Page 148 of Tormented
What I would have done to hear him say he loved me, or that he was proud, that he cared. No matter how cruel and ruthless the man is, he’s still my father, and those words from his mouth would have meant so much more than the same sentiments from a man I truly respect, such as King.
Twenty-odd years of trying, boy . . . it’s not going to happen now . . . .
Which makes it even harder to bear.
The clomp of our boots echoes off the barren walls as we make our way through the doors and down the corridor. I hold a hand up, asking the guys to wait where they are when we reach the library, and with a deep breath, push open the doors to the final act.
Well, well, well . . . .
“Honey! I’m home!”
My father’s head lolls to the side as he tries to fix his gaze on me. “What the hell? You organized this?”
Blood runs in a steady stream from a wound on the top of his head. His body and arms are bound to my mother’s favorite reading chair, leaving only his legs loose. And judging by the strange position of the chair in the room, he’s been pedaling to get free.
I pull up a stool, and lean both elbows on my knees, my hands cupped over my mouth while I look him over.
He’s completely at my mercy. I could end this within seconds, or drag it out for hours. It all depends on how I feel for a change. For once in my fucking life, my father has no say in what happens next. He’s finally lost control, and it’s the most glorious thing to behold.
“Get on with it then,” he grumbles, frowning down at his leg.
I shake my head slowly, relishing this moment. So many emotions fight for precedence, leaving my chest aching from the pressure: happiness, regret, confusion, and relief.
Sweet relief.
All the things he did to me, to Mom, and to everyone I love, play through my mind. I stare at him, a living piece of art, while he fidgets in his constraints.
“Is this how you saw it happening?” I ask, curious if he’s thought about this day as much as I have.
He spits on the floor between us. “Fuck your chitchat. Just get it over with, you coward.”
I chuckle, rising off the stool. “Who’s the coward? I do believe you’re the one who’s beggin’ me to make it quick, right now.”
“Never did like wasting time.” He smirks, lifting his venomous gaze to mine. “Probably why I never liked you much; such a monumental waste of time.”
I deal a quick punch to the side of his head, forcing the wound further open with the shock. Blood pumps quickly over his eyebrow, curling around his eye and gathering in his lashes. The contrast of the crimson against his graying hair is striking in itself.
“Nothing about this is a waste of time,” I growl. “Nothing.”
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe . . . .
My devil points his bony finger to various parts of my old man, picking where we’ll start.
I make my way slowly across to the doors, and give the men waiting in the corridor a nod before I shut them out. The click of the lock echoes around the room. My chest rises and falls with measured steady breaths as I commit every sense of this moment to memory: the smell, the feel, and most of all the sounds.
From today, this moment will be my dreams. No more will I wake, my gut in knots after another nightmare where I failed, where I let my father get away.
No, from today onward, his screams, his protests, and his final regrets will be the symphony to which I live my life.
Let’s get to work . . . .