Page 22 of Tormented

I hesitate just past the bar as the memory of the scuffle on the old man’s lawn plays fresh in my mind. The devil camped out upstairs runs his bony fingers over the image, frustrated also that it didn’t turn out like we’d always dreamed. He sits back with a sigh as I spin around and march over to the abandoned bar, swipe a half-empty bottle of Jack, and seat my ass on the only free sofa.

“You were a mistake at the start, and it seems you’ll be a mistake at the end.”

“I’m not a mistake, old man. I’m just not you.”

My father wanted a prince to ascend to his throne when he passes. He wanted a clone, a kid he could shape and mold to his own image. And all he got was a psychotic son so messed up by witnessing his mother’s murder that he became obsessed with taking control of what he had none over at the time: death.

But you enjoy it so . . . .

The power, the control over the very thing everybody on this earth has in common: the desire to stay alive. Sure. Who wouldn’t? Primal instinct doesn’t care what neighborhood you grew up in. It doesn’t care who you know, or your reasons for being where you are. It just wants you to take that next breath, whether you deserve it or not.

Do you . . . ?

I throw my head back, bottle to my lips, and let the searing liquid burn a path down my throat.

Part of me feels better for taking that first step to letting Ramona go. Another loose end from my past tied up—as best I can, when my son will always keep us together to some degree. But the victory over my abusive past is bittersweet when I think of the woman who sparked the change in me: Dana.

I swore she’d be mine, and that I’d drag her from hell and make her my queen. But the more the days pass by, the more life goes on same as it always has, the more I find myself thinking she was only ever meant to be that: a spark to ignite the fire.

A sacrificial lamb . . . .

However you want to put it. What we had couldn’t have been more than lust. Shit, we only had a couple of days together. Is that long enough to know love?

The answer to that is upstairs . . . .

Fuck. He’s right, for a change.

As if I’m ever wrong . . . .

She looked at me yesterday like she needed me. The hope in Abbey’s eyes said she thought that I could help her, not that she wanted to fix me like so many others do. I’d say I don’t care, but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it, when it’s all my thoughts have come around to over and over all goddamn day.

What makes you think you could be saved, anyway . . .?

I don’t know that I can. All I know is that when I find the one, the woman who feels the same distress in her soul as I do, that somehow her shattered heart will melt into mine and make me whole again. That her missing pieces will match what I have left, and between the two of us we can pretend to be something we’ll never be: normal.

Then hunt her . . . .

I don’t want to.

Why not . . .?

Because if I screw up—which I always do—a soul as fragile as hers would shatter in my hands. I’d ruin her. I’d fucking well kill her. She’s not strong enough to handle me and all the complications that come with that kind of familiarity.

So . . .?

So, I’d rather leave her to her own hell. Let her destroy herself instead of accelerating the process. Sure, I’ve fucked up in the past and used people for my own gain, but why should my shortcomings be the measure of who I am? Perhaps the glass is half-full rather than half-empty? It’s all a case of perspective. To mend the damaged parts of me, I’m going to need a strong woman. And Abbey? Yeah, well we all know how strong she isn’t.

Going after someone as impaired as her to feel the hero isn’t anything but selfishness on my part.

And when have you ever been selfless . . .?

Never too late to start something new, good buddy.

But where does this leave me . . .?

I shrug, physically answering the voice in my head as I take another pull of the hard stuff. Will he stay? Or by killing off the bad habits I’ve accumulated over the years, will I kill him too? Who would know?

Would you even miss me . . .?