Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Home.
I stand in front of the house I grew up in with its flaking, once-white paint, and front yard full of dirt for the second time since coming back. The first time, I took exactly one step inside before bailing.
The olive-green Oldsmobile sits in the cracked driveway, and nothing seems to have changed since I’ve been gone, except the boarded-up front window. The mailbox is knocked over, almost completely horizontal. I kick it when I walk past, inadvertently causing it to stand almost straight.
Don’t say I never did anything for you, you piece of shit.
Once I’m at the front door, I smell the old familiar scent of mothballs that my dad insists keeps stray cats away. I raise a fist to knock before deciding to let myself in. Inside, it’s dark, hot, and smells of stale cigarettes. Years of smoking in the house have resulted in nicotine-stained walls, but I can still see faint white patches where pictures used to hang.
And then I see him. John Kelley, in all his glory. Passed out in his black, cracked leather recliner, in front of an old television with a rabbit-ear antenna. A cigarette dangles from his fingertips with ash a mile long, and below it sits a collection of beer bottles.
“You got somethin’ to say, boy, or are you just gonna stand there and keep killing me in your mind?”
Okay, so maybe he isn’t asleep.
Wordlessly, I scan his face, noticing his yellow complexion and clammy skin. I didn’t know how I’d feel standing in this house, facing this man who couldn’t seem to put his bullshit aside for one goddamn minute to be a decent father. Even a decent human would’ve sufficed. But, the bitterness, resentment, and flat-out disgust are all still there.
“Well, no need,” he says with a cough. “My liver will kill me before you get the balls.”
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” I ask, the picture of apathy as I casually sit on the filthy couch. It’s the same one that was old, even when I was a baby, with its plaid design made up of different shades of tans and browns and wooden arms.
“No,” he says thoughtfully. “No, I guess you wouldn’t have any reason to, would you?”
“If you think that we’re going to be buddy-buddy just because you’re dying, think again.”
“Then, why are you here?” he rasps, taking a drag of his cigarette.
I look him dead in the eyes. “To bury you.”
He nods once, before looking back at the TV. “Fair enough.”
Minutes pass, him not knowing what to say, and me not wanting to say anything at all. Finally, he breaks the silence.
“I never meant for you to meet David.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Even hearing that name has my blood boiling, but he keeps speaking.
“I didn’t want him to know you so much as existed. And, hell, for the first few years, he didn’t.”
I give a heavy sigh, aiming for bored. “Is this going to be a thing? You’re dying, so now you’re trying to absolve yourself of all your sins and guilt?” I roll my eyes and sit back, propping one foot on my knee, arms spread over the itchy fabric of the couch. “Save your breath, because I don’t give a fuck about any of it.”
“My father…” he trails off, looking away before continuing. “He was rough with us both. But David was different. He’d always been…off, even from a young age. I don’t remember a time in my life when he was normal.”
I feel my smirk falter. “I said stop.”
“Then, once your mother died—”
“What happened to your window?” I say, nodding my chin in the direction of the boarded-up mess, changing the subject. I’m not talking about David, and I sure as hell am not talking about my mother.
“Ask your little girlfriend.”
My eyebrows pull together in confusion.
“Who?”
Maybe he means Whitley. She’s the one who told me he was hospitalized a few weeks ago and begged me to come home. Her mom is a registered nurse, and even though we don’t exactly live in a small town, it’s hard not to know who my dad is.
“The little blonde girl you used to run around with.”
“Briar?” That doesn’t make sense. How would she know what happened?
He nods and reaches for the beer bottle at his feet, liver be damned. “Threw a brick right through my window. She stood there seething for about ten minutes first. I didn’t think she’d do anything. She was just a little girl. So, I went about my business.”
His business. Also known as drinking enough vodka to kill a horse while watching Skinemax. Most likely in his underwear.
“I about shit my pants when it happened. Got my drunk ass up just in time to see her flip me off.”
“When?”
“Right after you left.” He shrugs. “Before I got my DUI.”
Well, well, well. Briar isn’t such an angel, after all. But I already knew that, didn’t I?