The hallway seems to stretch on forever, each step slower than the last.  My feet shuffle along with the weight of what is to come.  Just when I think I can’t take another step, I walk straight into the grand oak door, making my nose throb.  I back up a step, string at the door handle, unable to bring myself to own up to my own mistakes once again. The door opens inward, and I suddenly have the urge to stare down at my feet. 
       The sight always freezes me in my place.  My father’s office is composed of the best money can buy, and of course when you act like a king, the personality rubs off on you.  The sun is blocked by the long, velvet curtains covering the windows, casting the room in complete shadow.  His butler holds the door open as I enter as my father turns his desk chair toward me.
       “Sit.” His cold voice sends shivers down my spine, but I follow the order quickly to avoid conflict.  As I sit, I can feel his gaze piercing through me, bringing all of the heat to my face as he scans me for imperfections like a robot.  I stare at the floor, incapable of bringing my eyes to meet his.
       “Look me in the eye, son.” His voice has the power of a shout and I flinch back instinctually.  He spits the word son out as if it tastes bad in his mouth, like I am no more than another servant he possesses.  He owns me.  His hand slams down onto the desk with force.  “I said look up,” he sneers.
       I look up at him in submission.  I hate him.  He treats me like trash, throwing me from college to college, never keeping me in one place long enough to make friends.  He clutches my chin in his hand, tilting my head up to look him in the eye.  After a second he drops my face, and stands up to examine some painting on the wall.  Without turning back to face me he speaks.
       “We have standards in this family that you are to follow, Neil.” He throws my name at me like an insult.  It is the only thing that he hasn’t been able to ruin for me. 
       My mother had named me without my father’s consent, so it’s the only thing she left for me when she died.  She lived in my father’s shadow, and when she tried to shine through his darkness, he would punish her.  I remember hearing them fighting at night, and I would wake up to find a fresh bruise on my mom’s cheek.  She would feed me some story about falling, but it wasn’t until middle school that I realized what was really happening, and then, she was gone.  Brain cancer.  I still blame him for it.  He has millions of dollars but couldn’t spare one for cancer research.
       After my mother passed he chose me as his next victim.
       My father pulls me back to the present with a harsh slap on the face. I glare back in defiance before his look silences me.  “Neil, tell me where you were last Friday night.”
       He knows.  I don’t know how, but he found out.  Emily.
       “I don’t know what you are talking about, sir.”  I swallow hard.  Her eyes glisten in the back of my mind.  I barely know her, but it is enough to set him off.  I think about the way the whole world seems to light up when she smiles.  Just thinking about her makes me giddy.  She is perfection even with her imperfections.  I told her about him after a week of knowing her, and she didn’t reject me.  In fact she hugged me, understanding my problem, and promising to keep it a secret.  I couldn’t have asked for anyone better.
       I suddenly panic.  He’s going to take her away from me.
       My face must have given me away because he smiles back at me.  He pushes a thick file towards me, his fingers lingering on it before releasing it to me.  I pick it up tentatively.
       “Yes, this Emily Robinson seemed nice when I met with her.” I stand up quickly.
       “What?” I blurt out. “You met with her?” I instantly regret speaking out, but I couldn’t help myself. 
       “Oh yes.” He smiles slyly. “You two would have been great together.”
       My voice catches.  “What do you mean would have?” I bellow.  A picture falls out of the folder I still cling to.  My hand shakes as I pick it back up.  Emily’s picture looks back up at me.  Her eyes are closed as she lies on the autopsy table almost as if she is asleep, but I know better. I crush the picture in my fist, imagining her pain. “No,” I whisper to myself.
       A single tear runs down my face.