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“I’m not talking to you,” I warned, holding a hand up when he stepped closer.
“Did you read my letter?”
“Fuck your letter,” I spat out, vaguely remembering the bullshit spiel he’d put down on paper to make us feel sorry for him. But then again, a lot of the past few months was a jaded blur to me. “And fuck you.”
“I need you to do something for me,” he said, somehow angling our bodies so that I was the one cornered in the alleyway entrance, with him blocking my escape. “I need you to talk to your mother for me. She listens to you. She’ll take me back if you tell her to.”
“Take you back?” I laughed humorlessly. “Are you completely off your head? There’s no back for you, old man. You almost killed your own daughter. You’re going to prison, asshole, not home to your wife.”
“I’m not going to prison, boy,” he replied, sounding so sure of himself that it didn’t sit well with me. “But you’re going to hell if you don’t sort this out for me.”
“Then I’ll see ya there,” I spat out, unwilling to bend to this asshole, no matter how badly he set my teeth on edge.
In a weird way, his abuse was familiar. Unlike my mother, I knew where I stood with my father. It gave me a sick sort of fearful comfort. I knew that didn’t make sense, but it was how I felt—on the rare occasion I slipped up and allowed myself to feel.
His cruelty was home to me. It was all I knew. I could handle his attacks because I knew they were coming. I never knew what was coming with Mam.
Jesus, I was seriously messed up in the head. With the hairs standing on the back of my neck, I watched him watch me. His cold dead eyes were locked on mine, sending an icy shiver down my spine that resulted in my body shuddering.
“You think you know it all, boy,” he said, taking a menacing step toward me. “Think you’re better than me, but you’ll see. As soon as that pretty girl of yours spits that kid out, you’ll see. You’ll understand what it’s like to be trapped.”
“Don’t fucking talk about her,” I warned, hackles rising. “I mean it.”
“You’ll know what it feels like,” he continued to goad me—and step closer. “You’ll finally learn what it feels like to be me.”
“I’ll never be you,” I snapped, backing up further. “I’d rather slit my fucking wrists than become you!”
“You’re already me,” he roared heatedly. “You’ve always been me, boy. Look at ya,” he pushed, closing the space between us and clamping a beefy hand on my shoulder. “You can’t leave her alone any more than I can leave your mother. Isn’t that proof enough for ya?”
My blood ran cold. His words rocked me to my core. Because he was voicing my deepest fears aloud. Worse, he was voicing the truth. Because it was true. I couldn’t leave Molloy alone.
The resemblance was uncanny, and it caused my mind to spiral. “It’s not the same thing,” I strangled out, feeling my body bow from the pressure as I jerked away from him, while drowning in the comparison. “I would never hurt her the way you hurt Mam.”
“That’s what I used to think,” he replied. “I used to think I’d never hurt your mother the way my old man hurt mine. Believe it or not, I’ve loved her my whole life. I can remember how it felt at the beginning. How special she was. How much I adored her. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t repeat my own father’s mistakes.” He choked out a humorless laugh. “And look where I am, boy.”
“My mother was a vulnerable teenage girl, and you took advantage,” I choked out, trembling. “You’re a fucking monster!”
“Do you think I was born this way, boy?” he demanded, taking another swig from his bottle. “I’m a product of my upbringing. Same as you.”
“I’m not you,” I ground out. “I refuse to be you.”
“You can’t stop it, Joey,” he replied, using my name for impact. It worked. It rattled me. “You can’t fight your nature, boy.” He took another slug of whiskey. “Only way you’re changing the ending of your story is if you walk away from that girl and her kid, and we both know you’ll never do it.” He shook his head in defeat before adding, “God knows I couldn’t.”
104
Bated Breath
AOIFE
When twenty minutes passed by with no sign of Joey, I didn’t panic too much, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he wasn’t Superman. The boy was a fast runner, but he couldn’t fly here. However, when twenty minutes turned to thirty, and then forty, and fifty, I began to pace my bedroom floor, anxious and on edge.
When I phoned him, the call went straight to voicemail.
An hour passed by. And then another one.
Something was wrong.
I could feel it in my bones.
