Page 59 of Satan's Spawn
Taking Raven away from me is the literal definition of pushing me too far.
“You want your precious car back, Crayton? You’re going to have to prove yourself worthy of it.” He continues to spite me, and I’m up and off the bench in a flash, slamming my fist into one of the lockers.
“Why the fuck are you doing this?”
What I really should ask is, why won’t you just accept me for who I am?
“Because I love you, and everything I’ve been doing to help you become a better person thus far has failed.”
I think about all the ways this man has proven his love for me, and for some unfathomable reason the harsh words I want to say never come.
My rage turns to exhaustion as I press my forehead against the locker, exactly how Rebecca did to hers earlier.
I blame her for this. If she never came into the fucking picture, my Mustang would never be out of it.
She continues to obliterate every sense of normalcy in my life and I won’t stop until she’s high tailing thefuckout of Manhattan.
Out of my world for good.
The muscles in my jaw tense as I say, “I’ll find out where you’re hiding it. Even if I have to raise hell at every shop in the city.”
“Assuming it’s in Manhattan,” he counters. “So, in between hunting the entire Tri-state area for your car, you will apply yourself in school. Which includes maintaining a healthy average and absolutely no complaints fromanystudents or teachers. Then, if you’re in good standing by midterm ending, I will consider giving you the car back.”
That’s not till fucking December.
“You’re seriously overestimating my ability to control my fists when they feel like flying.”
It’s bullshit. We both know he’s the one and only person I’d never lay a finger on.
Mechanics on the other hand…
Proving my point, Dad responds, “I have faith in youandyour fists. I’m doing all of this because there’s so much more to you than what you allow us to see. One day you’ll thank me, Crayton.”
One day you will thank me, Isaiah.
My mothers words come back to haunt me for the second time in this locker room, but I swallow them down.
My father’s not her, but I can’t deny the similarities right now. Even if his new disciplinary methods are nowhere near as sick and, some may even say, overdue.
Fuck those people, though.
I sit back down on the bench, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear. “You made your point, I’ll stop my shit.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I can video call you right now if that helps.”
“You want me to add on some more months? Or maybe I can save us both the headache and sell the car off to some antique collector. A ‘69 Boss? I bet I can make a healthy profit too.”
He fucking wouldn’t, there’s no way I drove him this far down the road of desperation.
“You’re lying.”
There’s nothing but silence before the sound of a phone ringing on the other end breaks it, followed by an unfamiliar male voice booming through the speaker.
“Bill’s Vintage Cars and Bikes, Bill speaking, how may I help you?”
“Hi Bill, name’s Cillian.” My father greets him all chill and shit. “I’m calling regarding my ‘69 Mustang Boss 429.”
