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Cash
People think time is linear. But actually, it’s circular. What goes around, comes around.
This fight with my sperm donor? Been coming around for years.
He’s blowing like a winded bull—the charge up the stoop outside so he could sucker-punch me in the back took something out of him. And I’m battling the red that’s edging into my vision.
Here in the South, people compare love to kudzu. It’s pervasive, and once it takes root, it envelops you. I’m here to say hate is the same way.
Right now, my hate fills me up until I imagine it’s sprouting from my ears like a diseased vine, dripping rot into my heart and poison into my soul. I want to kill him.
For my mother.
For me.
For everyone he’s ever swindled or backstabbed or blackmailed or cheated.
But first, I want to hurt him. I want to hear him scream. I want to see him beg for mercy.
When he lunges, I easily sidestep him, landing a punishing blow to his meaty jaw. My knuckles sing with pleasure/pain at the point of contact. My ears rejoice at the sound of his teeth clacking together.
He staggers, his bulk carrying him to the open front door. There, he fumbles for the knob, using it as leverage to remain upright.
Outside, the sounds coming from Bourbon Street are a low, steady thrum. Inside, the droning in my ear is back, sounding like a hungry mosquito. I barely notice it. Too caught up in the shock that flowers over Rick’s face when he stares at me.
His jaw is already bright red. Later, it will be black and blue.
Quid pro quo for all the bruises he gave me over the years.
“I’ll give you this much.” He touches his jaw, wiggling it side to side. “Your right hook has some serious firepower.” He has the audacity to smile. “You get that from me.”
His words leave a film behind on my brain, a greasy residue.
I try to outrun the memories of the beatings he gave me, but they’re too quick. They catch up with me and unspool like a movie reel in my mind. All the satisfied looks on his face when he landed a punch. All the times he danced around me like a prizefighter. All thejoyhe took from inflicting torment and misery.
Hewasthe one to teach me how to throw a punch. How to take a punch. And now look at me. Tickled by my show of blinding violence. Hopping from foot to foot like a boxer. Smiling because I can see the evidence of my hatred imprinted on his chin.
I don’t want to admit it, but it’s impossible to hide from the truth. I’ve become the thing I hate most.
I’ve becomehim.
Despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins and the bloodlust bubbling beneath the surface of my skin, my whole body suddenly feels creaky and aged. I stop dancing and drop my arms.
“Most fathers wouldn’t take pride in that,” I tell him.
“Most fathers are assholes,” he says.
“See? That’s just it. Theyaren’t. Most fathers prefer hugs over hitting, love over hate. You can’t see it, but it’s you.You’rethe asshole.”
The vein snaking up the center of his forehead swells. “Careful what you say to me, boy.”
“Or what?” The noise I make is rude. “You’ll beat the shit out of me? Been there. Done that too many times to count. Don’t you ever get tired of the same old song and dance?”
“I won’t get tired of it until you finally learn to show me some fucking respect. That’s something my old man taught me. Your woman and kids should damn well respect you.”
Yourwoman and kids. As if Mom and I were his property.
