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Jackson
Shellshocked, I look at a man who used to be considered my father as he lays curled up on the bed in gray sweats and a hoodie. He looks like a prisoner. He squints, lifting his hand to shield the light. It looks like he hasn’t left this room since… well, that night. It also looks like he hasn’t bathed, eaten, or changed his clothes in a while, either.
“J-Jackson?” His voice wobbles as he tries to clear his sight. He attempts to sit up, his weak arms wobbling much like mine do. Except his is from malnutrition, whereas mine is from being stabbed in the spine.
By this motherfucker.
“I’m so glad you’re here. T-they kept me locked up in here, Jackson. I-I just want to go home. Y-you got to get me out of here, son.” He stands, and I hear a clank and realize he has shackles attached to his ankles to keep him close to the bed.
I guess so he can’t rush anyone.
Suddenly, it’s like reality hits him in the face and he finally looks at me. “What’re you doing in a wheelchair?”
My face goes blank, and ice-cold chills break out along my paraplegic spine.
“Say something, Jackson. Get me the hell out of here.” His shackles clank again, his thin stature turned a sickly gray from sitting in this room with no windows. Cement walls, cement floor, and a cement ceiling. He’s surrounded by so much gray it’s sinking into him to the bone.
I grip the handle of my chair, the shake so bad I nearly feel out of control.
Is this some sick joke? I thought this guy died along with my spine. They kept him down here for over two months, keeping him alive just for what—for me to deliver his timely death?
A low hum starts in my stomach and spreads through my chest. The ability to kill, to spill blood and end the life of the man who has given me a horrible upbringing makes adrenaline run through my blood. I imagine my blood heating up a few degrees in anticipation.
He’s beat me. He’s bruised me. He’s hurt me and ruined and me made me feel useless, time and time again. He ruined my mother. He killed her. He stabbed me, plunged a knife so far into my back my spine he created severe, permanent damage to my being.
He stabbed Cara. He almost killed her.
He tried to kill my son.
Chills break out along my body once again, and I swear this time I can feel the sensation go down to my toes.
I look around the room, and the shiny metal tray shines in the room with no light. On top of the tray are various instruments. Instruments that could do some serious, serious harm to an individual.
And it’s been served on a silver platter ready for me to use.
“What is that… Jackson? What is that?” His voice gets panicked as he tries to look at what might be on that tray.
I turn around, gliding over to the tray and picking up the first thing that I can reach.
Nail gun.
Turning around, I go to face him again and his eyes almost pop out of his head when he sees what’s in my hand.
“Stop, stop, stop! What’re you doing with that? Jackson! It’s me! It’s your father!”
I stop in front of him, far enough where he can’t reach me but close enough that he can really see me.
“Do you remember what happened the last time you saw me?” I ask him, glancing down at the gun with nails fully loaded in them.
“W-what—pff, Jackson, what’s going on? What does that have to do with anything?”
I set the gun down on my lap. “Answer the question, Randall.”
His eyes widen, and he runs his bony, gray palms down his gray pants. He’s a washed out painting, void of happiness and life.
“Last time I saw you was your mother’s funeral.” He says, so certain of the fact.
I shake my head, letting out a little laugh. “That’s where you’re wrong. The last time you saw me was at The Pit. Do you remember that?”
