Page 5 of For Love & Torture
“Are you aware of why he’s here?” I ask the tall, muscular man who seems to have some empathy for the killer who sits in front of me.
“I am.” He clears his throat, making me look at him instead of the shell my father has become. “People do all kinds of crazy things we don’t all understand. This man is your father. You share blood, DNA, and history. You both love the same people. The rivers that connect you two run deep.”
“You make it sound romantic. Let me assure you, it’s not.” I look back at my father, who sits there stoically as we talk about him. “I don’t know the man who’s sitting in front of me. He’s not the man I took to the airport that day a couple of years ago. He’s a stranger to me now.”
“That man you knew is still inside of that body. Why not talk to him like you used to? Why not see if you can help him regain who he once was?” The guard steps back a few steps. “Ignore me, young man. Visit with your father.”
“So, you’re looking nothing like yourself,” I say as I look my father over and see only the slightest resemblance to the man I once knew. The man I trusted. The man who broke me. “And you’re a hell of a lot quieter than you were. I remember when I would come in late, after drinking and chasing women when I was far too young to be doing it. Boy, you’d lay into my ass—shouting, cursing, threatening to take my car away.”
I stop and wait to see if his expression will change. I want to see if anything changes in him. If the sound of my voice sparks something in him. If my reminder of how things were will shake his soul so he can finally tell me why he did what he did. Or maybe tell me he didn’t do anything.
Darkness is building inside me once more as my father says nothing, and I’m losing my grip. Shaking my head to push the anger back down, I find a lump lodged in my throat.
My mother’s voice is ringing inside of my head. “You have to help him,” it’s telling me.
I close my eyes and shake it off as I tell myself it’s not real. How do you help a man who’s not willing to help himself, anyway?
He moves a little, and I look at him. His eyes are on me, and a single tear falls down his cheek. I can’t take it anymore. Fury fills me as that tear trails down his wrinkled cheek. How could he do this to me?
Fighting my instincts to jump up and grab the man by his throat and end his useless life, I get up and walk away. I will not allow myself to feel sorry for the man.
My mother is dead. He won’t let us know what the fuck happened. He isn’t the one I want to feel sorry for. He is to blame. Mom’s death is on his shoulders. That’s it, end of story.
I make it five steps before I stop. Turning around, I see my father get up and walk to the guard, who’s looking at me with conviction in his brown eyes.
He holds my eyes as if by magic. I can’t look away even if I want to. I know it, and he knows it. “Wait.” The guard puts his hand on my father’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk to him anymore, Mr. Jamison?”
Without turning back to even look at me one last time, my father shakes his head and walks away from me. The guard turns to go with my dad.
I’m shaking with all kinds of emotions when I turn to leave. The man I knew is gone. I can’t see him ever coming back, and I don’t know if I’d be able to accept him if he did return to normal.
Walking to the parking lot, I open the door to my Jag. On the front seat, there’s a brand new box of pencils. Under that is a legal pad of yellow paper. I bought them to jot down notes for when I think of things that might be interesting for the new club.
The only thing on the pad of paper is the sketch I drew of a castle. I leave it on top and take the things back to the prison, leaving them with a guard and asking if they could be taken to my father.
I leave once more, feeling empty and numb. Hating my father and the whole damn world, too.
Nothing makes any sense to me. My parents loved each other. How can a man who loves a woman take her life?
Will I ever understand?
