Page 167 of Relapse

“She stepped out a few minutes ago,” he said with a sneer, answering my unspoken question.

My blood ran cold. How hadn’t I noticed the beautiful tune end? My eyes flew back to the kitchen. The sink was spotless, each dish surely placed neatly in the cabinet where it belonged. My mother’s apron hung loosely on the dining room chair.

He chuckled. “Don’t blame yourself. You must be so exhausted.”

My body had betrayed me, yet again. I had fallen asleep.

“Did you think I’d miss it? he asked softly, almost hurt. “After all that work you did, all that growing? You think I’d miss seeing the new you?”

Seeing David this way was petrifying. I didn’t know if I’d ever been level headed enough to understand just how bad it was. How psychotic he was.

He pushed off the counter and moved toward me. I backed away until my spine hit the refrigerator.

“What was it like? Rehab?” he asked. “Did you talk about me in your little group sessions? ‘My father abused me.’ ‘My father is the reason I use.’ Is that what you said? Is that your little trauma narrative?”

He stopped about an arm’s length away. Close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath, close enough to see my own reflection in his pupils.

“Do you sleep better now? That you got it off your chest? Do you think you’re better than everyone now that you have that little chip in your pocket?”

He was talking about my sobriety chip. Thirty days. I wished he could understand how proud I was about it. I never thought I’d be alive to see myself with one. Younger me wished David would be proud of me for something. Anything.

His hand came up, not to strike, but to rest against my cheek. I bristled beneath his touch. The gentleness was obscene. And foreign.

“Stop touching me,” I said as firmly as I was able. I was trying to keep a level head about this. I didn’t know what David was trying to do. Him pretending to be nice was almost worse than when he was violent. I couldn’t read him.

“You’ve sucked cock before,” he recalled with a terse laugh, as if he were remembering a funny joke. I clutched against the appliance behind me for support.

I was going to be sick.

It wasn’t possible, was it? That he was still here trying to hurt me. After all I had been through. After everything I’d done to try and be a better person and a better son.

He still wanted to diminish my worth down to nothing.

“All those men you traded yourself to for oxy, for crack, for whatever would make you forget. I bet you were so good at it the more you learned, Noah. So eager to please.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Stop.”

“But I’m your father. I should get the same courtesy you gave strangers. Shouldn’t I?”

His fingers traced my jaw, and I felt my stomach twist with a revulsion so strong I thought I might pass out.

“No,” I whispered.

“Yes,” he countered, his tone still gentle.

My breathing came in uneven bursts, but I tried to steady it.

“You can beat me senseless. You can kill me. But I will not be your puppet anymore.”

I forced my eyes open to stare him down. Despite how afraid I was, I would face his brutality. If he was going to kill me right here in the kitchen, I was ready.

“You’ll do it,” he stated plainly. Emotionlessly.

“I won’t,” I grounded out, my whole body shuddering with fear.

I scoured the kitchen for any potential weapons to defend myself. A knife, a pan, anything.

He must have known I was looking. He shrugged.