Page 67 of Tormented

TWENTY

Sawyer

Sleep is an elusive motherfucker. Doesn’t help that the night is as humid as hell. The overhead fan turns lazily, sending a breeze over my naked skin. I stare up at the sliver of moonlight that cuts a line across the ceiling and try to think of anything but women.

I told Dana I’d get her out, that I’d make her mine, and I fucking meant it. And then he took her from me. My own flesh and blood, the man who is supposed to protect and nurture me, shot the one fucking woman who could silence my devil, for nothing but pure narcissistic fun.

He hit me where it hurt the most. And fuck does it hurt. I had the answer to my greatest problem literally in the palms of my hands, and he fucking stole my one shot at a normal life and being okay away from me.

Connect the dots . . . .

Fuck.

Isn’t that what Abbey’s asking for? The chance at a normal life, at finding out if I’m the one who can silence her demons? And I shoot her down by playing on her desperation to get her to face her greatest fear: intimacy.

Still think you’re changing . . .?

I’m not so sure anymore. Fuck it all. I honestly thought I was making progress, that I had been taking steps toward becoming better. But damn—I’m just the asshole I always was. Can’t escape the root of who I am, it seems.

My foot twitches, the muscles in my legs yearning to leap from this fucking mattress and tear down the road toward his damn estate. All of this traces back to that soulless motherfucker. A normal father, even a drunk who gave half a fuck, could have raised such a different child. Every damn thing I hate about who I am can be traced back to that sadistic bastard.

Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s going to buy you a—

Funny. Real funny.

Any day now, and I’ll be hand delivering that fucker his date with the devil, yet I’ve never felt farther from the end than I do now.

King wants in. He wants my old man’s reign over. King will send loyal men hand over fist through the gates of hell to try and take down the one person who’s stood the test of time: fucking Satan himself.

I believe wholeheartedly in people’s souls being possessed, that damned spirits can occupy a person’s body and make them do crazy shit. Why wouldn’t I, of all people? Yet, ten holy men could absolve my father of all his sins, and they’d still find the heart that beats inside his body is as black and dead as the world around them.

You can’t save a person who hasn’t got anything left to redeem.

Which is why he has to die.

Which is why I have to do it.

Who better to kill the crazed man than the one who understands him best?

So poetic . . . .

Abbey asked how I’d do it, and I had the answer. It’s all I’ve thought about since kissing Dana’s corpse good-bye and running for my life like the useless motherfucker I am. I could catalogue the ways I’ve dreamed of taking his life over the years, segmented into categories, divided by weapon of choice. He’s breathed his last a million times over in my mind, and a part of me worries that the real thing, the day I truly put an end to his tyrannical reign, won’t compare.

That the dream will remain a fantasy.

And that I’ll leave feeling emptier than when I went in.

That you’ll fail . . . .

The despair, it’s a familiar and forever unwelcome surge that rolls through my body, radiating outward from my chest. Every time I do this, every time I think about how pointless and hopeless this whole crusade against my old man is, it comes again, worse than before. The weight begins in my chest, an invisible force pushing down, crushing my lungs, and leaving me fighting for breath. And then it spreads upward, choking me, wrapping its aching tendrils around my throat until I’m swallowing over and over, trying to find my way back to how I felt mere minutes before. Trying to save myself from being pulled under. But then, without fail, the black fog reaches my eyes, and the ache starts, building until I can’t hold them open a second longer.

It’s exactly what the pain wants—complete submission. The moment my eyes close, it’s all over. There’s no reason to fight it. I’ve gone under, drowning in my own miserable cesspool made up of all the reasons why I’m not enough, why I’m doomed to fail, and how I’m no good for anyone.

Reasons the world would be better off without me.

But as always, there he is, holding a candle in the dark and stroking the wet hair from my eyes as I’m gasping on the shores of relief.

You’ve got so much left to prove, he whispers. If they think your father is pure evil, they’ll be begging for him to come back once you let go and show the world who you really are . . . .