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Which is just as well.
Because I’m not sure what I would do if he did recognize me.
If he did recognize the son he’d hated for ever being born and killing his beloved wife.
If he would hate me still. For being weak.
By the time I completed my studies and got back to Middlemarch, my father was already in the throes of his illness, and since I was his heir, I got everything handed down to me. I bet he was worried about that; other people were for sure. He was worried about our family’s legacy going into the hands of a son he never thought was capable or even worthy of it.
But sometimes I wonder, if he could see me now, all powerful like him, what his reaction would be.
Sometimes I also wonder if I wasn’t here, would she still be alive, my mother?
Or if she hadn’t died, would she have loved me?
Would my father have loved me?
Would none of the things that happened have happened?
But they did.
Everything happened, and now I visit my father who doesn’t recognize me, not because I feel any kind of love for him but because like so many other things, it’s my responsibility.
I do a lot of things because of that.
Like the board meeting I attended before going to see my father.
As always it was a fucking shitshow.
More so because they – and by they I mean that piece of shit Robert Bailey – wants me to do his bidding. He wants me to bring back some of the more archaic rules of St. Mary’s such as the bed check.
The rule I threatened her with a few weeks back.
It was simply a joke because even I think that it’s too archaic and harsh to be implemented along with majority of the board. But not Robert Bailey and some of his lackeys apparently.
“If you think you’re not up for the job, we can easily find someone else who is,” he threatened me yet again.
“I’m sure you will,” I told him, my fists tight. “But until then I make the decisions. And my decision is no.” Then I looked at the members in general before continuing, “You’re all welcome to take a vote if you like.”
In short, it’s been hell of a day so I’m actually looking forward to this.
I’ve been waiting — wanting and fucking craving — to do this ever since Mo called. And told me that one Jimothy Wilson had the fucking audacity to make her cry.
Last time, I spared him.
I let him go.
I thought St. Mary’s would keep her safe from him. But I was wrong. Way wrong.
I’m not going to make the same mistake again though.
I know I promised her that I wouldn’t touch him but fuck it.
Fuck that fucking promise.
Tonight, I’m going to end it.
And then I’m going to make damn fucking sure that it stays that way.
So when I see him stumbling out of that dingy bar, I get out of my car. I slam the door shut and I do it hard, so the sound reverberates through the quiet parking lot, making him and his punk-ass friends — actually, worse; his bandmates — flinch.
That my plan is successful and they do, looking around frantically, is hardly a consolation to me right now.
It’s hardly cold water over my burning rage.
I stride through the parking lot and in my peripheral vision, I notice his friends staring at me wide-eyed and scared, muttering among themselves, and scattering away from him like little ants. It would be funny if I was in the mood to laugh.
I’m not.
As it is, I don’t stop until I’m there.
Where I can wrap my hand around his fucking throat and squeeze.
“H-holy sh…” he squeaks like the fucking rodent he is, his hands flailing in the air before coming to grab my wrist.
I squeeze harder and jerk him up so his feet are hovering above the ground and those pretty blue eyes of his look ready to burst. “What the fuck did you do to her?”
His struggles grow, his fingers digging into my arm as he squeaks again, “What the… W-Who…”
I squeeze again; I’m actually starting to like his squeaky little noises.
Leaning closer, I growl, “What the fuck did you do, you motherfucking shit stain?”
“Jesus, what the… let go, man.”
“You know what.” I squeeze his throat again. “This isn’t working. Let’s change tactics, shall we?” Still struggling, he gurgles but I go on, “Stay away from her, do you understand me?”
I ease up a little so he can speak. “H-holy shit, who?”
“Poe Blyton,” I snap with clenched teeth. “You know who she is, don’t you?”
His eyes widen in recognition and he goes to say something, but since I’m not really interested in listening to his whiny voice, I up the pressure and keep going. “I see you finally know what I mean. Now let’s try this again: If I see you around her one more time, I’m going to reach down your fucking throat and rip your small intestines out and wrap them around your neck, do you understand me?”
