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His eyes, bloodshot and empty, lock onto mine.
“Your bitch of a mother,” he growls, barely looking up from his drink, “where the fuck is she?”
A hot wave of anger crashes over me.
My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care, and he never will.
“She’s gone,” I manage, my voice thick with rage and something else—grief, maybe. “She died, you piece of shit. Where were you? Out fuckin’ your whore?”
His laugh is a hollow, soulless sound. “Figures,” he mutters, taking another swig. “Useless junkie. Good riddance. At least now I can be with Staci.”
Something inside me snaps.
The world narrows until all I see is him, leaning there without a care in the world, while Mom lies cold and dead.
I snap. Everything goes red. I lunge at him, my hands finding his throat like they’ve done it a million times in my mind.
His eyes widen, momentary shock giving way to rage.
I slam him against the wall, the plaster cracking behind his head.
“She’s dead because of you,” I spit, my grip tightening. “She overdosed because of your abuse, the shit you’d do to her, the shit you’d say, the endless cheating. She was fine when the two of you split up, but you just had to get your leech hands on her again.”
He tries to push me off, but he’s weaker than I remember.
The booze has made him soft. “You think I give a shit?” he snarls, his breath hot and sour with whiskey. “She was always a weak bitch.”
“Shut the fuck up!” I roar, slamming him again. His head hits the wall with a sickening thud. “You could’ve helped her! You could’ve sent her to rehab!”
“Helped? She was beyond help,” he sneers, trying to claw at my face. His nails scrape my skin, but I barely feel it. “It just would’ve been a waste of money.”
“Fuck you!” I yell, my fist connecting with his jaw.
His head snaps to the side, and he crumples to the floor, unconscious.
I stand there, chest heaving, looking down at him.
For a second, just a second, I see the old man who used to take me fishing before everything went to hell.
But that man is gone, replaced by this monster. And monsters need to be put down.
I step over his limp form and head to the kitchen.
The knife block gleams under the harsh fluorescent light.
I pull out a blade, its edge cold and sharp.
My hand doesn’t shake as I walk back to him.
“The only place you deserve to be is in hell,” I mutter, kneeling beside him.
I wrap his hand around the knife, the metal cool against his clammy skin.
Pressing down hard, I drag the blade across his wrist, then the other.
Blood pools around my father’s wrists, spreading like a dark, twisted halo on the dingy carpet.
