The restlessness gets under my skin, so Hunter started sending me lists. I don’t ask questions. I already know what they are, rapists, paedophiles, men who don’t deserve air in their lungs.
I read the names.
I erase them.
It has been thirty already.
It is the only way to bleed off the pressure building inside me. The only way to quiet the burn.
I take another sip of my drink. I’m not drunk yet. Either my tolerance has increased, or I simply require an excessive amount of vodka to black out.
My phone vibrates.
I glance at the screen and see his name.
My father.
Or more accurately, my sperm donor, as I prefer to call him.
I answer because I’m already tipsy and I don’t care not to.
“What do you want?”
“It’s your mother,” he says.
I don’t respond. Of course he would use her. After all, she’s the only thing that has ever made me comply… until now.
“You need to come see her.”
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Did she overdose or something?”
The words come out flat. Maybe that makes me a bastard, but I don’t have a single fuck left to give.
I live for revenge now, and that is all. I don’t care about anything else, who dies, who lives, what happens in the world.
Nothing.
Null.
Zero.
“No,” he snaps, clearly not expecting that response. “But she’s bad.”
“And what exactly do you want me to do?” I ask.
“She asked for you.”
I end the call and remain where I am, staring at nothing for a long moment.
This could be a trap. She never wants to see me.
But if she really is unwell, perhaps that’s her last request. Some sentimental nonsense.
Do I care?
No.
Do I have something better to do?
