“I told you tolook,” I growl.
“No,” he whimpers, trying to shake his head, but I hold it in place. “No,” he says again.
“Alright then,” I say, pulling two ophthalmic speculums from my bag that I happen to have on hand.What can I say? My job is interesting.“We’ll do it the hard way.”
Phil thrashes weakly, but it’s no use. Within seconds, his eyes are pried open, wide and unable to blink.
And then he sees it.
The walls come alive with horror as he’s forced to see the toll his son has taken on the world. Every wall plastered with evidence of his son’s evil acts.
Mugshots of Timmy at every stage of his miserable adult life.
Police records detailing arrests for domestic violence, public intoxication, and terroristic threats. Criminal charges, police statements, court records, and outstanding child support notices.
Photos of women’s faces bruised and swollen, fat lips, black eyes, children with bruises.
X-rays and scans of shattered bones and fractured skulls.
Handwritten restraining orders filled with words that sting like acid:attacked me with deer antlers, attacked me with a hammer, strangled me,poured boiling water on me,threatened me with a chainsaw, threatened to blow fireworks up between my eyes, threatened to drive a truck into me.
Phil’s breath catches, but he stays still, as if not moving means none of this is real.
I step closer, my voice dripping with disdain. “They must’ve all done something to deserve it, right, Phil? Every woman. Every child. Every shattered bone and fractured skull—clearly, they earned it.”
“No,” Phil mumbles.
“Say it louder, Phil. Defend your son. Go on, tell me how he’s really a ‘nice guy.’”
His face flames with indignation. “He’s a good person! He just—he’s had a hard life!”
I laugh, a sharp, cruel sound. “Ahard life? Timmy’s life wasn’t hard—it was easy because youlethim make everyoneelse’slife hard instead. You enabled this monster, Phil. Every time you defended him, excused him, brushed it under the rug—you made this.”
I press the remote in my hand, and the screens light up. Footage of Timmy floods the room.
“I’m going to kill you, you stupid fucking cunt!”
“I’m greasing the wheels to put you in jail.”
“I’m going to destroy your life.”
“You won’t be alive soon.”
“Sure, I make some things up when I tell dad things. But I want him on my side, so I say what I have to.”
Phil’s breathing grows shallow, and sweat beads on his brow.
“Recognize that voice?” I ask.
“I—”
“And this?” I press another button. Surveillance footage shows Timmy stumbling through the meth encampment, laughing as he flicks a lighter at someone’s tent. Another clip shows him screaming at Margaux, the veins in his neck bulging as he calls her every vile name imaginable.
Footage of him stumbling around muttering to himself and cursing at random passersby.
Phil slumps in the chair.
“Is this your ‘really nice guy’?” I ask.
