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Footsteps pounded against the cement, and a second later, an unfamiliar man stood in front of me. Wait…
Familiar.
His dark hair was cropped close to his scalp, shorter than I remembered it being, and his once muscular, athletic body was turning pudgy with age. His goatee gave him an almost unassuming look, though the coldness in his eyes juxtaposed that softness. When he smiled, he revealed two rows of yellow teeth, the front one chipped.
“You…” I struggled to recall where I remembered him from before it came to me—the amusement park. Seven or eight years ago, I’d lost track of my father before stumbling upon him in the parking lot with this man. He’d been beating him, demanding…something. What that something was, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you, but I’d hidden behind the nearest trash can like a coward.
“Where’s your papa, kid?” the man queried now, kneeling down and clasping his hands together between his thighs.
“My dad? What the fuck do you want with him?”
The punch connected with my cheek before I could stop it. Pain exploded in my skull, white-hot and blistering.
“I don’t want to hurt you, kid,” he murmured, straightening from his crouch and pacing in front of me. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture reminiscent of a nineteenth century aristocrat. He moved with an elegance and grace that belied the tension tightening his shoulder muscles. He was a predator just waiting to pounce and kill, just waiting to stick his teeth into the throat of his unsuspecting prey.
I had the distinct feeling I was his prey.
“What the fuck do you want with my dad?” I repeated as a tiny bit of blood cascaded from my mouth.
The man laughed, and the sound sent ripples of unease down my spine. Goosebumps pebbled on my skin as the full realization of my situation washed over me like a tidal wave. A part of me had believed at first that this was all some sort of misunderstanding, that the man would release me and the two of us would laugh over it.
But now…
There was something dangerous in his eyes, something dark and deadly that made trepidation circulate in my stomach. He wanted my blood, and I didn’t even know why.
“Your father… He stole money from me,” he said at last, resuming his pacing. “I want my money back.”
Stole…money?
I’d suspected for years that my dad had gotten himself into some bad shit. I’d assumed it was drugs, but now, things were finally starting to make sense. Why we moved from city to city. Why my dad constantly changed our last name. The lies and deceit that were continually piling up on me like five tons of cement.
And why he’d left just this morning, without a word of where he was going and when he would be back. I was beginning to believe…
I was beginning to believe that he had no intention of returning home, that he left me here to rot and die. That he would force his only son to pay for the sins he’d committed.
Hatred, acerbic and bitter, roared up inside of me when I thought of my father. I’d looked up to him, respected him, even loved him, and now, I was in this chair on his behalf.
“I don’t know where my dad is,” I told the man at last. “I swear.”
Another punch. Another kick. Another slap.
I endured it all with a bloody smile painted on my lips.
“You’re telling me that your dad left you with no way to get ahold of him? No contact information?” The man gave me a look of disbelief as his fist connected with my cheek again, the force nearly sending me to the ground, my chair toppling precariously before righting itself. “His apartment is completely cleared out—no clothes, no money, nothing. You’re telling me he planned to leave you alone?”
Yes, I thought but didn’t say. Pain exploded inside of me at his words, more prominent than any physical torture he could put me through.
He’d really planned to leave me. My own father had planned to leave me behind.
“I have no loyalty to that man!” I screamed honestly. “I swear to you, I don’t know. But I can try to get you the money he owes. I promise. I’ll try.”
My words fell on deaf ears.
The next hour consisted of more pain than I knew how to deal with. More pain than anyone should ever have to endure. But I didn’t cry, didn’t scream, even as he sliced at me with a knife, punched my face, jabbed the butt of his cigarette into my arms.
And then I thought of my mother the last time I saw her. She’d come back to the states to visit, and we’d been attacked on the streets. My father, the bastard, had run, leaving us to die. I’d tried to fight them off, I did, but there was only so much one man could do against a dozen gunmen. At the time, I’d honestly believed it was a random act of gang violence.
But now…
