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"Why not?"
"Because I don't want some stepmother interfering in my life," I shot back.
"Come on, DAX. What if she's a likable person? That's what I'm hearing," Aunt Mary pleaded.
"I don't want a stepmother," I proclaimed, my anger mounting. I stormed into the sitting room where my father was in deep conversation. "How could you, Father?" My voice trembled with barely contained rage. I could sense myself teetering on the edge of losing control, and all eyes turned to me, including my father's and his unexpected guests. They hadn't anticipated my outburst.
Aunt Mary hurriedly followed, attempting to whisk me away from the tense situation before I said something that would surely infuriate my father. "You're getting remarried? Why? Is this another one of your affairs, Father? Do you honestly believe I can erase the memories I have of Mom so easily? Instead of remarrying, why not apologize and ask for her forgiveness, and then..." My voice trailed off as Aunt Mary continued to guide me out of the room.
My father remained silent, while his guests looked on in shock, their hushed conversations growing louder. It suddenly struck me that these guests were none other than my beloved uncles and aunts from my father's side. I hadn't bothered to acquaint myself with all of them or even acknowledge their names, save for Aunt Mary's.
"DAX, we need to leave immediately!" Aunt Mary urged urgently.
"I despise you, old man... Don't bother inviting me to your wedding because I won't attend!" I declared. It was in that moment that my father rose from his opulent chair, uncrossing his legs.
The air crackled with a raw energy I couldn't quite place. Aunt Mary's hand on my shoulder felt like a hot coal, urging me to retreat from the inferno I'd ignited. Dad materialized behind me, his silence a storm cloud pregnant with thunder. It wasn't the quiet of a peaceful man; it was the stillness before an avalanche.
Then, the blow landed. A fist, hard as a knotted log, slammed into my jaw. The world tilted, stars erupting behind my eyelids. A gasp ripped through the room, Aunt Mary's voice a strangled cry. But me? I laughed. A harsh, guttural sound that clawed its way out of my throat, laced with a twisted pleasure that tasted like ash on my tongue.
Obedient son, that's what I was. Or was I? The line blurred, respect curdling into something else, something bitter and poisonous. I couldn't fight back, not in that moment. Not against the man who bore my name, who held the key to the missing pieces of my life, the years stolen before I could even grasp them.
"Ungrateful little shit!" Dad roared, his voice a tremor in the charged air.
"Cheater!" I spat back, his word a jagged shard I flung back at him. The sound of it, raw and defiant, sent another jolt of adrenaline coursing through me. He struck again, a fist connecting with my cheek, then a stinging slap that cracked across my jaw. His hands were sledgehammers, each blow a brutal reminder of the chasm between us.
And here's the shameful truth: I craved it.
The sting, the pain, the icy rejection that seeped into my bones. It was a perverse balm for the gaping wounds of my past, a twisted echo of the love I craved, the acceptance I'd never truly had. It was a dance of self-inflicted punishment, a desperate attempt to feel something, anything, in the face of my own fractured reality.
The room held its breath, a collective gasp trapped in throats constricted by fear and a chilling fascination. The symphony of Dad's knuckles meeting my flesh seemed to echo off the stunned faces of onlookers, each strike a discordant note in the twisted lullaby of our family drama. They watched, frozen statues in a scene of domestic discord, silent sentinels in a kingdom ruled by raw rage.
Since my parents' painful divorce, my father and I have failed to engage in any meaningful conversations. There was a time when I adored my father with all my heart, but those feelings now seem like a distant memory. The more I witness his thoughtless decisions, the stronger my intense hatred for him grows. I often find myself yearning to vanish from his line of sight.
Strangely, the pain and physical abuse I endure have become a twisted form of communication for me. It is peculiar how I find some solace in it, although I constantly remind myself of the reasons behind my disdain.
In the midst of a covert family gathering, where my father was discussing matters with my affluent relatives, I found the audacity to interrupt.
This undoubtedly stirred up memories of my mother for him. I could perceive the longing in his eyes, but he would never confess it to me, Aunt Mary, or anyone else.
However, I no longer concern myself with his opinion!
To my father and the rest of the affluent clan in that room, I am nothing but a disgrace, an embarrassment. But in my eyes, I am merely speaking the painful truth. So, to hell with them all.
But Aunt Mary, bless her soul, wouldn't be counted among the paralyzed. She barreled through the haze of disbelief, a whirlwind of righteous fury tearing me from the inferno I'd ignited. Her face, etched with concern, mirrored the storm brewing within me, a counterpoint to the manic glee swirling in my gut. Every blow aimed at me resonated in her, a phantom ache echoing in her maternal spirit.
She dragged me away, a wounded lion protecting her cub, the air crackling with the unspoken question: why, Dax? Why provoke the tempestuous beast that was my father?
"I had to say it," I mumbled, licking at the metallic kiss of blood on my split lip. A twisted satisfaction coiled in my chest, a perverse pleasure born from the chaos.
"But at what cost? You get pummeled by your own dad? You know his fuse burns short..." Aunt Mary's voice trembled, a melody of frustration and worry.
"And I'm glad I lit the match!" I spat, defiance masking the gnawing emptiness within. This, this brutal exchange, was my twisted communion with a father who'd been absent in more ways than one. Every bruise was a brushstroke of recognition, a grotesque inscription on the canvas of my broken relationship.
"A game, Dax?" Her voice cracked, disbelief lacing her words. "This… this violence is a game?"
"Yes," I whispered, the truth a barb I plunged into my own soul. "Every blow, every punch, a twisted kind of validation."
It was a truth that tasted like ashes on my tongue, a confession that hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the warped path I walked.
