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“My jizz is what knocked up your bitch of a mother,” he told me with an evil glint in his eye. “You got my fucking DNA, boy. You’re my son no matter what some paper says. A regular chip off the old block.”
It’s what he used to say to me growing up. Arco wasn’t a tender man and he didn’t believe in hugs or cuddles. He was funny, gregarious and everyone loved him. But he never told me he loved me and he never hugged me. That’s because he had no conscience and no capacity to love.
He could only deceive.
And murder and rape.
Arco used words carefully and when he called me a “chip off the old block,” he did it with intent. When I was little, I only wanted his pride in me and I’d beam when he declared such. Now it makes me physically sick to think of his DNA coursing through my body.
I’m wondering why the biographer focused on that phrase. It was clearly in the diaries and perhaps my dad wrote about that last encounter between us. Maybe he had a good laugh over how easy it was to terrify his grown son who was a big, tough hockey player.
My fingers play at the edge of the book. I want to read it, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. I know Simone bought a copy and she read it.
“It’s nothing but drivel, Van,” she had said with a wave of her hand, like it was nothing more than a nuisance, like a gnat buzzing around her head. “The biographer didn’t do much other than regurgitate Arco’s words with bad literary prose and he comes off like the lunatic he was. None of it’s credible.”
I didn’t have the guts to ask her what it said about me and she didn’t offer. I think she figured I’d never read it and what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me.
Taking a deep breath, I open the cover of the book and stare blankly at the title page. My hand shakes as I grab a chunk of pages and start flipping, not with any real intention of reading anything. It’s a victory just opening the book.
But a phrase catches my attention as a chapter header whizzes by and I stop, flip back to the spot.
Chapter 5: Unveiling Shadows
I skim the first few paragraphs and realize it’s about me. Or rather, Arco’s reflections about his only son who was called Grant VanBuskirk at the time.
I think I might vomit and my brain is telling me to slam the book shut. I think of the weeping woman on the other side of the door who doesn’t think this is a big deal.
That I can persevere.
I inhale deeply, blowing out slowly.
Try to calm the frantic racing of my pulse.
I focus on the words and start reading.
Within the faded pages of Arco’s diaries lay a chilling chronicle of his observations on Grant, his son. The entries, devoid of warmth or remorse, offered a disconcerting glimpse into the mind of a convicted serial killer. Veiled within these revelations, the secrets of Grant’s young existence came to light, raising unsettling questions about the twisted threads of their shared bloodline.
Through the prism of Arco’s warped perspective, a peculiar essence emerged—the contours of Grant’s character and a sincere desire that his son have the same unnatural detachment that made him a sociopath.
Arco found himself captivated by his son’s unquenchable curiosity, recognizing in it a familiar hunger for exploration. At the tender age of six, Grant’s quest for knowledge surpassed mere childhood inquisitiveness, evoking memories of his father’s own sinister proclivities.
I try to suck in a breath, but there’s no air in my lungs. What the fuck is he inferring?
Among the haunting tales, one incident loomed over their shared history. Grant’s encounter with a delicate bird’s nest concealed within their backyard sent ripples of unease through the mind that penned these unsettling memoirs. Instead of a passive appreciation of its fragile beauty, Arco writes how Grant succumbed to what he called a “predatory instinct.” It welled Arco with pride when his son’s innocent hands closed around the unborn lives within. For Arco, it was a chilling reflection, a confirmation of a dark legacy he had unknowingly bestowed upon his son.
From behind prison bars, Arco reveled in the twisted possibilities. The notion of Grant carrying forth his father’s malevolence, of mastering the art of manipulation, ignited a nefarious pride within him. His imagination wove intricate narratives within his diaries where Grant’s path intertwined with his own, both predator and prey, mirroring each other’s dark desires.
In this enigmatic dance of nature and nurture, the omniscient observer glimpsed the blurred lines of Grant’s fate. Would he succumb to the haunting allure of his lineage, embracing the legacy of darkness that coursed through his veins? Or would he defy the shackles of his bloodline, forging a path untainted by the sins of his father?
Jesus!
Fuck!
The book falls from my hands, thudding to the carpet. I lurch off the bed and stagger into the bathroom. Falling to my knees, I barely get the toilet cover opened before I vomit. The beer comes up mixed with the soup, splashing in the toilet bowl. My stomach empty, I continue to wretch as the words I just read reverberate through me.
Panic starts to overwhelm me and it feels like a cinder block is on my chest. I try to drag in a deep lungful of air to break the claustrophobia of my anxiety, but I’m only able to pant through the terror of it all.
I push away from the toilet bowl and sag against the shower door. Something tickles my cheek and I reach up, realizing my face is wet with tears.
