Page 29 of Monk
I stand there, scowling at him for a long moment and he just looks back at me with all the expression of a stone. It’s so hard for me to believe that once upon a time, when I looked into those eyes, I saw nothing but the love he felt for me. A genuinely deep and abiding love. And now, all I see is nothingness.
But I guess that was then, and this is now. It was so long ago, and it shouldn’t bother me. I’d be lying if I said now that the shock of seeing him has worn off, but all I feel is hurt. I’m surprised to find that wound is still open and so raw.
“Well… it was great seeing you again,” I snap. “It was really nice catching up with you.”
I turn on my heel and walk away without waiting for him to respond. Not that I think he will. He seems to have mastered the art of saying nothing since the last time I saw him. Walking out to the parking lot, I climb into my car and drive away quickly, nearly running over half a dozen people before I get myself under control.
And when I get onto the road, it’s not long before the tears start to fall. This is not what I’ve planned on today. Not even close to it.
Chapter Twelve
Monk
“When are you gonna get a job and start pitchin’ in around here?”
Hunched over the table, I look at the diploma sitting there. I know I’m an idiot for even expecting so much as a word of congratulations, but the confirmation is like a kick in the nuts. My parents didn’t even bother coming to my graduation. Not that I really expected them to. But seeing everybody at the ceremony with their families… that kind of pain hurts worse than his fists ever have.
Pushing through my anger and hurt, I eat my cereal as I try to ignore my dad. It’s not even noon yet, and already he smells like he’s had a few. He doesn’t usually get belligerently shitfaced until after noon, so I can only assume he and my mom got into some drunken, drug-fueled fight last night either about money—specifically the lack of it—or he wanted to get laid and she wouldn’t play ball.
When they fight, which is often, it’s usually one or the other of those things. I’ll assume since he’s getting on me about contributing to the household, their fight was about money. I don’t blame her for not wanting to screw him though. He’s fat, sweaty, smells like he hasn’t showered in a week, and his breath stinks worse than a sewer. Not that she’s a prize in that regard, either.
“You listenin’ to me, boy?”
“Trying not to.”
He grabs my bowl out from under me and hurls it against the wall. It shatters, spraying milk, glass, and Fruit Loops all over the kitchen. At least I got most of the bowl down before he did that.
“All you do is take. You take, take, take. It’s about time you start givin’ back, goddammit.”
“Take? That would imply you had something to give. Near as I can tell, since mom is the only one who works, you take just as much as I do. I’m your kid, what’s your excuse?”
My father cuffs me upside the head. “Watch your mouth, boy.”
The anger, my constant companion in life, is now bubbling, filling my veins with that dark poison. Growing up in this house, with parents who are junkies, drunks, and abusive as hell, hasn’t exactly taught me to feel anything but anger. They’ve taught me to hate and little else.
This isn’t the life I want to live, and I’ve tried to do something to put me on a different path. I’ve played sports, throwing myself into them and outworking everybody else. My hope is to be good enough to earn a scholarship, thinking that will be my ticket out of this place. And although I’m good—one of the best on my football and baseball teams—I still haven’t been recruited. Nobody’s offered me anything.
I’m sure it has everything to do with my parents. With my life. I’m sure my coaches haven’t done much to talk me up, probably told them all about my home life, which has scared the recruiters off. In this day and age, apparently nobody wants to roll the dice on a kid with a sketchy background. It doesn’t matter than I haven’t done anything wrong, that I’ve never been in trouble.
But my family name is so notorious and so synonymous to trouble, drugs, and abuse, nobody wants to give me a chance. It’s probably the biggest reason I haven’t been offered a scholarship. It’s probably the biggest reason I’m destined to go through life like them. A loser.
“You still ain’t answered my question. When are you gonna start contributin’ to this goddamn family?”
“Tell you what, I’ll start when you do.”
“You disrespectful little shit.”
For such a big, slovenly man, he moves quickly. Not expecting it, his fist connects with the side of my head, which snaps to the side as I topple out of the chair and hit the ground with a grunt. I see stars and feel dizzy for a moment, but I don’t have time to sort myself out because in the next moment, he’s hauling me to my feet.
The breath is forced from my lungs when he slams me into the wall. My head rebounds off of it hard, adding to my disorientation, but then his face is only inches from mine, his foul breath washing over me.
“You fuckin’ freeloader. All you do is take and it’s never enough for you, is it? You always want more. I need this, or I need that. You always want more,” he hisses, his spittle dotting my face.
My head clearing, I look at him and think about all of the things I’ve wanted to say for so long. All of the speeches I’ve practiced—the things I vowed I’d say to him one day—all crowd together in my mind. And then, they seem to hit some sort of bottleneck in my brain and nothing comes out. I gape at him, my fury and frustration at not being able to express myself building.
“And what about you, huh? All you do is sit around the house getting drunk and high. You’re a piece of shit and I hate your fucking guts.”
It’s all I manage to get out before he drives his fist into my face, and I feel my nose break. The blood, thick and warm, flows down my face, my mouth filling with the coppery taste of it. The rage flowing through me is so thick, I barely even feel it. A snarl on my face, I piston my arms out, slamming him in the chest. He lets out a grunt and staggers backward, nearly tripping over the chair.
