Page 34 of Parrish

Chapter Fourteen

Jack Parrish

Climbing out of bed, I run my fingers through my hair and try to shake the taunting voice from my head, but it’s no use. Once that bitch starts talking, there ain’t no stopping her. I pull open a drawer and grab a pair of sweats, dragging them up my legs as she continues to torture me.

It’s you and me now.

Until death do we part.

If I was sure that was true, I’d shove my gun in my mouth and pull the trigger. With my luck there is an afterlife and I’ll be tortured in death as much as I have in life, if not more. So instead of reaching for my gun and blowing my brains all over my bedroom, I grab the humidor I keep in the top drawer of my dresser and take out a perfectly rolled joint.

Starting for the door, I pause and glance over my shoulder at my sleeping wife.

“You,” I rasp, knowing I won’t hear her well-rehearsed reply.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

At the sound of my maker’s voice, I turn and walk out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me. Knowing my mind is in rare form, that there is no reprieve in sight, I bypass Danny’s room and let my legs carry me down the stairs as quickly as possible. Walking through the living room, I pause and stare at the wall above the fireplace that is decorated with picture frames of all sizes. Anyone who enters our home would think it’s a shrine to our family marking all our milestones. They’d never know those frames cover several gaping holes manufactured by my fist the day Junior died and serve as a reminder of how fucking insane I truly am. When I start to think I can beat the mind games, I remove the frames from the hooks and stare at the holes. Instantly, I come crashing down from my high and become a casualty of mental illness.

I should tear the frames down and spare myself the agony, but I’m a glutton for punishment. Instead of shutting the crazy off, I engage in the lunacy and let my overcrowding mind wander as I make my way towards the back of the house. I’m barely out the door before I flick the lighter and take my first hit.

Holding my breath, I drop my ass in one of the resin chairs and lean back. After another moment I blow out a stream of smoke. My throat burns, and my lungs feel heavy as I fight the urge to cough. Back in the day, I was good for two packs of Marlboro’s and at least five joints a day but becoming a father after forty will make you change your ways. When Reina told me she was pregnant with Danny, I didn’t just quit smoking cigarettes, I cut back on the pot too. I wanted to be there for my boy. I was determined to live long enough to see him grow into a man.

Funny how shit changes.

Taking another hit, I welcome the burn in my lungs and wonder how I got to this point in my life. When did I stop wanting to be a better man for my family? When did I give up and become a fucking pussy? Ten years ago, I would’ve pissed on a deal. Hell, I would’ve pissed on the fucking district attorney too. Instead, I’m his bitch.

A bitch giving up everything I love just to take it in the ass. I had no fucking business bringing the cartel to our doorstep, but a brother was in need and I foolishly thought I was fucking invincible. The old me would’ve never orchestrated a meeting with a bunch of drug-pushing pricks and I sure as fuck wouldn’t have played nice with Javier Santos. I would’ve fucking ambushed those cocksuckers, chopped them the fuck up and burned their flesh in front of the women who shit them out of their cunts.

Ten fucking years ago, I wasn’t this far gone in the head. I was still able to make sense of my thoughts. The meds were still regulating my mania and I could keep the bitch of maker silent. Ten years ago, I was a different man. One who didn’t fucking talk to birds or sing hymns.

I take another long pull of the joint before clipping the end and tucking it behind my ear. I thought the pot would take the edge off and quiet all the noise inside my head, but I feel worse than I did before and to boot, there’s now an incessant ringing in my ears.

Knowing sleep isn’t possible, I make my way back inside the house and to the family shrine above the mantel. Staring at the photos on the wall, the voice in the back of my head pushes through and starts to harass me. Raising my hands, I push my fingers through my short hair. As I’m about to pull at the salt and pepper strands a beacon of light streams through the front window, but as quickly as it appears, it also fades.

Dropping my hands from my head, I tear my eyes away from the photos and stalk towards the front of the house. As I reach the window, I push the curtains aside and stare into the dark night. The patrol car no longer sits in front of my house and I wonder why.

To the right, Parrish.

My head jerks at my maker’s command only to find nothing but blackness.

To the left.

My attention snaps to the left.

“Stop playing games,” I growl as I stare across the empty street.

Peek-a-boo.

Desperation and frustration chip at my resolve and I fist the curtains. As I debate on whether I should rip them from the rod or plaster them to the window, the light returns. It temporarily blinds me and my hold loosens on the fabric as I shield my eyes from the stream of light. Blinking, I force my eyes to focus and stare out the window. The source of light is a pair of headlights. The car they belong to slowly rolls down the street and comes to a complete stop in front of my house. It takes five fucking seconds for me to realize the car is identical to the one in the parking lot and for it to click that the motherfucker who watched me bend my wife over my bike is now sitting in front of my house.

My home.

The place where my wife and son lay their heads.

Without hesitation, I turn away from the window and start for the front door. I pause in front of the coat closet and pull open the door. Reaching for the baseball bat on the floor, I wrap my fingers tightly around the Louisville slugger. My knuckles whiten and my jaw clenches as I work the locks open on the front door. With the bat hitched high over my shoulder, I charge outside ready to attack the son of a bitch, but my feet come to a halt when I look towards the street and find the car no longer there.

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