Down By the Water

A One Shot
FNF#4: "Love involves a peculiar, unfathomable combination of understanding and misunderstanding." – Diane Arbus

Callie Webber was a beautiful girl. In fact, she looked so much like her mother that many, if not most, of the town's citizens had simply forgotten over the years who her biological father was. With him out of sight and out of mind seeing as how he was dead, buried, and unmissed, they saw the budding fifteen year old as a bright beacon of her mother's former gaiety, zest for life, and love of art, and they saw her as the apple of her adoptive father's eye, the light in his otherwise dark world.

But he knew better.

While some had the ability to ignore and gloss over the past, Michael Corinthos III did not. He knew exactly what type of girl Callie Webber was. In fact, it was the only thing he could agree with his neighbors on. The teen was just like her mother, Elizabeth Webber, just another blue eyed whore. Forget the creamy, innocent complexion, and the childlike curls, chocolate tresses that were sometimes controlled but oftentimes left wild and untamed, because, underneath the perfect exterior of both mother and daughter, there resided a temptress, a vixen, and he was not going to allow Callie the chance to do the same thing to his uncle that her deceased mother had so many years before.

In a time that Jason had been weakened by his grief over losing his son, little, doe-eyed Elizabeth Webber had strolled into his life, pretending to be his friend, only to take advantage of his uncle and steal him away from Carly, his own mother. She had wrapped him around her finger so tightly, the mob enforcer was left with no means to fend off her advances, only to have her drop him when her ex returned from the dead. Back and forth, back and forth, their relationship seesawed until, finally, everyone had believed it to be completely over. The young artist had slept with Zander Smith, a man his uncle detested, got pregnant, and decided, against her friends' and family's advice, to keep the bastard child. However, Jason Morgan had always been powerless against children, and the young mother had used that Achilles' heel against him, reeling him back in under her spell.

The slut had started to date the hitman again when she was still pregnant, and, six months later when baby Callie was only a few weeks old, the two of them had moved in together. A year later, they had gotten engaged, only to turn around, a couple days later, to find out that Elizabeth was sick. Breast Cancer. It had been a struggle for his uncle – to lose the woman he believed he was in love with to the same disease his own mother had fought and survived so many years before, to lose the woman who had twisted him up inside so much that he had practically forgotten about the first family he had made long before some wannabe artist had strolled into his life, to lose the cheap trick he was obsessed with to the very illness that had brought his little sister into his life, but, when it was finally over, when Elizabeth Webber's frail body had been lowered into the ground once and for all, Michael and his mother had breathed a sigh of relief.

Finally, things would return to normal.

Jason would send his dead fiancée's brat packing. Where to, they didn't care. He would remember the love he had pushed aside for them, reclaim them as his family, and take care of them, be with them, as he should have been all those years he was panting after the blue eyed waitress. But nothing as they had planned had actually happened.

Rather, Jason had kept Callie Webber as his own. Because her mother had left him the little girl in her will, he adopted the bastard, even going so far as to give the toddler his own last name. Not that Michael ever referred to her that way. In his eyes, she had always been and always would be Callie Webber. The name Morgan was too good for a whore's unwanted, pitied brat, but Callie Webber-Morgan sure as hell enjoyed flaunting it all over town.

She was considered Jason's pride and joy, the only thing in his entire existence that mattered to him. He had quit the mob, giving up a job he loved so dearly in order to make sure that his beloved Elizabeth's daughter grew up safe and happy. He had cut all ties with his former friends and associates, leaving Michael and Carly behind as well. He had immersed himself into his fatherhood role, losing what had once been the very essence of his personality.

He went to school plays and parent-teacher conferences. He was a chaperone for all of Callie's fieldtrips and, eventually, all her middle school dances. They went on family vacations together, just the two of them, and he never once asked Michael, his former son, to go along with them. If Callie played sports, Jason coached the team. He took her on motorcycle rides all around Port Charles, and, the summer before, the two of them had even taken a cross country trip together on his bike, staying gone for three whole months and never once bothering to call home to see how his first summer back from college was going.

Yes, in every way shape and form, Callie Webber had replaced him in his uncle's life, and he resented her for the fact. Jason should have been there to help raise him. He should have coached his soccer and baseball teams, he should have been taking him for bike rides and then teaching him how to work on and ride his own motorcycle. He should have been helping him choose what college to attend, traveling with him through Europe and Africa during his breaks from school, and, then, after he graduated, it should have been Jason Morgan, at onetime the most feared enforcer on the Eastern seaboard, instructing him on the ropes of the business.

But, instead, all he got from the man who, at one time, had been his father, was overlooked, while his daughter got everything, and, while he needed Jason's help and guidance, the only thing a slut like Callie Webber needed was taught a lesson… just like her mother had been taught one at the very same age. After all, his mother had told him everything he had ever wanted to know about Elizabeth Webber – about how she played the men in her life by using their sympathy against them, how she had claimed independence while really mooching off of her many boyfriends, and, most importantly, how the cheap 

teenager had been brutally raped in the park on Valentine's Day. And, just as it had served the older Webber woman right to have been treated that way, he was going to make damn sure that her daughter received the very same lesson.

Besides, all one had to do was watch the fifteen year old to know that she wanted it – the way her hips swayed back and forth when she walked, the way she would toss her long, curly hair over her shoulder and laugh flirtatiously when she talked, and how she dressed with just enough sexual appeal to entice even a grown man with her still fresh and young, ripe and developing body. She was a tease, and, if it was up to him to show her what happened to little girls who tried to play games in a big boy world, then he would, and, if it was up to him to prove to his uncle just how much of a slut his precious daughter was, then he'd gladly make the sacrifice for the man he still loved like a father.

It had taken some careful planning on his part, but, finally, the day had arrived. Because there were things about Elizabeth Webber that even he couldn't tell the teenager, Jason had sent Callie to spend the summer with her grandmother, Audrey Hardy. The elderly nurse had retired several years before, relocating to Colorado to be with the majority of the family she had left, and, despite the fact that she kept in contact with her one and only great-granddaughter through various forms of communication, it was just not the same thing as actually getting to spend time with her. But Callie was returning that late August day.

With her sophomore year rapidly approaching, she was back in town to get ready for the new school year, and they had arranged to meet each other on the docks, a place that was special to the two of them because of the memories it held for the former enforcer and his dead fiancée. The docks were just a block away from the train station, Callie's preferred choice of travel when she wasn't on the back of her adopted father's bike, so it was both convenient and sentimental for them to meet there for their joyous reunion. However, Michael had something else entirely different in mind. By messing with Jason's bike, he had made sure that it wouldn't start when the blonde mechanic went out to get on it for his ride into town, leaving his cherished, blue eyed whore of a daughter open and vulnerable, and who was he to argue with such an opportunity.

He didn't care that it was broad daylight, that anyone could come upon them together in such a public place. After all, even if his own adopted father was an ass, Sonny Corinthos was a powerful man, and he'd have any charges leveled against his son dismissed before dinnertime. In fact, Michael was actually hoping for a chance passerby or two, for witnesses would add to the impressiveness of his actions; they would elevate his awareness and the heady pleasure he would receive from all the control he was about to enjoy.

However, in the same breath, he wanted Callie scared of him, he wanted her confused, and frightened, and haunted for years to come, so he kept his identity hidden behind a black ski mask, knowing a faceless attacker would be more unforgettable than an identity she could actually pin the event on. And his plan worked, too. As he grabbed her from behind, throwing her mercilessly down upon the wooden planks of the worn docks, she cried out in pain and terror. When he brutally took her underneath the very same bench her tramp of a mother and his uncle had sat upon together countless times, shoving, thrusting, pounding 

his wanton self inside of her virgin walls, she cried out in desolation and physical anguish. And, when he sprayed his unsheathed seed deep inside her bleeding, bruised, and battered walls, she wept in pure torture.

Smiling in both satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment, Michael stood up, fastening his pants in triumph. However, he wasn't finished just yet. As the blue eyed whore wriggled in agony beneath him, calling out for help, for mercy, for her adopted father, he left behind a little token of his affection, not for his conquest but for the man who had raised her, a calling card of sorts, it could be said. And, with one last pleased glance around him, he left, pulling off his ski mask as he ambled along, whistling as he left the docks and the waterfront he practically owned behind as he went home to his mother.

Jason was late, and, of all the people he never wanted to disappoint in life, he was late to pick up his daughter. Callie was his entire universe. When Elizabeth unjustly passed away far too young in life and way before she deserved to leave the world, he had been left with three things to remind him of the woman he loved – the wind, his memories, and the little girl they might not have created together but the one they had loved and raised together since she was just a few months into her development inside of her mother's womb. Callie had pulled him out of the darkness losing Elizabeth had brought into his life, and, from that moment on, he had lived each and every single day for his daughter.

She had been gone almost the entire summer, having gone out to visit her grandma Audrey in Colorado and to meet the rest of the Webber family, and, while he knew the trip had been good for his little girl, he had missed her tremendously and just wanted her home with him. He had been counting down the weeks until her arrival back in Port Charles, literally ticking off the days on the calendar he kept above his desk. And he had everything planned for her return home, too. After picking her up at the docks, they were going to go out to eat and then spend the rest of the night riding together, but his bike had refused to start, it had taken a cab twenty minutes to get out to the country home, and, now, as he ran down the alley towards the waterfront, he was nearly an hour late to pick Callie up, and, even though he knew that she wouldn't be mad, that she had probably enjoyed her time watching the ships come in and out of the harbor, he was mad at himself.

Pounding down the stairs, Jason didn't even bother to look up as he moved. Instead, he just wanted speed. The faster he made it to the bench they had agreed to meet on, the sooner he could take his little girl in his arms and hold her until she laughingly ordered him to release her. And she would, too. That was just Callie's sweet, adorable way. But, as he reached the bench and glanced up, she wasn't there. Rather, he found an old, ratty stuffed giraffe, one he knew well despite the length of time that had passed since he had purchased it for another child so many years before, and, with the sight of the old toy, a sense of foreboding entered the father of one.

Taking another step closer to the bench, he nearly trampled on a young woman's pale, bruised arm, and he quickly backtracked several feet in surprise. Kneeling down, he went to check if the girl was still alive, if she was merely injured, or if she was just a homeless 

runaway looking to catch a few hours sleep out of the sun's blinding rays. But what he found was the last thing he had expected but the very thing he needed to confirm his earlier sense of apprehension – his daughter, broken and bleeding, obviously just having been raped.


Although he had raised Callie Webber Morgan her entire life, she had never called him Daddy before. Sure, when she spoke with her friends on the phone or talked to her grandmother, she referred to him as her dad or her father, but, when they were alone, she always called him Jason. It had never bothered him, but he had always secretly wanted her to call him Daddy… even just once. But to know that it had taken a man, a weak, cowardly, depraved man, terrorizing his little girl in order to frighten her almost beyond recognition in order for her to call him that, well…

Picking up his teenage daughter, Jason Morgan carried her away from the docks, away from the waterfront he had given up years before in order to raise her in relative safety and peace, the stuffed giraffe clenched dangerously in his left hand as evidence.

Michael Corinthos III was a dead man.