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)
Suit yourself.
I’ve mostly busied myself with cleaning this dump in silence, while my dad searches for the words to say. He watches me. I ignore him. He talks to me. I ignore him. There’s nothing he could say to take back the past ten years of my life, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.
“Where are you staying?” John asks from his place on his trusty old recliner. I fucking hate that chair. I’m surprised his skin hasn’t grafted to it by now. I glance up at him, debating on whether or not to respond, but something in his hopeful expression has me caving.
“Dash’s.”
He nods, expecting that answer, but doesn’t have anything else to add.
I turn my attention back to the giant oak entertainment center—probably about the same age as the decrepit couch—that takes up almost the entire length of the wall. The bottom is lined with cabinets sporting broken handles, and inside is filled with newspapers, my mom’s collection of Disney movies on VHS, art projects from when I was a kid, and old family pictures. What’s noticeably absent are photos of my mom and me. I know they used to be in here. That old bastard probably destroyed them.
I pick up a homemade Christmas ornament with a tiny handprint and a picture of a child I don’t even recognize anymore—happy and toothless and carefree. I turn it over. In jumbled, oversized letters, the back reads “Asher Kelley, age 7, 2nd grade”. A familiar feeling washes over me like an old friend—a mixture of anger and resentment—and I stuff it down into the trash bag full of all the other useless shit.
“You’re tossing that?” Dad asks, taking a swig of his water bottle, and I almost laugh. The sight is so foreign. I don’t ever remember him drinking anything but beer or liquor. The occasional cup of coffee, maybe. I want to tell him it’s too late for that, but I bite my tongue.
“Your mother loved that…” he trails off. Clearing his throat, he adds, “I loved it.” His voice is uncharacteristically gruff, and his eyes so sincere that it momentarily throws me off.
“Loved it so much that you threw it in with the rest of the crap you don’t give a shit about?” I start grabbing junk by the handful and shoving it into the bag, not even sparing a glance at it. It’s better this way.
“Son.”
A turkey handprint from Thanksgiving. An article from the year I made regionals in swim. A birthday card.
“Son.”
A Hot Wheels car. A photo of me with my first swim medal.
“Son!”
“What!” I snap, rising to my feet to grab another garbage bag.
“I’m sorry,” he says simply, yet emphatically. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I shake my head, not wanting to hear this shit again. “I’m fucking here, aren’t I?” What more does he want from me?
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “Don’t throw away the good things in your life on my account. I’ll be gone soon, probably not soon enough for your liking, but you’ll want these things one day. Trust me on that.”
Tears well up in his eyes, and I look away. My dad has never had a problem expressing his feelings. Just the opposite, actually. He loved hard, and he fought harder. Whether he was crying happy tears at one of my swim meets or in an alcohol-induced fit of rage, he felt everything more than most people. Even when he beat the shit out of me, I knew that he loved me, as fucked up as that sounds. He’d always had trouble controlling his emotions, but after my mom, the calm to his storm, passed away, there was no one to help him reel it in. More than that, there was no desire to reel it in. I should’ve been enough. But I wasn’t. And therein lies the problem.
If for some god-forsaken reason I ever become a father, I will live and fucking breathe for that kid. I will die before ever letting one single bad thing touch that kid. And I for damn sure wouldn’t hurt my kid or send him off into the hands of a psychopath.
“I came for you, Ash,” he admits in a quiet voice, shocking me. I don’t show it, though. I stare blankly, waiting for him to continue.
“I know it doesn’t matter now. But after I completed my court-ordered rehab, I went to David’s house. I wasn’t supposed to, not legally, but I didn’t care. I knew you probably wouldn’t want to stay with me, but I had a plan. I was going to help set you up with your own place. But you were already gone. Said you ran away, and he never bothered looking.”
My fists clench at my sides. It’s bullshit. All of it. My dad didn’t have a dime to his name.