Page 94 of Blood Ties
I’m still standing like that, muttering to myself, when the front door opens and heavy boot treads approach. I don’t look up, but I see out of the corner of my eye as Dad climbs the steps, and then rears back at the sight of the bones on the floor.
A beat passes. I’m still staring.
“What the fuck is this?” Dad growls. “What have you done now, boy?” He steps toward me, his hands balled into fists at his sides, while I stand unmoving. “Never could leave her alone in peace,” he says. “Always making a fucking mess out of—”
I turn and swing. A wild punch that clips his jaw and sends him staggering off-balance. I launch myself at him again before he can recover, screaming something senseless, burning with a desire to hurt. To kill. He hits me across the face, a blow that snaps my head to the side, but I hit him back twice as hard. I pummel him with my fists again and again. He raises his arms to defend himself and stumbles back into his bedroom. Retreating from me. He wears a look of shock, and it only makes the blood roar louder in my ears.
He may be bigger than me, but I’m ten times as angry. All that pent-up rage feeds into every punch. He grunts as my knuckles hit his cheekbone, gags as I strike him in the stomach. When he hits me back, I barely feel it. His fist catches my nose and sends me staggering into the armoire, but I just throw myself at him again. I grin like a madman through the slippery spill of blood from my nose.
Dad falters at the look on my face. I see a glimpse of fear on his face, for the first time I can remember.
“Frank!” he shouts. “Get in here, Frank!”
He turns and lunges toward the bed, fumbling for the drawer on the nightstand.
I tackle him before he can get it open. We both land on the floor, me on top. I hit him in the face again, and again, and again, until the thud of my fist becomes a wet thwack, and his struggles weaken.
I stop when I realize he’s not trying to block the blows anymore. Tears and blood trail down my face, drip over my chin and fall on my dad’s mangled face. I barely recognize him like this. He doesn’t seem as big as he’s always been inside my head.
I wipe my face and force myself to my feet. I’m shaking with adrenaline as I stumble to the nightstand he was trying to get to so badly. I yank open the drawer, and there it is: a hunting knife.
I stare at it for a moment, and then reach in and curl my fingers around the handle. The blade glints in the light, deadly sharp.
The anger inside of me hardens into something cold and just as razored. I was hoping to find his shotgun, but this’ll do fine.
My dad is down, half-conscious. I should go now, get Riley and run. But...
I step over him, knife in hand, breathing hard. He’s not moving. Hurt bad. But he’s still stirring, wheezing through his bloodied mouth. He’ll survive, unlike Momma. Unlike so many people who stumbled into our house over the years and ended up food for the pigs. They didn’t deserve what they got. But he does.
I crouch down, one knee pressing on his chest. “You,” I grit out, “are a fucking monster.”
I raise the knife. Not hesitating this time.
Then a meaty fist grabs me by the hair and pulls. Uncle Frank slams my head straight into the corner of the nightstand, and the world goes black.
?Chapter Forty-Seven
