Page 47 of Bound

Fear and sadness wasn't allowed, it wasn't a part of our vocabulary when I was growing up. You took whatever shit was thrown at you like a man, regardless of what it was.

He used to tell me when I was a kid that if he saw a hint, a flicker, a damn pause in my fucking muscles—he'd make my mother a happy woman and give her the daughter she always wanted; by cutting off my balls one by one.

His tactic had worked. I didn't cry, I never whined or fussed about anything he ordered me to do. To me that was normal; all the anger, the demands, I didn't know anything else.

I did as I was told, period; no questions, no second guessing what he said. My head would bow, and I would run off to complete whatever medial task he assigned me.

He might not want to admit it, but he helped create the monster I had become, the empty pit of a man that walked around without a purpose, with no skills but how to kill a man with his bare hands.

I remember being really little one time and asking my mother why he treated me like I was his soldier. I never did get an answer, because she never had the chance to give it.

Franco walked in, his face red, the thick vein in his neck pulsing like it was its own entity, like a parasite that had taken control of his body. He smacked me so hard across the face for questioning who he was that I never asked again.

I wouldn't say it out loud, but his hands molded me like clay into the perfect mafia soldier. I was cold, calculated, and good at following orders. I learned to be that way because of him. I didn't give a shit about the people I had killed, or the suffering I brought on their families.

At least not at first. That changed, it all changed in one single night. A night that I still had nightmares about, a single moment that will haunt me forever.

“Why are you here?” he asked, taking a small sip from his cup. “I didn't ask you to come.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn't have called me if it wasn't something really bad.” Gritting my teeth, I tried to stay calm. “You should have told me, why didn't you? Why did you just hang up?”

Not letting him answer, my mother cut in. “I'll go make you something to eat.” Sniffling, she glanced at my father, then back at me. “Chicken parm, how does that sound? You always loved chicken parm.”

“Mom, no, you don't have to. You should relax, take some time to your—”

Resting her hand on my chest, she stopped me from speaking. “It will help me relax, help get my mind off all of this for a little bit.” Giving me a soft smile, she lifted her hand to my cheek and thumbed my face. “I'm really happy you're here. I've missed you, Porter.”

“Really, Mom, I'm fine. Why don't you go upstairs and lay down for a little while?”

Swirling his glass in the air, my father dipped his head to look into the cup. “The woman said she wants to cook, let her go cook.” Veering his stare at my mom, he nodded his head. “Chicken parm sounds good about now.”

My mother bowed her head, looking between us. The tension in the air was dense and thick, making the small standing room hot and stuffy. I knew they fought about me and my place in this family.

For my stepfather, I was dead to him. He wanted nothing to do with me, he hated everything about me. But my mother wasn't as harsh, she couldn't cut me out completely, and he resented her for that.

She still loved me in her own way, even if she hated the man I had become.

Forcing another small smile, she started down the hall towards the kitchen, and I stood quietly, watching her leave.

When my mother was out of view, I looked back at my father. “What the fuck happened?”

Stuffing a hand into his pocket, he jerked his head for me to follow him. “Your brother wouldn't listen and he did something stupid. He got shot Porter, and it's your fault.”

“Who shot him?” I asked, my voice trembling with pent up rage.

You know who it was.

“Oh, so now you suddenly care? I highly doubt that.”

Gritting my teeth, my fingers curled into my palms. “I didn't come here for you to play mind games with me. Just spit it out, who killed him?” Walking behind him, I stopped in the center of the living room as Franco kept walking towards the fireplace. “Who? Who did this, Franco?”

“Franco? So what? Now you're too good to call me Dad anymore?” He chuckled and shook his head. “Porter, I didn't ask you to come here, you decided to come on your own. We were fine without you, we don't need you now.” Waving the glass in the air, he stared up at a picture of my brother from grade school. “Your mother is the only reason I called you at all. If I had it my way you'd be clueless still, living in whatever fucking hellhole you created for yourself.”

“Look, I fucked up, I know that. But I meant what I said before, I never meant to hurt any of you. I did the right thing in the end, you and I both know that. So, why can't you just let it go?”

“Right, you never meant to hurt us. You never meant to hurt your mother or your brother.” Pointing his finger out to the side, he eyed me over his shoulder. “Except, the choices we make affect other people, Porter, even if you think they won't.”

“I'm not playing these fucking games with you. All of that is in the past, it's not who I am anymore. I just need you to tell me who did this.” He wouldn't say, simply staring off into space, leaving his thoughts a mystery. “Tell me what the hell happened, I need to know.”

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