Blood. Real fucking blood. My whole body is shaking.
"Oh you’re a fucking monster." I feel a tear on my cheek. "You seriously think this makes you right? This makes you strong? You’re just a fucking miserable old man who can’t stand seeing people happy! Do you understand that?"
I’m yelling now. I can’t stop. "Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck wakes up every day and chooses to bethiscruel?" I take a step closer.
"You ruin everything! Everyone! You poison every room you’re in! You can’t stand the idea of someone being loved when you’re too fucking bitter to feel anything anymore!"
My throat burns, my eyes sting, but I keep going. "You’re not a father to me. You’re a fucking infection. You’ve made my life hell! You’ve madehislife hell, probably mom’s too, and guess what, we’re not fucking doing this anymore."
I’m shaking. Head to toe. But fuck it, I’m tired. I’m tired of flinching. Tired of swallowing things whole just to keep the peace. Tired of pretending this is survivable.
Something in me hardens through the tremor. Because I can’t keep living inside this loop. It’s time.
Time to end this whole fucking tragedy.
He points at us. "You’ll regret this. You both will—" I cut him off, laughing bitterly. "Regret? The only thing I regret is every fucking year I spent trying to earn your love!"
I lean down to Gio, wipe the blood from the corner of his bottom lip gently, then stand up straight again.
"You really think this whole act would work on me forever? I’m not twelve anymore. I’m twenty-fucking-two. Get a grip." His jaw clenches. Good. He’s swallowing every word like poison.
"You wanna pretend I’m still some scared kid you can shame into submission? You want me to listen to you when you’re saying stuff like 'Rava, don’t let that street rat get inside your head'? Well guess what, that 'street rat' has already been inside my body. Cry if you want. I don’t care anymore."
"Stop talking."
"No. I won’t stop talking. Cause you didn’t stop hating when I just needed some acceptance! Or at least some fucking tolerance, God!" I look at him. "You know what really pisses me off?" I throw at him. "If you had just loved me right, if you had given me the bare minimum of attention,maybeI would’ve tried harder to make you understand what the hell was going on inside me. Because God, I feel so goddamn much! More than youeverbothered to see! And you never,not once, asked me if I needed you! Not one time. You just assumed I was fine, or dramatic, or weak, or whatever the hell made it easier for you. I kept begging in ways you never noticed. Every good grade. Every achievement. Every time I shut my mouth instead of talking back. Every time I tried to make myself smaller so you wouldn’t get disappointed again."
My voice cracks but I keep going. "You hadeverychance to show up for me. To be a father. To ask me why I was hurting, why I felt like I was drowning, why I kept shrinking around you. But you didn’t. You just blamed. Judged. Compared me to everyone you actually liked. And now suddenly you’re shockedI turned to Gio? The one person who actually fucking listens? Who held me when I was falling apart because of you?"
I step even closer, my heartbeat loud in my ears. "You want me to take your advice?Earn it.Earn the right to talk about my life. Earn the right to tell me who I should love. Because you lost that the moment you made me feel like I wasn’t worth loving in the first place." I breathe out, ragged and furious.
"If you wanted a son who listened, you should’ve tried being a dad who cared."
He looks like he wants to throw up.
"Jesus Christ, Rava," he says, "you’re being dramatic. Again. I provided for you! I put a roof over your head. Clothes on your back. Education. Opportunities. If you didn’t feel loved, that’s somethingyouneed to work through, not something you blame on me." My breath freezes in my chest. "That boy behind you didn’t 'save' you," he continues, waving a hand like I’m talking nonsense.
"He just happened to be around while you were… emotional. You’re young. You confuse comfort with love. You always have."
I blink, shocked.
"And as for all this crying and shouting… honestly, I don’t know what you expect me to say. I raised you the way I thought was best. Maybe you’re just too sensitive to handle real life."
My heart splits clean down the middle. He exhales sharply, annoyed.
"You think he loves you? Enjoy it while it lasts. But don’t stand there and rewrite history to make me the villain because you feel guilty about your choices. I did my part. And if you needed more love?" he finishes, shrugging.
"You should’ve said something. I’m not a mind reader."
Oh my god.
He still doesn’t get it.
He never did. He never will.
Not because I didn’t explain it right. Not because I didn’t cry hard enough. Not because I didn’t try. But because he doesn’t want to. He’ll always twist things so he’s right. Always make my pain look like exaggeration. Always act like surviving under his roof was some kind of blessing I should thank him for.
I could literally bleed my heart out in front of him and he’d still complain about the mess on the floor.
