Page 16 of Bride By Initiation

He doesn't ask questions. When I need to figure something out, he drives, and I think.

I roll the partition up and lean back, staring out the window, trying to forget about Zara and where I've seen the skull brand before tonight.

It's clear as day, and I can see it on a man's hand, but it's not John's. It's in the same spot, too, but I can't recall whose hand it is, even though it feels familiar.

The city lights flash past as we drive, and a few hours go by before things come together. I glance at my hand, make a fist, and turn it.

My stomach drops. The hand is familiar because it looks like mine. There's only one other man who had hands like mine.

My father.

A series of flashbacks attack me to the point I feel nauseous.

I'm seven, maybe eight, and I'm sparring with my dad. He grits his teeth whenever I hit the punching pad on his left hand. I don't take a lot of notice because I'm young. But once we get out of the ring, he removes the pad, displaying bloody white gauze wrapped around his hand.

"Stay here, Sean," he tells me, then enters the locker room and returns with a clean bandage.

By the time we get home, the red spot has returned.

My mom attempts to clean it up and stop the bleeding. She says, "This scab is nasty. Why did you feel the need to brand yourself instead of getting a tattoo like a normal person?"

Dad doesn't answer.

My father's hand is healed now. The skull with flowers is prominent against his skin, but there's no color to it.

I'm a year older. The mark has become more detailed. The flowers now tattooed pink.

The following year, I'm getting home from school and Mom asks him, "When did you add the shades of gray and black?"

He replies, "It was time."

I stand behind him and stare at it over his shoulder, unable to tear my eyes off it until he realizes I'm in the room. He rises, kisses me on the head, and says, "I'll be home later tonight."

Isqueeze my eyes shut, beating myself up.

How could I not have remembered?

It's another thing I've blocked out.

It's a recurring problem I have. After my dad died, I blocked out memories of him. It makes me feel guilty, but I don't even know what I've forgotten until it reappears.

Why did I not want to remember his skull brand?

Anxiety and fear, along with a sense of urgency, plague me. I roll down the partition and bark, "Back to the party. Now."

Conán does an illegal U-turn across the median and heads back to town.

Why would that guy have the same brand as my dad?

Maybe it's a coincidence.

No, it's not.

What was Dad involved in?

Conán weaves through traffic, exits the expressway, and within minutes, pulls up to the curb in front of O'Malley's Pub.

I jump out and rush inside, glancing around the crowded bar. Only a few people have left, which doesn't surprise me.

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