Page 82 of Parrish

Chapter Twenty-eight

Jack Parrish

Come to me, Parrish.

“Jack?”

Blinking, I lift my chin and focus on my therapist.

“Hmm,” I reply, reaching into my kutte. Grabbing the tin of toothpicks, I keep in my pocket, I shove one between my lips before offering her one.

“I’m good,” she says, holding up her hand. Shrugging my shoulders, I pocket the tin and roll the toothpick between my teeth.

Subjecting myself to her scrutiny once a week, hoping she’ll miraculously discover a way to calm the crazy, I’ve made Dr. Spiegel rich over the years. If she’s not talking me through my feelings, she’s prescribing me anti-depressants or researching the next new drug that might make me sane. Fuck if the FDA hasn’t approved it, let’s test it out on Parrish.

Of course, her efforts are wasted and I’m billed for the hour.

The cycle repeats like a broken record.

Clearing her throat, she smooths a hand down her fancy blouse and eyes me intently. I almost want to laugh at her. How many times are we going to do this dance before she gives up?

“Why don’t we begin with why you’re here.”

“We both know why I’m here,” I retort. “I’m fucking nuts and you need a job.”

Crossing one leg over my knee, I stretch my arms across the back of the sofa and raise an eyebrow, daring her to correct me.

“Jack,” she exasperates. “This isn’t a joke.”

“No fucking kidding,” I deadpan.

“Mr. Jameson brought you here because he found you in the cemetery holding a gun to your head.”

“Not the first time I tried to off myself, Spiegel and I’m pretty sure it won’t be the last either,” I hiss.

I’m still bitter Pipe didn’t let me pull the trigger. If I was ever close to ending it, yesterday was the day, but the motherfucker showed up and wrestled the gun out of my hand.

After Reina woke up and had no recollection of me and Danny, I left the hospital. I put my life in my makers hands and let her decide my fate. With a bottle of Jack in one hand and my gun in the other, I found myself in front of Junior’s grave. Losing Reina was the one thing that finally sent me over the edge and gave me the courage to reunite with my boy.

I was ready.

Really, I was.

I was fucking tired of fighting.

Tired of losing.

My mind craved peace.

My worn body overdue for rest.

It was time to take my final bow.

Sliding back the safety, I lifted the barrel of the gun to my head and stared at Junior’s name etched across his tombstone.

Come to me, Parrish.

With my son’s name on my tongue and my maker in my ear, I wrapped my finger around the trigger. Visions of my life danced before my eyes. All the ugly. So much ugly.

---