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That was clearly a stupid thought. Nothing will ever connect my father with me.
“I demand to know where you’ve been!” he snaps, his face so full of anger that it’s white with splotches of red dotting his complexion.
“Why does it matter? You never cared before,” I accuse. “Why now?”
His eyes narrow and he leans in as if he’s going to intimidate me. I could warn him that I’m not really scared of him or anyone at this point in my life. The only exception to that might be Violet the other day when I was worried she wouldn’t forgive me.
“I won’t have you throwing your life away on a piece of trash,” he snarls, and I can’t describe the anger that I feel.
“You had better not be talking about Violet,” I warn him.
“Who else would I be talking about? Jesus son, what were you thinking?”
“You don’t even know her! What gives you the fucking right to judge her?”
“I saw her! I know enough! She made a scene at our party. The whole damn town is talking about the cheap bitch my son is dating. You know better than this shit. Our kind might fuck trash like that, but we never bring them home,” he spews, so much hate inside of him that you can’t miss it.
I bring my fist back, not even thinking and then I plow it into his face. He goes back with the force of the blow, but because we’re evenly matched, he recovers quickly and sucker punches me in the stomach. We trade blows and I can’t lie; my dad gives as good as I give him. I stagger under the weight of his punches. The last one is so hard that my legs threaten to buckle.
I block one of his blows that was going to my stomach, the ring on his finger grazes my skin, slicing the flesh on my knuckle.
“Still can’t beat your old man, can you?” Dad heckles, a nasty sneer on his face. “Maybe after I get done teaching you a lesson, I’ll find your little piece and give her a go—prove to you that women like that are only after two things—your dick and your wallet,” he spews out.
I’m looking at him and I can finally, after all these years, see the hate and the anger he sees when he looks at me. Now he doesn’t have even a semblance of a mask in place. It’s all there for me to see and it stuns me so completely that I don’t defend myself or even try to hide from his punch.
His fist connects with my right eye, the pain intense, but not as bad as what I feel in my gut when I finally face what I’ve known all along. My dad truly hates me. I don’t know what I’ve ever done to him, besides come up short to the grand name of Huntington. It’s clear, however, that this probably goes much deeper than that.
“You’re pathetic. You’ll never be half the man your brother is,” he laughs, as if the wounds he hasn’t already delivered aren’t enough to satisfy him. “You don’t deserve to be in this family. You at least could have had a use. You’re not Parker, but you could have made a minor league team, made money. You can’t even manage that. You’re a disgrace. You’d rather chase pussy than help this family.”
It’s then that I think my father must be deranged. There’s no other explanation. I turn away from him, everything inside of me feeling raw.
“I’m out of here,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.
“Good. Make sure you drop your whore before you come back. Give her a final fuck in an alley off the street corner she works, but you get rid of her before you step foot back in this house.”
That’s the moment I snap. I bring my fist back, all while spinning around. I cry out, the sound is ugly and full of rage and let it out. It contains years and years of anger that’s just been brewing inside of me like a poison. It’s powerful and I put all of that emotion in my punch that connects to his nose. My knuckles slam against the cartilage and bone, and I know instantly I break it. Dad goes backward and I figure he would have fallen if his body hadn’t hit the wall. Instead, he leans heavily on it as blood begins spurting from his nose. His hand comes up to hold it and I only feel a small amount of satisfaction as his fingers begin to turn red from the spray.
“You’re done. You’ll not get another penny from me. I shouldn’t have allowed your mother to make you part of this family. You’re dirt just like your—”
“Arthur!” Mom cries from the stairs. I look up to see her. She’s holding a glass in her hand, but then Mom always does that. She’s either drinking or passed out when she’s not hosting a party. I never begrudged her of it. Being married to my father would have to be hell. I’d have to stay drunk too if I was her.
