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He pauses his excessive wiping along his pants, trying to recall our last encounter.
I notice the moment he remembers. His face pales even further and his eyes seem to sink even further into their sockets.
“Ah, so you do remember.” I scoot forward an inch with the chair and I almost laugh at the panic in his gaze.
“W-we fought, Jackson. We fight all the time!”
“You stabbed me, you piece of shit!” I bellow, all of my anger and resentment that has been simmering over the years finally reaching a full boil, spilling over the edges and ruining everything in its wake.
He sits there with his jaw slack and stares at me.
“You stabbed me in the spine, you piece of shit. I may never walk ever again because of you!” I roar, getting close enough that he can reach me. “You’re an abusive, ugly fucking drunk.”
He gets up, attempting to rush me and strangle me, I’m sure. He’s too slow, though. I immediately put the chair into reverse, and he isn’t prepared for that because he falls face first onto the cement ground. Splat. I can hear his face slap the concrete like a loud clap. I might have heard a small crunch, too. His nose, maybe?
I lean forward and press the gun into hand and deploy the nail. It makes a popping sound, and then he screeches like a hyena in the safari.
I laugh.
I move to his other hand, setting off the gun again and watch as it slides through skin, bone, and out the other end. It doesn’t go into the concrete, but that’s okay. He’s fucked as he lays face down on the ground, and I watch as blood oozes beneath his fingers, creating thick, red pools around his hand.
“W-what’re you doing, Jackson?” He sobs, the agony in his voice clear as day.
I say nothing as I reverse and head back to the tray, grabbing the next instrument.
Oh, my favorite.
What looks to be like a pliers, but more medieval. Easton scored it off some black-market shit last year and I’ve only used it one other time.
They call it the tongue tearer. With a pliers on one end, the other has a screw attached. Once you have the grip of the tongue on the instrument, you tighten the screw, and the tongue gets ripped out.
I’ll never have to hear the word boy come from disgusting tongue ever again.
I go back, the little device placed in my lap as I make my way over to my father, who’s in the process of rolling over onto his back. His hands are up in front of him and he looks like he’s in the worst pain.
Good.
When I get within reach, I start driving over one of his hands. He howls out in pain and tries to take hold of my chair and tip it. When that doesn't work, he tries to pull me out of the chair. He's too weak, too disoriented. He can barely grab ahold of me.
His agony echoes through the small room, and it’s the perfect position for me to reach forward with the instrument in hand. I grab onto his tongue, instantly finding purpose and I start cranking the screw. I can feel when it starts sliding through his tongue, and I smile when I can smell the scent of blood permeate the air. He gurgles as the blood start filling his mouth, and he can’t swallow it all because he starts coughing, the blood splatters out of his mouth and lands on my hand. It dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, and I smile when I crank the last bit of the screw.
And it’s out.
His sobs fill the room, and when I reverse the chair, he falls to the ground, curling into a ball as he weeps in agony.
Good.
“You told me for years that I killed Wren. You made me believe that me being a child, making me watch my sister while my parents went and got drunk, that I killed her. She had fucking SIDS, but somehow, that makes me a murderer.”
His sobs deepen and my voice grows louder.
“You poisoned Mom’s brain and made her believe I killed her. You pumped her with drugs until she was nothing but a shell of a human. You ruined each one of our lives with your poisonous self. You didn’t deserve us. You didn’t deserve any of us.”
He chokes, coughing and vomiting blood on the floor. It pools and spills across his cheek as he continues to lay on the ground.
“I’ll take every single punch, and hit, and demeaning word you delivered to me over the years and pay it back. You won’t leave this room alive, or in one piece. You’ll leave in garbage bags and be tossed in the dumpster like the trash you are.
“Today I’m going to take back what you’ve stolen from me since I was a little kid. You’ll wish you never were my father, just as I’ve wished that my entire life.”
