"He's not here."
"Then I guess I'll just have to wait."
"Just let me go. I'll bring Jake to see you."
"Sure you will. Just like all the other times you brought him to see me." He tightens his hold on my neck. "You kept my boy from me for seven damn years. But I ain't letting you do it no more. The boy is mine. He needs to be with his old man."
Hearing him threaten to take Jake makes me wants to kill him. If I could, I'd do it. I hate him so damn much.
"I was thinking," he says, "the only way I can get my boy back is to get rid of the person who took him away."
"I didn't take him. You went to prison."
"And your momma took off." He laughs. "Evenshedidn't want you. What ever happened to her? You ever hear from her?"
"No." I try to move but can't. He's got me shoved up against the counter, his body holding me in place.
"Fucking whore. Hope she's dead."
She would be if he had his way. He tried to kill her. She only survived because I got her help.
"We just going to stay like this all day or what?" I ask.
"I think we've talked enough."
He lets me go and I whip my arm back to hit him but he beats me to it. I see his fist coming toward me right before it slams into my face. My head bangs against the cabinet behind me and I stumble to the side, trying to get my balance. Just as I do, he hits me again, my body and head banging against the fridge. I fall to the ground, seeing stars, searing pain coming from every part of me.
"What's wrong, kid? Don't want to fight back?"
I look up and see those dark eyes staring down at me. He looks a lot older, deep wrinkles along his forehead and around his eyes. The thick black hair he used to have is all shaved off, leaving him with a shiny bald head. He's got new tats running down his neck and down both arms. And he's a lot bigger than I remember, like he's been living in the gym.
If I glanced at him on the street, I doubt I'd even recognize him. But I know those dark eyes. That deep voice. That sick twisted laugh.
"Where do you keep the knives?" he asks, walking around to the drawers. He yanks one open and holds up a knife. "First try."
I lunge at his legs but he's faster than me, moving out of the way right before I reach him. I fall to the ground and hear him laughing.
"Dumb fuck," he mutters as he leans down to me.
I cringe as something sharp hits my neck.
"How's that feel?" he says. "Should I dig it in a little deeper?”
The knife is in the side of my neck. I feel the warm blood pouring out.
"Don't do this," I say through gritted teeth. "I'm your son. Your own flesh and blood."
"You're a worthless piece of shit," he says, kicking my knee so hard I hear it crack. He either broke a bone or tore some cartilage. Either way, he just ended my football career.
Every part of me is throbbing with pain but I have to get up. I have to stop him. If I don't, he'll keep going until I'm dead.
I pull myself a few inches up from the floor, just enough to turn over.
"There you go," my dad says, as he slowly claps. "Keep going, son. You can do it."
He's looking down at me with that evil smile, loving every second of this. How is it possible I came from him? I would never do this to someone, especially my own damn son. How does a person even get this way?
Balancing on my good leg, I grab hold of the counter and pull myself to standing. He's about a foot in front of me. I could try to take a swing at him if he hadn't dislocated my shoulder when he threw me against the fridge. I can barely move my arm and the pain is excruciating.
