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He jabs a finger at me. “Don’t talk to me about—”
“They let you out at least once a day, didn’t they? You got to see the sun. You’re such a pathetic fuck.”
“And you’re my most worthless son. What the fuck is this place, Emerson? A shrine to how much of a pussy you are?” He gestures at the art hanging in the entryway, sneering. “Look at you, still pretending the world is art so you don’t have to admit you’re terrified.”
It occurs to me that the faint pounding in my head is an adrenaline rush. My father has never been inside my house before. I bought it after he went to prison, and I never thought he would come here. I was foolish, obviously. I should have taken Sin’s announcement as a warning. I watch from outside my body as I shove my hand inside my pocket and come up with my wallet. Take a fifty-dollar bill between my fingers. Crumple it. Throw it on the floor at his feet.
“There. Now you’re all taken care of.”
My father looks down at the balled-up bill on the floor like it’s roadkill. Like I spit at him. His eyes come up to mine, wide with rage. His nostrils flare.
And then he throws a punch at me.
For a split second it looks like the past come back to life. This was always how it started. An argument, followed by fists, followed by a door being slammed shut and locked from the outside. Back then I would have taken the hit. I would have let it happen, because fighting back only meant he’d try again. He was persistent that way.
But we’re not in the past. We’re very much in the present.
And I have the advantage of height and strength now.
He didn’t make the most of his yard time in prison. He never tried to put on muscle. So I knock his fist away from my face and punch him back.
This is like punching a bull. It enrages him that I would dare, and he charges at me. What he lacks in strength he makes up for in being a psychotic piece of shit.
I have a sense of his shoulder near my chest somewhere, an elbow in my side, that fucking tan coat. Indignation rises. Who the fuck does he think he is, walking into my house like this? Where did he get the idea that this would end well for him?
It’s not going to end well. I’m going to end him.
I back him up against the wall, an empty stretch with no painting, and punch him across the face. My knuckles connect with his cheekbone. His head snaps to the side. A younger version of me is wide-eyed with awe. My father always seemed unreachable back then. A goddamn giant. I’m surprised to find myself looking down at him. I’m surprised to find my fists buried in his sweater, and his wrists on mine. More than anything, I’m surprised to find realization dawning in his eyes. He’s not going to win this fight.
“Fine,” he spits. “Let me go.”
I shake him instead. Rattle his head against the wall. “What if I want you to stay?”
“You don’t want me to stay, you piece of—”
“What if I have the perfect place for you? We could play a game. We could see how long it would take for you to die.” I pretend to calculate this. “You, alone in a room. How long would you make it? Two weeks? A month?”
“You’re sick,” he says, somehow managing to sound incredulous. As if he didn’t make me this way himself. As if he didn’t teach me how to be a bastard firsthand. He locked us in closets when we misbehaved. Or when we simply existed. Me. Sin. Even Will. He’d put us in closets without food or a fucking bathroom. It hurt to be in the closet, but it hurt even more to leave the closet—to see the bright sun, to breathe air that wasn’t foul.
I punch him one more time, then drag him in close. “How long would I have to leave you in there until you went fucking crazy?”
The bastard twists, fighting to get free of my hands. I want to drag him to a shallow grave. I take him to the front door instead and throw him out into the night. He trips on one of his shoes but catches himself before he falls.
“Don’t come back,” I tell him, and then I slam the door. Lock it.
My phone buzzes over and over again.
Alert: Motion detected front door
Alert: Motion detected front door
I turn off the alerts and climb the stairs on autopilot. My own house yawns around me, every room looking like a cavern, every hallway looking like a funhouse mirror. My emotions are ripped off their canvases, torn from their frames. Out of control. What a shitshow. What an embarrassment.
Into the master bedroom, which takes up a quarter of the space on the second floor. Into the walk-in closet. No windows. A door that locks. My nerves scream. My head splits. Adrenaline feels like acid. I sit down hard in the farthest corner, my back to the wall.
No one else is in here.
No one.
