Slaughter Daughter by Eve Langlais

11

That first day,all seemed good. It didn’t take me long to unpack. I was done within twenty minutes, spent another ten admiring my bathroom. All mine. No sharing.

Knock.

“Come in.”

The door clicked, and Kalinda entered. “You didn’t change your code.”

“I will.”

“Just came to say dinner will be at seven.”

“You don’t have to feed me. I can fend for myself.” As she stared at me, I bit my lip and said, “Unless you like to cook and have too much. Then I’m happy to eat it.”

She nodded. “Good. Seven, then.”

She left, and I plotted a map of all my classes, which I used to do a practice walk around campus to familiarize myself. Knowing where things were tended to center me, to help with the panic.

I spent that day orienting myself before I explored the house. Kalinda had the room beside mine. On the other side of me was a petite woman, Mary, an exchange student from China with slightly accented English and short, spiked hair tinted a vivid pink. I ran into her when I checked out the kitchen.

She grinned. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mary. If you need anything hacked, let me know.” She seemed friendly, but the word hacked scared me. My cover wasn’t good enough to withstand scrutiny.

At dinner that night, I met Cashien, an assistant professor in the law program. And Peter, a history major. Jag and Kalinda were enrolled in science programs. Me? I studied dead people. Forensic science. Fascinating field. Jackson was absent.

The main floor of the dorm house consisted of a massive living room that could be closed in the middle to create two spaces. There was also a dining room that could seat a dozen and a giant kitchen with the continent of all islands. We even had a yard of sorts, if you considered an enclosed space of smooth concrete and not a speck of green to be seen a yard. Cashien puffed on his vape out there, curls of smoke emerging from his full lips.

The place was furnished—as in bed, sheets, towels, dishes. Yet over the next two days, extras appeared in my room: fluffy pillows, a mini-fridge filled with my favorite drinks, and a microwave with a giant box of popcorn beside it. I’d found paradise.

Before classes started hard core, I learned about the campus and all the services, found a place that made a souvlaki that reminded me of our Friday night family tradition before my parents turned out to be suspected murderers on the lam, and a gym where I could beat on a bag and not be called a killer. I almost relaxed, and even managed to sleep almost eight hours each night.

Classes began, and things were fine at first. I sat in the fourth row for each class and listened to my professors, took tons of notes on my laptop. In between lessons, I worked on my homework and tried to get ahead. Found a part-time job in a cupcake shop.

I kept myself busy. When I wasn’t working, I studied. True to her word, Kalinda—don’t shorten it to Kali or Dina, although she would accept being addressed as princess—kept us well-fed. Each evening at seven o’clock, a bell chimed, and whoever was home went and ate in the dining room. Half the time, I had no idea what she made. It was delicious. I took to grabbing leftovers to bring to college the next day, especially since I skipped breakfast.

I rarely saw my other roommates—especially the elusive Jackson—other than meals, which suited me fine. They said hi. I said hi. Strangers in the night. It was perfect. Even at dinner, they tended to eat, be on their phones, or jab verbally at each other. Kalinda talked at me, and I replied in between inhaling food. Then I ran off to study.

I should have been happy. Instead, as the days passed, my tension coiled. I took to taking long walks, but they weren’t enough to deal with my anxiety or my conviction I’d be recognized. I kept waiting for the inevitable, for someone to point and say, “It’s Slaughter Daughter.”

Who knew? Maybe I’d be asked to sign an autograph again. At least the number of freaks trying to screw me dropped once I got rid of all my digital access—no more dick pics for me! I didn’t get why they thought sending me an image of their junk was sexy.

A cheesecake drizzled in caramel? That made me lick my lips. A guy’s purple warrior that he drew a happy face on? I could see why Lizzie got out an ax. Should have heard what my last shrink had to say about that.

My anxiety wasn’t helped by the belief that I was being watched. Paranoia, obviously, since I never caught anyone actively staring at me. Yet, more often than not, my skin prickled when I was out and about.

After a quiet weekend dodging Kalinda’s insistence that I go out, I readied for week two of classes.

Monday morning, during my first class, it happened.

“I’m telling you, it’s her.” I heard the loud whisper and did my best not to react. They could be talking about anyone. I knew the breathing exercise to do when paranoia loomed.

“Fuck you,” the guy’s companion replied. “No way that’s her. Too young. She’d be like a bajillion now. Didn’t that happen like twenty years ago?”

“The pentagram thing has been going on forever, dude. But her parents got snared a few years ago.”

I slouched in my seat as I realized they were indeed talking about me.

Of course, this would be the morning my professor arrived late. The whispers rose loud enough for me to realize that people buzzed about something, and too many for me to truly make out anything they said. But I could imagine.

Just like I knew what they were doing, tapping furiously on their phones and tablets. Internet searches meant the hum of whispers turned into outright laughter, shock, and exclamations. It was the not-so-subtle, “I don’t feel safe, we need to report her,” that caused me to snap.

I couldn’t endure another year of this. I didn’t even want to deal with it for one minute. I stood as the professor, Mr. Santino, walked in.

Since class started on a Tuesday, this was the first time I’d seen him. By most measures a young guy, maybe in his early to mid-thirties. But old compared to me.

His striking blue eyes met mine as I shuffled from my seat. Intense. They oddly reminded me of my dad.

The glance shifted from me to the humming crowd. Could he hear them? Did he know they talked about me?

The shame of it heated my cheeks. Would I ever be free?

I’d made it to the aisle when the professor spoke, his voice cutting through the din. “Anyone who thinks that a class on the Repercussions of Judgment by Social Media Pundits is the right place to discuss a student in this class needs to depart. If you cannot show any kind of ethics, then you don’t belong here.”

Most conversations died down, except for a murmur behind me. I didn’t turn around, but my professor stared until there was dead-silence.

“The three of you in the back, wearing those winter hats when it’s not even fall, are excused.”

“What? You can’t do that. I paid for this class.” The speaker sounded quite shocked.

“You also signed a contract for conduct, which means I can and have expelled you from my course. Out.”

The boys grabbed their things with grumbles—and I imagined glares—before exiting.

The professor took a moment to eye everyone left. “This course is about discussing the adverse effect that social media can have on reputations. Of the way rumor and innuendo and doctored memes have destroyed lives without any actual fact. The point of this course is to show the dangers of it. Which means, anyone caught engaging in the spread of such false and inflammatory statements will find I have no tolerance for it. Have I made myself clear?”

You could have heard an earbud fall, it got so quiet.

The blue gaze met mine again. Dared me to leave. Mr. Santino had just addressed my problem without once saying my name. Despite my racing heart, some of my panic abated. It made me happy I’d chosen this class, which I didn’t technically need. But if anyone knew what it was like to be roasted on the internet…

I sat back down and listened to him talk. His introduction was no-nonsense.

“I am Professor Joseph Santino. You may call me ‘professor.’ I am not Joe, nor am I your friend. I won’t meet anyone for drinks, nor will I see you alone in my office. If you need to speak to me about class, I am here for ten minutes after. Anything else can be discussed via email.”

I listened raptly as he showed, without names or identifying images, an example of a life destroyed by the internet. He pointed out the way it spread beyond the truth and how it affected the victim of the bullying. I recognized the story and wondered if I should worry about my past being a case sample at some point.

That fear was partly why I remained behind when the hour ended and the students streamed out. I gathered my knapsack, now much lighter, given it only carried snacks, a sweater, and my computer. I remained seated, ignoring curious stares, until everyone was gone except for the professor.

Mr. Santino packed away his materials before leaning against his podium with arms crossed. “You wanted to speak with me, I assume.”

“Yes.” Then I was tongue-tied. How to say, “Thank you,” and, at the same time, beg he not use my story?

“Well?” he queried. Brisk, terse, as if I made him uncomfortable. That made two of us.

“Thank you for standing up for me.”

“I didn’t do it for you.” He sounded unusually harsh, and I almost fled.

I mustered up the nerve to say it in a rush, “I don’t want you using me as an example in class.”

Santino’s brow arched. “What makes you think I would? Did I not admonish the class to not treat you as a curiosity?”

“Yes, but…” I trailed off.

“But your story is a classic example, correct? Poor teenage girl, vilified for the actions of her parents to the point it is following her years later.”

I nodded.

“Firstly, it wouldn’t be ethical to use it as an example, given you’re enrolled not only in my class but also this college. Second, you are an example of someone thriving past the bullying.”

“How do you figure that?” I blurted.

“You have managed to attend college with decent grades.” He ticked his fingers. “While not wealthy, you have inherited enough to keep you comfortable.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Just because I won’t use you as an example doesn’t mean I’m not aware of your existence.”

My lips pressed into a line. “I really wish they’d leave me alone.”

“Your infamy will never fully disappear. Decades from now, someone will still recall your parents’ case.”

“That’s not exactly encouraging.” I couldn’t help but sound pathetically plaintive.

“It’s today’s reality. Scandals live forever.”

“Unless we get hit with a really big EMP pulse.” I blamed the internet for the majority of my problems.

He crossed his arms as he leaned back. “Some would enjoy the notoriety and try to cash in on it.”

“Cash in how? People think my parents are serial killers. A bunch of them think I helped them handle the bodies.”

“Did you?”

“No,” I sputtered.

“Then you know it’s lies. Lies only affect us if we allow them to.”

“Have you ever been bullied?” I asked. Never mind the fact that he taught a class on it.

“If you’re going to launch into a tearful tirade about how hard it is, stop.” He held up a hand. “Being attacked, even if only socially and verbally, is devastating. No doubt about it. However, how you react is a choice. If you’re miserable, then you’re choosing to be miserable.”

Funny how in that moment he reminded me of my dad. Except my dad was dead, and the professor was just some random dude pissing me off.

“Actually, I’m angry most of the time. But when I tell people to fuck off, that usually makes things worse.” Because then they freaked out and claimed Slaughter Daughter was going to get them. At times, I wished I could.

His lips twitched. “Don’t let the reactions of small-minded people deter you.”

“Those small-minded people are everywhere,” I grumbled.

“You’re whining, Ms. Smith.”

“Actually, it’s Baker now.”

“Your mother’s maiden name.”

“You really did study me. Planning next year’s curriculum?”

He shook his head. “No, but I won’t deny your parents’ situation is fascinating to someone like me. Here is a case where they were completely convicted in the court of opinion and, by extension, you were, as well. Which is odd. Children are usually seen as victims lucky to survive.”

“It’s because, when I don’t dye my hair, it’s red,” I pointed out. “It’s an inborn instinct to assume that redheads are capable of wicked things.”

“We’re all capable of great wickedness. Let me ask you, as I see you’re now a brunette, has that changed people’s perceptions of you when the truth of your parentage emerges?”

“No.”

“Then what is the point of a disguise if it doesn’t work?”

“Maybe I like the color.” I tossed my head.

“More like you think you can hide who you are. Which is why each time you’re discovered, it’s more calamitous than it needs to be.”

“Being me leads to being asked to leave dorms, classrooms, even coffee shops.”

“And? If you don’t like it, then use your notoriety to draw attention to the injustice of it.”

“I don’t want to draw attention.”

“What you want and reality are two different things, Ms. Baker.”

“I want people to stop making assumptions about me.”

“Then don’t hide. Let them see you and have their foolishness revealed.”

“Easy for you to say.” I couldn’t help but sound bitter.

For a moment, he paused as if he’d say something else, and then his expression hardened. “Sorry, Ms. Baker. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment. I’ll see you in class next week.”

He probably would, seeing as how he was super interesting. More than that, he understood my situation. “Could we talk more about my case outside of class?” I asked, wanting to extend the bond we appeared to be developing.

Only to be firmly put in my place. “Ms. Baker, I thought I made myself clear on my stance on any fraternization outside of class time.”

With that, he took his case and left.

While Santino wasn’t the only professor with a policy of inaccessibility, the rejection stunned. Enough that I brought it up with Kalinda when I helped her with dinner by washing vegetables.

“Whatever happened to teachers mentoring students in need?” I complained.

“Can you blame them?” Kalinda retorted. “They don’t have a choice but to cover all the angles when it comes to impropriety or the appearance of. Accusations can tank their careers.”

“Isn’t it kind of overboard, though?”

“Not really. And it’s kind of fascinating to watch. The more overcautious they become, the more scrutiny is heightened. The standards raised higher.”

“Considering it’s usually women being exploited by older men, it’s probably not a bad thing.”

Kalinda snorted. “Look at you, giving our sex a pass. We are just as capable of seducing to get what we want.”

“But less likely,” I muttered as I scrubbed the carrots, not trying to get into a pissing match argument over culpability, but apparently unable to stop myself.

“Do you have any idea how many women are attracted to men in power? Especially teachers. It’s almost like an aphrodisiac. When those women go after their profs, is it still the man’s fault?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “because they know they have to say no. It’s part of their contract and has to do with ethics.”

“Ethics.” The snorted words came from Peter as he entered the kitchen. “A fancy word used by some to justify their words and actions when and if someone does something they personally disapprove of.”

“Ethics are usually created by a group of people,” I remarked.

“Groups always have a leader putting out their version of what they think is right,” Peter argued. He might be a history major, but he enjoyed debating and looked more lawyer-ish than Cashien in his crisp suit and close-cropped hair. He never had a five-o’clock shadow. Unlike Cashien and his more flamboyant style. Jag looked ready to start a bar fight at any time, whereas Jackson, the other guy in the group, always wore dark tracksuits.

“You’re implying that ethics is a cult mentality,” I argued, just because it was fun to get Peter going.

“That is actually an apt description. For example, if one looks at religion, how things are interpreted depends on who is preaching.”

“And a good preacher will convince his congregation that everyone is a sinner and they can atone by putting more money in the pot.” I had a rather acerbic opinion about them, mostly because my parents had always scoffed at churches, calling them leeches and problem-makers.

“Which comes back to the point that ethics is subjective. Contracts can demand a teacher not get involved with a student. However, should that student prove aggressive in intent, then can a professor truly be held responsible when placed under undue sexual duress?” Peter snared a carrot, received a slap from Kalinda, and fled out the back door.

I blinked after him. “Did he just make a case for a teacher being innocent of sexual impropriety?”

“With his grasp of history, he’d have made a great defense lawyer,” she stated.

Especially since he saw guilt as subjective.