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With the key at my chest, my tears fell, one after another. I was a fool. The last thing I could recall of my father was how we argued over my decision to quit school and learn magic from my teacher. My last memory of mother was making her cry. I always thought if things didn’t work out, I could always return home.I turned the key and pushed open the front door. It was a familiar guesthall. Cobwebs covered the ceiling and furniture, but everything was pretty much the way I had left it. The old CRT TV, so retro even when I was a child was still there. My father’s old radio which played cassettes in the age of MP3s were still there on the cupboard. I repeatedly told him to sell it because he had not used it at all, but he always refused. He told me that radio was how he met my mother.I looked at the walls, where the framed certificates of excellence from my school years were hung. At the corner was a glass display case, where trophies from my school days were displayed. I was such a. . He could easily have treated me with the same cruel disregardthat the Everetts had consistently displayed. But he hadn't. He hadworked hard to make me feel wanted and happy, to give me at least theillusion of choice. He had pampered me and tended to my needs, making ourshared home the refuge I needed from my trials and tribulations at theCollege.And perhaps most importantly, he had always accepted my silence about thereasons for my sudden transformation, or about what I did each weekday inthe city. I had wanted to tell him about the lessons, the discipline, thebrutal sessions with Kristin Everett. About the work I had been forced todo, first as a stripper and then as - there was no other word for it - aprostitute, earning huge amounts of money for both the College and, if Iwas ever allowed to see the proceeds, myself. About my growing fondnessfor handling and sucking men's cocks - although he would surely haverealised that anyway, so eager had I become in using my newfound skillson.
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