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"I can’t believe you’re talking about Chelsie like that."
"You’re such a drama queen. You always were. Even when you were a boy."
"Shut the fuck up."
"No wonder you’re so obsessed with finding her. You and she were two peas in a pod. Little bitch. If you think you’re so tough, prove it. Do something that doesn’t make me ashamed to have produced you for once in your life."
There’s no way I can keep having this conversation. My father gives no fucks about me. I’m nothing in his eyes.
When Chelsie died, his entire family died with her. He focused solely on his investment fund. The next deal. He wrote me and my mother off like we meant nothing.
I have no father. I have no one to speak to.
"You’re the reason I am the way I am," I snarl.
"When you’re older, you’ll realize that you can’t blame your old man for everything. You’ll have to grow a pair of balls—not the tiny ones you have—and take responsibility for your behavior."
TheI couldn’t care lessattitude is what kills me. My father is typing on his laptop and slashing me to pieces with his words at the same time. I’m not sure he even realizes what he’s saying. It holds no importance to him. It’s nothing. As meaningless as the memories of his past life when he had two healthy children and he wasn’t such an awful parent.
Or maybe my memories are screwy. Maybe he was always this terrible and I didn’t realize it because I was so young. Maybe I thought he was something he wasn’t.
"I’m having my next investigator look into you again." I rise to my feet, towering over him. I could take him if I wanted to. Beat his fucking ass in two seconds flat. Lord knows I’m stronger than him. In fact, part of me thinks I’ve been waiting to knock him out cold for a long time. That must be why I train so hard in the gym.
My father smirks. "You’re wasting your time."
I snarl as I spin around, shoving chairs out of my way, and stomp out of my childhood home. Anger leaves scars as it batters my skin, painting my vision with red.
My father doesn’t deserve to live.
He’s a bigger monster than me.
I should do it.
It’d be so easy.
One. Two. Three hours. Until he’s sleeping. Break in through the back door. Charge at him in his bed. Take his life.
He didn’t care about Chelsie’s life so why should I care about his?
I settle into my Porsche with a raging hard on. I have no idea why I’m hard. Thoughts of my baby sister dying fill my mind. I’m fucked up. I’ve been fucked up ever since that faceless creep took her.
I have no clue who it was.
I have to find out.
I should listen to my father and forget about it.
I must keep searching.
Chelsie needs to rest in peace.
Chelsie deserves justice.
I scream as I step on the gas, my Porsche swerving out of my father’s driveway, charging through the street. A group of old ladies on bicycles are peddling in front of me and they yell as I nearly mow them down, unable to breathe. My father is the devil incarnate. No one understands how difficult it is being his son.
"I want to write you another poem, little Olive. A fucked-up poem about my life. My past. My mind."
Olivia isn’t prepared to witness the unrelenting darkness that lives inside of me. The coldness that my father’s genes have endowed me with is blended with a clanging war horn that doesn’t quit ringing.
