Chapter 1: The Monster’s Parents

The smell of antiseptic and the echo of distant screams from the psych ward still clung to me, even as I stepped into the center’s cold hallway. After leaving the psychiatric hospital, I landed a job as a teacher at a youth rehabilitation center for violent offenders.

On my first day, that institutional chill cut right through me—faded linoleum floors, motivational posters curling at the edges, and the fluorescent glare that made everything feel twice as bleak. The director, a square-jawed guy in a suit that had seen better years, eyed me from behind his desk. “Our kids here are either juvie regulars, violent screw-ups, or… the kind with special skills. You sure you’re up for this? Most folks don’t last a week.”

I gave him a calm smile. Sometimes, you fight fire with fire. I flexed my fingers, steady as a surgeon. My heartbeat didn’t even flinch. This wasn’t my first time staring down darkness—and I wasn’t here to run.

But before I could start, the past came roaring back—one memory, sharp as broken glass.

My daughter was assaulted by an eighteen-year-old boy.

The call came on a muggy June night. By the time I screeched into the Toledo hospital parking lot, my brain was on autopilot, my knuckles bone-white from clutching the wheel. The waiting room TV blared a baseball game no one was watching. The coffee tasted like scorched dirt. But all I could see was my daughter’s ashen face, swallowed up in that stark ICU bed. She was so small in that bed, tubes everywhere. I could smell the antiseptic, the sharp tang of fear. My baby, helpless.

A young resident—barely older than the boy who’d hurt Emily—pulled me aside. He told me my daughter had lost a massive amount of blood from her lower body, and her life was hanging by a thread. The wounds were extensive. Brutal.

He hesitated, voice trembling, shuffling his notes. The preliminary conclusion: this wasn’t just about sex. It was pure, malicious torture and humiliation.

Before I could ask about my daughter’s other injuries, my phone buzzed. The police had found the culprit.

My legs moved on their own, carrying me out the hospital’s automatic doors. I sped to the station, desperate to see what kind of monster could do this.

The second I walked in, I spotted a middle-aged couple hassling the officer at the front desk, talking over each other:

“Our son needs his psych evaluation.”

The officer rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Got the paperwork? How many times has he been here now?” He sounded worn out, like these two were on speed dial.

The couple just grinned, unbothered. “We’re just doing what’s best for our boy.” Their voices oozed that grating suburban confidence, the kind you get from too many PTA meetings and country club galas.

The officer finally turned and noticed me, my face shadowed and hard. He pulled me aside.

He told me, in a low voice, that those two with the polished smiles were the parents of the boy who’d hurt my daughter.

I wanted to scream at them, but my voice was buried under a mountain of rage.

The animal who brutalized my daughter was Kyle Peterson. Eighteen, just finished his SATs.

Kyle and some boys had spotted my daughter walking home. To prove they were “grown men,” they dragged her into an alley and tortured her, in ways I still can’t say aloud.

The officer sighed and pulled me aside again. “Look, Kyle’s been trouble since he was little. This isn’t his first trip here. His folks have money—they know the system better than we do. They already got a psych evaluation in hand. You should brace yourself.”

I said nothing, staring over at the couple. They watched me, their eyes calculating, trying to size up how much trouble I might be.

Trying to hide behind a piece of paper after what they’d let their son do—someone had to pay for this.

For a moment, I thought they’d finally crack, admit they’d failed as parents, or show some shame.

But no.

Richard Peterson, the beast’s father, just slipped a business card into my hand. Turns out he was a VP at a Fortune 500 company.

The card was thick, expensive. My fingers shook as I ripped the card, each tear louder than any scream. I threw the scraps in their faces and said quietly, “Tell me—how do you plan to pay for what your son did?”

When Richard Peterson heard the word “compensate,” his eyebrows rose, almost like he was relieved I wasn’t about to make a scene.

“I know this is hard,” he said. “As a parent, I get it. You want to protect your kid—so do I.

“We’re planning to send our son to college overseas. It’s a big moment, all the paperwork is in motion. We can’t let anything get in the way. Whatever it costs, we’ll cover it. Just say the number.”

He paused, his tone suddenly clinical. “Of course, you should know: my son was in a state of uncontrollable mental illness when it happened. I have to tell you that upfront.”

I glared at him. “So what?”

Richard Peterson offered me a cigarette. I took it, wordless.

He and his wife exchanged a look, then he added, “So even if my son gets punished, it won’t be much. Why don’t we both compromise? Just say the kids were dating. The law says after fourteen, it isn’t statutory rape…”

He started searching his pockets for a lighter. I pulled mine out, holding it up—no need for him to keep looking.

Richard Peterson smiled, probably thinking I’d agreed. But as he leaned in, I grabbed his head with my right hand and set his hair on fire with the lighter in my left. Instantly, what little hair he had sizzled and burned.

“Ah—!”

Richard Peterson, all smugness gone, turned ghost-white. “What the hell! You… Help! Somebody! Put it out!”

He dropped to the floor, clawing at his head, the flames jumping from his hair to his down jacket. He rolled, screaming. I calmly bent down, lit my cigarette off his burning scalp, and took a slow, steady drag.

At last, his wife snapped out of her daze, yanked off her coat, and beat it against his head, trying to smother the fire.

I just watched, ice-cold. When the flames died down, I flicked the half-burned cigarette onto him like garbage.

Richard Peterson’s wife shrieked, “You’re insane! Right in front of the police station!”

I shrugged, totally unfazed. “Just a misunderstanding. I didn’t mean it. Was just giving him a light—didn’t think he’d be so flammable. You should really be more careful.”

But as I turned to leave, my hand was shaking with adrenaline.

The terror in Richard Peterson’s eyes unearthed memories I’d tried to bury.

Ten years ago, after I left the psychiatric hospital, I’d never felt this alive.