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PROLOGUE
CHAINS
My Harley stops at the curb outside the house I used to call home. No, it’s never been a home, just a place of torture. It was only a home when my mom was here and alive. When she was here to protect me, to love me like a mother should. Only he beat her too, tortured her even more than me. He broke her body and her spirit until she had no other choice but to leave me and this world.
Death was a better option.
I kick the stand down and settle my foot on the tarmac; I spend a few minutes just staring at the dirty, darkened front window. I dip my hand into my cut and take out a smoke, lodging it between my lips, and I light it up, inhale a long drag into my lungs, then blow the smoke from my lips in a heavy breath. The grass on the front is long, I notice, the porch swing hangs broken at the one end, and the screen door also stands lopsided. All I’m waiting for is some movement to let me know he’s still in there, still breathing his sad, pathetic and useless drug and alcohol-induced fucking life. I’ve thought about this for the past three years. From the day I escaped this shithole until now, I’ve thought about coming here and taking his last breath from him. Watching as life drains from him.
Watch him suffer the way he made my mom and me suffer.
Lifting my hand to my face, I find moisture, but I’mnot crying for what I’m about to do; no, my emotions are for the woman who gave me so much. Right up to the moment that she couldn’t anymore. I don’t blame her for taking her own life. I blame him.
I swipe my hand across my face, I take just a moment of weakness to remember a woman who stood in front of a fist to protect me. For a life I was never allowed to have, all because of that cunt. As a shaky breath leaves my lips, I suck in some more nicotine as the toe of my boot taps the ground. My nerves are shot. I take in another long drag as the smoke billows from my nose, and curling the tip of my finger, I flick the butt to the grass. I drag my other leg from my bike and walk the path, climbing the few steps onto the porch. The screen door creaks from rusty broken hinges as I pull it open and try the handle of the front door. It turns and soon opens. Glancing behind me, I look out for people who could be around, but it’s past midnight. As I push the door, a shit ton of unopened mail scatters the floor. I wonder if he really is alive or even here. Still, I go on until I reach the living room; it’s empty other than dirty, ripped furniture; in fact, it’s the same furniture that was here before I left.
Swallowing hard at the memory of Mom being here, I push it back down as quickly as it came about and walk around the furniture. I try to quieten my heavy boots on the floor, but it’s no good; my body is heavy, like I’m walking to my fate. It’s then I see the TV on, and some old western plays out on the screen. The nicotine-stained armchair is situated in front of it, and with a few more steps, I’m standing alongside it. Peering around the piece of furniture, I find him. His eyes are closed with one hand shoved under the waistband of his pants. I pull my gun from the back of my trousers and aim it at his head.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my beloved son. I wondered when you’d eventually show your fucking face.” His eyes open and fall on me, but I don’t waiver. I’m not scared of this piece of shit anymore, and if I have to, I’ll blow a hole in his fucking face.
My breaths heave in quick succession as I tighten my fingers around the handle, my finger strategically placed loosely over the trigger, ready to squeeze it and blow his fucking brains out the back of his head and onto the mangy cushion behind it.
“Do it.” He taunts, “you ain’t got the fucking balls to pull that trigger, or is it because you ride a Harley now and that fucking motorcycle club that you think you’re Billy big balls?”
“If you want to stay alive, you’ll do well not to taunt me.”
“You’ll never be big enough, boy.” I cock my gun, ready to fire, as a sneer curls his top lip. “If you kill me, you'll go to prison. Do you think you can handle prison?”
“Prison will be a walk in the fucking park after living with you, you sadistic fuck.” He reaches forward, pulls a smoke from the packet and drops the box back down with a smirk. He thinks I won’t do it. Lighting it up, he casually takes a drag and stares at me. I push my hand forward until the barrel of my gun is resting softly against his forehead.
“Do you think I fucking care about dying? Do it.” His head thrusts forward until the barrel is pressing hard against it. “Go back to your fucking little club. I was fucking glad the day you left; you did me a favor, but I did enjoy breaking your mother.”
My pulse races as my temper begins to get the better of me. Swiftly shoving my gun back into my pants, my hand balls into a fist, and before I can stop myself, it’s hammering into his face and connecting with his nose. I don’t give a fuck anymore. I hit him and hit him as hard as I can. His nose bursts as it breaks, and his eye begins to bloom with color just as his mouth fills with red, and that’s only just breaking the surface of what I want to do to the cunt. I want to break him like he did my mom. I want to make him cry and shake with fear as he curls into a ball to shield the hits, and then I want to pull the trigger and watch the life leave his sadistic body.
I’m so lost in the moment with my fingers around his throat that I don’t realize the cigarette he was holding has dropped from his fingers, not until the smell of burning hits my nostrils. I look down the side of the chair to see the fag burning away into the carpet, and a thought crosses my mind. I squeeze harder until I’m sure he won’t wake for a while. I release his throat as his head flops to the side, then grab my lighter from my pocket and add a flame to the now smoking carpet until it’s spread to the armchair. The side of the chair goes up, and as much as I want to stay here and watch it happen, I need to get out of here. There’s no way he’ll get out of this. As I stand, flames multiply and begin to spread, and when they put out the fire, the fire department will see it was started from a cigarette accident.
“Burn in fucking hell, you piece of fucking shit.” I pause as I look around, “even this is too good for you.”
His cries have already started before I’ve even reached the door and I smile.
Nothing tastes as sweet as karma. Die, you son of a bitch!
CHAPTER 1
CHAINS
SLAP!
The sound of his palm hitting my cheek reverberates around the empty room and echoes off the bare walls. My head whips to the side from the force of the impact, with tears pricking at my eyes. With everything I have in my weak and beaten body, I attempt to push them back. He can’t see my weakness; he thrives on it, and then it’ll be much worse. It has been a lot worse. This is nothing compared to some he’s given me. There have been times he’s been so hammered that I’ve only had to look at him wrong, and it’s earned me a beating. Being off your face on coke and drinking whiskey isn’t the best mix; even I, as a sixteen-year-old, know that. I’ve grown up with it. I should know. No, I need to be brave. Gritting my teeth, I steady my posture and brace myself. I flatten my palms against the cool tiles of the floor, and sit myself up a little straighter.
His jaw is tight with a snarl twisting his features, an expression I’ve learnt to fear over the years. From my side, I watch him pull his arm back, but his hand seems to move in super quick motion, and his knuckles connect with my cheekbone. The pain tears through my bones, and I have to try even harder to keep the tears at bay. Fuck! It feels like my eye is about to explode.
A whimper seeps from the back of my throat as my head whips in the opposite direction.
“Look at me, boy.” he booms. My eye throbs, but I don’t waver; I do exactly as I’m told and tip my head up to look him in the eye, although I don’t move quickly enough for his liking, and he bends down, curling his nicotine-stained fingers around my shirt and drags me to my feet. “You make me fucking sick. You’re no son of mine. You’re useless and weak like her, now get out of my fucking sight.”
He puts all his weight behind his arm and shoves me backwards, arms flailing as I lose my footing and stumble back to the floor, landing hard on my ass.
I vowed not to let him see that I was scared of him anymore. There were plenty of nights over the years when I’ve hidden in my bedroom, either in my closet or under my covers, to escape him, especially when I was smaller. I’ve even made tents with my sheets and hid in them. There've been really bad times where I’ve laid under my bed with a pillow all night after barricading my bedroom door, then stayed there until the next morning. When he’s like this, he’s unpredictable.
