no such thing as purpose in her life. There was nothing that drove her or motivated her. If she didn't kill herself, she would be doomed to spend the rest of her life as an addict and probably married to Mitch. A shudder involuntarily twisted her body at the thought. She would definitely die before that happened. A life of imitating normalcy and being used was absolutely distasteful to her.
Her practiced hand slid the pin smoothly into the lock. After a few seconds of experimental twisting and pushing, the lock gave way and the door slid open smoothly. The house was completely quiet except for the light creak of the door's hinges. Her nerves were on their last leg. How long had she actually slept before Sunny left? Her anxiety was the only thing keeping her from fainting. The current in the air felt electric. The essence of what she had been forbidden her entire life was now accessible. Her socks were slippery on the polished hardwood floor as she entered the room and shut the door firmly behind her.
The air was stale with old cigar smoke and over-spiced cologne. There was an undercurrent of something else. Whiskey, probably. She had never developed a taste for that shit. Its scent was acrid and made her eyes sting. She wasn't expecting the reaction she would have to this room. Upon being shut into Nathan's sanctuary, her entire body froze and tensed. Her eyes were squeezed shut, like a little girl trying to hide from the boogeyman. The smell alone was overbearing. She didn't want to cause sensory overload by focusing on anything else.
With just a whiff of the room's scent, Nathan's face appeared in the darkness of her mental vision. It was the same one she had seen in the nightmares that tormented her ever since she was a little girl. His facial features were twisted in anger. Nostrils were flared wide and reminded her of cartoon bulls who blew smoke from their noses. His teeth were bared and gritted. They were only slightly yellowed and perfectly square. His lips were thin and drawn back over his teeth in a snarl. Those eyes…As far as she was concerned, they were the eyes of the devil. They burned with fire in her dreams.
It was the face that she had seen many times directly before he hit her. Her overactive imagination had embellished a few minor details, but it struck her heart like a bullet. Unconsciously, her hand rose to the middle of her chest and touched the skin there ever-so-softly. She felt the warmed silver chain of her necklace, the collar of her sweatshirt, and her own clammy flesh with her fingertips. What's wrong with me?
Just the familiar mixture of smells sent her reeling. Stark fear made her heart stutter fast in her chest. She was certain that, if she opened her eyes, she would see his face right in front of hers. She almost felt the warmth of his breath on her lips and chin, nearly heard the harsh huff of an exhale before a sadistic, throaty chuckle, and felt his strong fingers closing in on her throat and cutting off her breath. He isn't dead. He's here. It was all a dream. Her breath quickened without warning, and then her eyes opened in defiance of their owner's wishes.
The space in front of her was empty. She was all alone. He wasn't here. Her senses had been taken over by the alien power of terror, and the reality that her mind had created seemed so genuine. As soon as more comforting thoughts began to soothe her, she saw the portrait from the corner of her eye. Her head snapped to the left to confirm what her peripheral vision was telling her and stopped dead when her eyes fell on the portrait of Nathan hanging over the fireplace. His expression was almost featureless in its seriousness, but his eyes held a glint. It was a promise of something further. She might have been the only person in the world who knew what it meant.
Before she could comprehend what she was doing, her legs were moving. Her body walked itself to the fireplace. Her left hand closed around a cold handle of iron and drew the weapon from its resting place with the irritating scrape of wrought iron against itself. Her arm drew the fire poker back and slammed the point into Nathan's face. It began as a simple hole in the canvas, but when she was done ripping the fabric, it appeared as if the portrait's face had exploded from inward. There were no remnants of his face left, only the shredded fabric of the canvas. The thought of spontaneous implosion almost made her laugh, but the hiccup of air got stuck under her rib cage and came out as a desperate sob.
She stepped back for a moment and attempted to collect herself. The poker was thrown aside and clattered loudly against the floor. The point of the poker scratched the finished wood. Good, she thought as she examined the small white scratch from afar. Was she going insane? That was what it felt like. She felt increasingly unstable, not to mention brittle. Fragile. Like she would break at any moment. When the threat was alive, her guard was never allowed to drop. Now that he was dead, fifteen years of physical and emotional abuse began to take its toll.
With mechanical precision, each drawer of a large wardrobe was opened and examined. She found gold watches and expensive cuff links in the first drawer. They weren't hidden at all. Why would he have to hide them, when all he had to do was lock the door? It was almost too easy to collect his valuables, which included a necklace made entirely from diamonds. It was probably meant to be a surprise for Mina. It wouldn't be going to her now. Mitch would make a lot of money off of it. Her thoughts provided her with his grin, paired with a long, appreciative kiss. Something in her chest jerked with anxiety. Mitch was the next-to-last thing she wanted to think about.
Her focus expanded to include the surface of his desk and the shelves nearby. Anything that looked valuable was taken indiscriminately. The leather executive's chair was avoided. She could still see the imprint of where he would have been sitting. If she sat in it, she would feel infected. It seemed impossible to her that she would feel any more violated than she already did. The neglected chair was rolled aside as she crouched on one side of the desk. The top drawer was locked. This lock was easier to pick than the one on the door, but when she slid it open, the sight of its contents elicited a strong gasp.
Her shaky legs pushed her backwards so that she could stand and move back. Her immediate reaction was to hide from this new realization and to get as far away from it as possible, but she kept herself there despite her trauma. Her hands gripped the cold marble ledge of the picture window behind her, but her eyes kept staring straight at the drawer. She couldn't move them away, no matter how badly she wanted to ignore it. Lying on top of a pile of neatly organized, official-looking papers was a gun. It was smooth, black, modern, and automatic. She had unintentionally found what she was looking for in the wrong place, but that wasn't what had shocked her.
He could've killed me at any time. But he wouldn't risk losing his investment. She wondered faintly if Luthor demanded consistent proof that she was alive or if he trusted Nathan enough to take his word for it. If Luthor didn't check up on her, why would Nathan keep her alive? Why wouldn't he just continue to take the money without living with her? He wanted something to entertain him. Something weak he could control, but not without a fight, she thought with a horrible shiver.
Despite the fact that Nathan had kept her around, the realization that he owned a gun jarred her. If I didn't kill him, he would've killed me. The unbidden thought sent another chill through her body that traveled down to her toes and made them tingle. When did she start accepting the fact that she murdered him? She didn't have a gun or a knife. She hadn't injected him with anything deadly. I didn't murder anyone! Her mind loudly protested her own thoughts, but there was some logic in the self-blaming insight that she didn't want to accept.
He had died when she was in a great deal of distress. If she had been in possession of a weapon at that time, she would have killed him without a second thought. She felt uncharacteristically cold at the realization. She knew that she hadn't always been all that emotional, but killing someone? Her hate and her fury would have easily overcome her scattered morals. But she didn't have a weapon. So I couldn't have done it. He had a heart attack.
Still, it was quite a coincidence that his heart attack had arrived so conveniently. What would have happened if he had stayed alive? Would he have tortured her again or would he have killed her? If it had been her fault, she would have done it a long time ago. Preferably during her first beating. She didn't believe in all that paranormal bullshit, anyways. He died because his heart gave out. Not because she had an emotional meltdown. Even the autopsy report read that he suffered from a fatal heart attack.
Her fingers closed around the cool handle of the gun before she could think about it. The rough texture was in contrast to the smooth button on the inside, just below the trigger guard. She pressed it. Into her other hand slid the clip of the gun from the bottom of the handle. She counted sixteen shiny bullets. Fully loaded. A sick sensation shot through her heart. If he had wanted, Nathan could have killed her with one. Instead, she would use one to kill herself after his death. Shouldn't she have been fixed by now?
She shoved the clip forcefully back into the gun and cocked it. Just like in the movies. There was something familiar about the gun, even though she had never handled one in her life. Shouldn't it have been more awkward in her hands? It felt so natural. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. In the middle of a thought, she glanced down at the papers that had been beneath the gun. Her free hand, still streaked with dried blood, lifted the first page of the file while her eyes read the list.
Tuition and book fees. In the same row were the date and a dollar amount. The same rang true for the rest of the typed words. Clothing charges. Jewelry. Movie tickets. Ice skating. Football game. She couldn't imagine the tuition and book fees being for anyone else but her. But jewelry, ice skating, football? She didn't do any of that. She was practically a goddamned hermit. The only places she went were to her friends' houses. She continued to read through, page by page, the expenses that Nathan had apparently charged Luthor for, which made her appear a spoiled brat. Credit card fees. Prom dress. She hadn't even gone to prom. She didn't have a goddamn credit card.
Her right hand forcefully pushed the drawer shut again. The impact echoed in the large room. The anger was painful. Nathan had been receiving more money than he had been using on her. From the looks of it, it was way too much to even count as compensation for taking her in. Luthor probably paid him separately for that, too. Bastard. Her blood was boiling. How dare he portray her as a perfectly adjusted teenager? For a moment, she almost felt sympathy for Luthor, but that was taken back almost as soon as it came. He could've come and seen her. Talked to her. She would have told him anything when she was younger.
A sudden sense of urgency cut through her anger. Alexis. She could have sworn that it was Luthor speaking out loud to her, but when she surveyed the room, she didn't see anyone. The door couldn't be locked again without the key. Another spike of pressure came, and she knew that he was in the house. She didn't question the feeling. It had been far too intuitive, and she had taken too long already. She sat on the floor in lieu of the chair.
She pressed the muzzle of the gun to the side of her head. It was low, directly above the top of her ear, and she was careful to keep the angle straight so that she didn't miss. She was immediately faced with her own mortality. The feeling of the gun against her head and her finger pressing lightly on the trigger induced terror that was basic to every human. Wasn't she worth anything? Did she want to kill herself with Nathan's gun? It was as if he had killed her himself. She couldn't cope anymore. It's done. It's finally over. Do it before he comes in here. She allowed herself to swallow one more time before she squeezed the trigger.
She felt the trigger give past a certain point, (NO!) and heard the click before the deafening BOOM. There was nothing past that. The body went limp, and the left hand fell. The gun fell with it. There was a tinny clatter on the floor that barely reached her through the heavy haze of nothingness. What? A beat passed before she was able to feel blood trickling from her nose and sliding down her parted lips. How can I feel? Her eyes, which she hadn't realized were only half-closed, traveled down to the floor, where they saw a single bullet without its casing sitting on the wood as if she had placed it there herself.
Alex was struck dumb at the sight. She barely noticed the clamor above the bullet. Somewhere beneath the shock, she was aware of the door opening with Garcia and Luthor bursting through it. Through a method unknown to her, she could feel the deep, striking fear in the pit of Luthor's stomach in the seconds that it took to reach her. Garcia was touching her. Don't touch me, she wanted to say, but her lips wouldn't move. There were words among all the chaos, but she couldn't hear. Her ears were ringing. Am I dead?
Oh, God, I thought she was dead. The foreign thought felt wrong to her, and she wanted to tell Luthor to get the hell out of her head. She didn't know whether the (NO!) had come from her or her biological father. Why would he care? Someone was flipping open a cell phone and speaking into it. Garcia. Luthor didn't have any facial hair. Garcia was close enough that she could see his stubble and the light hairs of his goatee. Am I dead? She found herself stuck on that question, one that she should've been able to answer with ease but seemed impossibly difficult to answer now.
How was she seeing this? None of the questions were answered, because her gaze was still focused on the bullet. It should have been tiny and insignificant. It should have been in her brain. She didn't move her hand when the gun kicked. The muzzle had been pressed to the same spot at the same angle. The bullet had fallen from the muzzle of the gun onto the floor after she had shot it. It didn't make sense. Guns never did that. Not even on TV.
Why am I alive? Instead of the joyous realization that most people had at surviving a near-death experience, her feelings were of pure, pathetic misery. Maybe this was Hell. Garcia and Luthor mouthing words to each other that she couldn't hear. Blood dripped from her chin while she had no strength to wipe it away. If this is Hell, where's Nathan? It was her last thought when darkness finally took her, and she felt a sense of relief that death was doing what it was supposed to at last.
She awoke with the worst headache she had ever felt in her life. The pain was excruciating and made her stomach turn with nausea. Her body's automatic reaction was to use her fingers to massage her temples. Halfway there, she felt something jerk her wrists back down to a standstill. Her eyes shot open at the clatter of steel against hard plastic. Silver handcuffs winked up at her from her wrists. The skin underneath was red and raw already, even though she hadn't pulled hard. Her right arm was bandaged in the places where the glass had cut her, which apparently was in more places than she had realized.
The headache made it hard to see at first, but the scene around her achieved crystal clarity all at once. She was lying in a hospital bed. Her wrists were handcuffed to the plastic guard rails on either side of her body. It significantly decreased any feelings of security she may have had before this. Now she just felt trapped like a wild animal. The paper gown scratched at her sensitive skin and made it itch. Her hair was down. She could see the bottoms of the curls on her chest. It looked slightly greasy, as if it hadn't been washed in a few days. How long have I been here?
"You were asleep for seventeen hours." The calm, authoritative voice made her jump. Not that she could jump very far handcuffed to a hospital bed. She hadn't missed out on the fact that his statement seemed like more of an answer than a conversation opener. Her eyes shifted to the corner of the room that had previously been assumed empty. Luthor was sitting there with his hands folded in his lap and his enigmatic gaze locked on her. When her eyes searched the room again, she found no trace of Garcia. Not that Luthor would need security when she was handcuffed.
The shiny bracelets miffed her. It was only because of their presence that she spoke to Luthor. "Why am I handcuffed?" She didn't do anything wrong. Attempting suicide wasn't a crime. If she was going to get thrown in jail again, she would throw a fit. Her energy level was lower than it usually was, but that didn't mean that anger was any less of a motivator. Luthor's head tilted to the side, but the movement was so small that she might have imagined it.
"You tried to shoot yourself." His answer was laden with contempt, as if it should have been obvious. Alex felt her defenses rise in response to his tone. Her teeth gritted behind her lips with hidden indignation. "Not to mention that you did a thousand dollars worth of property damage," he added, counting each abomination on his fingers as if she were two years old, "had a bag full of stolen jewelry, were in possession of a loaded weapon that wasn't registered to you, and are accused of breaking and entering by your foster mother."
She took her eyes from him as soon as he started listing off her criminal acts. They slid to the side, where she watched a monitor keep track of her heart beat and oxygen level. The steady beeping gave her something else to focus on while her temper raged. She wanted to break his nose. She couldn't do it while she was being restrained. It wasn't as if she meant to serve a sentence for her crimes anyways. They were smart to handcuff her, because all she could think about was succeeding in killing herself the next chance they gave her.
The pounding headache only got worse under stress. It was the only thing that reminded her that this was the real world. "The doctor said that you were in shock when we reached you. How are you feeling?" What a loaded question. She knew that he meant to ask how she was physically, but there was so much wrong with her emotionally that the physical wounds didn't even matter. Except for this goddamn headache. It made it hard to think straight about what she wanted him to know and what she wanted to keep hidden.
"I have a headache." She fought to keep her language clean for the time being, but it was a hell of a short leash. Every other thought was a curse. There was fire in her eyes when they met his again. A flicker of uncertainty passed through his gaze, but only for a moment. The cuts on her arm burned and stung, but it felt like the wound was a few days old already. When she moved the wrong way, the feeling of her skin stretching away from the scabs was excruciating.
As if he were reading her mind, he motioned toward her arm with another tilt of his head. "How's your arm?" His questions were short and cordial. It was a far cry from his condemnation of her reckless behavior. He had been comfortable then, but now he was venturing out of his comfort zone. Small talk was not this man's strength, especially when it was somewhat personal. Last time they talked, she had been caught off-guard. Now that she was firing on (almost) all cylinders, she had the upper hand.
"It's fine," she lied easily. "You don't have to sit there and act like you care." The biting retort surprised them both, but all of the abuse had embittered her. She didn't have the patience for this man to try and be her father only to discover that he liked being a multi-billionaire bachelor better. He would leave. If Sunny could leave, anyone could. It was better that she didn't get close to him. He looked more uncomfortable than before. Good. Maybe he would leave her alone.
"Genetically speaking, I am your father." His voice dropped to a deeper, softer tone. "It concerns me when my daughter has cuts up and down her arm with the glass still stuck in her skin." She couldn't discern the emotions in his eyes when he looked at her arm. Mournful? Remorseful? "It scares me when there's a gunpowder burn on the side of your head."
Oh. Her hand immediately went up to feel the wound, but she only got as far as the handcuffs would let her. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. He's gonna ask me how the hell I'm sitting here, alive, when there's a gunpowder burn on my head that says I should be dead. She didn't know. The fear gave her chills. When her voice came out, it sounded monotonous. "I wanted to get it over with, to be done with it. It didn't work." That was explanation enough, wasn't it? One look at him told her that he didn't think so.
She hated the vulnerability she felt. Lying in a hospital bed with a flimsy paper gown covering her made her feel on edge. Luthor pretended to be sympathetic, but inside, he could be just like Nathan. The thought made her want to squirm. There was nowhere to go. She was trapped. "You wanted to be done with what?" His question barely made it into her ears, and her hearing was decidedly fuzzy.
"I want my clothes." Her voice seemed to act of its own accord, shaky and frantic. Her expectation that he would be stubborn and resist her request was shot to hell as soon as he stood up and took a small key from his pocket. It was nearly microscopic, but his hands were steady and graceful when he held it. He was left-handed. If she had any remaining questions about his paternal validity, they all disappeared. Left-handedness was a strong genetic indicator. There wasn't any use denying it anymore.
A moment of awkwardness arrived when he gripped her right wrist to hold it steady. There was nothing wrong with his grasp; his fingers were far gentler than Nathan's. Still, she couldn't control the hard twitch that broke his hold on her. His nearly invisible eyebrows, which were a fair cinnamon in color, shot up into the air. She could see the worry written all over his face for a mere moment before it was back to the default blank expression. "Did I hurt you?" She shook her head from side to side in denial, but it was clear that he didn't believe her.
"I'm just nervous," she blurted out. God, why couldn't she control her mouth? She was used to that happening when she was angry, but this was something else entirely. This time, he was careful to take hold of the metal instead of her skin. There was a light click as he turned the key in the lock, and finally her wrist was free. While he was going to the other side, she took the opportunity to examine her bandaged arm more closely. She looked like a burn victim with the amount of gauze that covered her arm. Her questioning fingertips went to the side of her head as he unlocked the second set of cuffs. She felt a smooth interruption in her skin, slightly raised, and traced the circle all the way around. It barely had any breaks. At least her hair would hide it.
"There are new clothes in that closet," he said as he motioned to the standard, off-white closet that they gave to every patient. "I'll alert the doctor that you're awake so that he can evaluate your condition." The first time she noticed the ring was when he was reaching for the doorknob. It was made of platinum, which meant that the emerald green jewel in the middle stood out even more. It gleamed in the fluorescent light, so bright that it almost appeared that it was glowing. She only saw it for a second while his right hand was resting on the door handle, right before he opened the door, but it was seared in her memory.
The door clicked shut behind him. Her left hand reached for the chain beneath the gown. They hadn't taken her necklace off. She pulled the cross above the gown. It was the exact same kind of platinum with the same colored stone. All this time, she had been carrying the link to her father with her without even knowing it. She grimaced and focused on getting dressed. There was no way she was staying in this gown, whether she was still admitted or discharged.
The new clothes felt expensive. Everything was luxurious, even the dark-washed denim jeans. She didn't need a price tag to know that these were the best quality clothes she had ever worn. Even the t-shirt was Prada. After putting on the black and silver fabric, she pulled the cross out to rest on top of it. The black sneakers were brand-new and fit like a dream. All this new clothing made her feel out of place. She didn't belong in designer clothing. Illogically, she found herself yearning for her old, torn sweatshirt. They had probably thrown it out. It would have been soaked with blood, anyway.
She brushed her hair back into a ponytail. There wasn't anything else she could do with it. She was in need of a long, hot shower. Before she could give any more thought to relaxation, the door opened again. A rather respectable-looking doctor walked in first, followed by her father, and to her dismay, Mr. Garcia. She felt herself grow angry for no reason in particular when she looked at him. His body language read hostile, and when his blue eyes met hers, she could see that he would rather not be here.
The doctor offered his hand, and Alex shook it on instinct. "Hi, Alexis. My name is Dr. Weiss." Beneath his serious demeanor and gold wire-rimmed glasses, she could detect a hint of joviality, like a balloon about to burst. "I was just reading over your chart to see how you were doing, and it appears that you're doing very well. Your white blood cell count is fantastic!" There was breathiness in the last word, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Garcia tensed and brought both hands together in front of him in a defensive stance.
"How soon can she be discharged?" Luthor's voice interrupted the doctor's excitement. The other man cleared his throat and corrected his posture before he spoke again. It was clear that Luthor was impatient to have her out. Alex agreed with the sentiment. She hated hospitals. She couldn't even remember the last time she had been to one. Nathan and Mina hadn't even taken her to one for her broken arm. It was a miracle that the bones had healed properly.
"Judging by the way her arm is healing, I would say she's free to go at any time as long as she gets her stitches removed in a few weeks." While she felt palpable relief, Garcia's jaw tensed with obvious disagreement. She wondered what kind of grudge he was harboring against her. What had she done now? The doctor's attention turned back to her. "Remember to change your bandages daily and keep it clean. After a few days, you shouldn't need the gauze anymore."
"Thank you, doctor. I appreciate your services." Luthor motioned for the clipboard in Dr. Weiss's hands. When Weiss gave it to him, Luthor signed the bottom. She assumed that they were discharge papers. Luthor let out a sigh, possibly one of the first reactions that she could definitely discern as genuine, and Garcia led them out the door. During the uncomfortable silence in the elevator, Luthor began to talk again. "We'll be stopping by the Lancaster house to pack the things that you want to bring with you."
"Where will I be bringing them?" It was the first time that the question had really burned in her mind. Now that she had asked it, she couldn't stand to be ignorant of the answer any longer. The interaction between Luthor and Garcia lasted all of a moment, but it was so intense that she would have to be blind to miss it. Garcia glared at Luthor with a look that clearly said that she wasn't welcome. Luthor intentionally ignored the silent demand. Her father stared ahead with steely assuredness. She had the exact same look when she was being stubborn about something. It was eerie to see so much of herself in him, as if genetics were enough to ensure that she was her father's daughter.
"We're staying at the Radisson until our flight tomorrow. We'll land in Edge City and stay at my penthouse until you feel that you're ready to select a new foster family." His matter-of-fact tone suggested that there was no room for argument. The tone was directed at Garcia rather than her. The elevator chimed at the first floor. She was careful to stay by Luthor in the crowded area. The volume of people in the busy hospital made her anxious. She was rarely around this many people. Luthor held the door for her to step outside. The sunshine was unwelcome. Her eyes closed to a squint as she struggled to see in the sudden brightness. A gentle touch that she recognized as Luthor's guided her by the elbow to the backseat of the Lamborghini.
Her mind struggled to catch up with the implications of her current predicament. In the car, the cool air and tinted windows protected her from the invasive sunlight. Her head throbbed steadily. While she was in the presence of Luthor and Garcia, she couldn't do any harm to herself. Living with her genetic father sounded horrifying. As much as she hated Mina, she hated change more. She would have to choose a new foster family. What family would want her? She rested her head against her knuckles. The prospect of surviving this was nauseating.
She didn't bother asking where Edge City was. It sounded familiar, but she had never been good at geography. The sudden clink of ice cubes in a glass brought her eyes back to the interior of the car. The seats were smooth and oozed luxury. With all of the black, Luthor easily blended in, but his pale skin was stark against the shadows. Even when they weren't focused on her, his eyes were piercing. In one hand, he held a crystalline tumbler with ice in it while the other hand delicately poured amber liquid until it filled three-quarters of the glass.
At first, fear surged up in her that it was vodka. Her mind soothed her when she realized that the color was off, and the smell wasn't right. She took a deep breath of relief that she didn't have to smell what had been Nathan's essence for so many years again. If she could, she would banish it from her presence for the rest of her short life. The alcohol smelled strong, but it was not an unpleasant scent. The ice cubes delicately hit each other again as he tossed back a drink. She wondered how much it took to get him drunk.
It always took her an excessive amount of alcohol to feel the way she wanted to, but once she did, it was all worth it. It was a careless feeling that she only felt under the influence. She wasn't afraid to feel sensual, to feel comfortable in her surroundings and in her own body, and it was the only time she felt truly happy. Sunny had come close. Those memories were fresh in her mind, like an open wound. At least she would have cigarettes at the house. She was already antsy. Maybe it would relieve her headache a little.
When the car pulled into the driveway, her thoughts came crashing back to reality as her gaze settled on Mina's car. It was decidedly less expensive than Luthor's, she realized with a sense of satisfaction. The positive emotions quickly melted away and were replaced with dread. A confrontation with the woman who had facilitated her abuse for her entire life was inevitable, but she hadn't expected it to come quite so soon. The car door opened again, and there stood Mr. Luthor, offering her a hand.