Falling For Alaska

Chapter Twenty-Five: Torture Instruments and Barbie Dolls

Just when I thought that Officer Carter just forgot about the whole tackling-most-generous-philantropist-to-the-ground situation, he lightly encouraged that I do a 'favor' for the Dr. Wanker as a damn apology (as if I haven't apologized enough times). Frankly, I just hoped that this favor wasn't the kind I thought it was.

So what? Maybe I was being judgemental but I my defense, when you have a smile like that it shouldn't be that big of a shock why innocent young teenagers (such as myself, duh) just get the wrong vibes from you.

And as messed up as it seems, I was almost a little disappointed when it turned out this favor was just to babysit his devil of a child on "Date Night", as it did turn out that Dr. Wanker just had to be married to some nice supermodel half his age with one nasty four-year-old with the so misleading name of Grace. I supposed that Date Night was a euphemism for alone time in some luxurious hotel.

You might be thinking, well, that doesn't sound too too bad!

As granted, I did tackle him to the ground, so yes, at least he isn't filing for charges. But clearly, you've never met Grace.

See, for a period of time, I too thought I was let off pretty easily, but when I showed up at the doorstep of their sprawling ten acre manor and meet with the incarnation of the devil, that viewpoint quickly changed. Despite the deceiving daddy's little girl act she put on show for Dr. Wanker and his trophy wife, that act dropped faster than you could say "two-faced little bitch."

Within the first five minutes, she'd already managed to tie me up and freaking handcuff me with these damn pink fluffy cuffs more suited for the bedroom than in imprisoning grown men. Currently, with a malicious grin you'd see on a vicious hyena, she was "interrogating" me with the help of her stupid teddy bear.

"Where's my daddy?" she scowled, carelessly flinging off the head of a blonde Barbie as if it was the most normal thing to do. I swear this little vixen needs to see a freaking therapist.

When I didn't answer right away, she had the nerve to slap me on the face with headless Barbie.

"Hey, hey, hey! Not the face!" I grumbled, with a desperate attempt to cover my face with my currently handcuffed hands.

However, instead of untying me and uncuffing me and just talking out her feelings like a normal little girl would, she then instead to procede to whack me again with her damn Barbie doll (frankly at that point, I didn't know who I pitied more-- my freshly reddened face or the her poor unloved doll).

"Last time I ask nicely before your funky hair meet Mr. Slice!" she threatened menacingly, this time holding up a pair of blue glittery kid's scissors.

And much to my regret, I just couldn't help but laugh at the serious, serial murderer expression on her face and her accompanying torture device of choice. "Hey! You think this is funny? I'll show you funny!"

Before I could quickly come up with some lame excuse, she had already proceded to give me a makeover by viciously attacking my hair. I could only sit in horror as my beautiful luscious hair fell in a whirlwind around me.

"Stop, stop, stop!" I quickly exclaimed, unable to keep the panic out of my voice, "He's just out with your mom! Don't you worry, he'll be back uh, before you know it!"

She regarded me rather suspiciously, and twirled her sparkly scissors for emphasis. "When?"

"I don't know! Like a few hours?" Or however long it takes for him to get it on, I added in my head, with a snide smirk.

"What are you smiling for?" Grace instantly scowled, and again proceded to whack me with her dumb doll.

"Ow!" I exclaimed (believe me, this devil child whacked pretty freaking hard for someone of her stature). Noticing her solemn expression, I quickly stammered out, "Uh, just your b-beauty?"