Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Through the prism of Arco’s warped perspective, a peculiar essence emerged—the contours of Grant’s character and a sincere desire that his son have the same unnatural detachment that made him a sociopath.
Arco found himself captivated by his son’s unquenchable curiosity, recognizing in it a familiar hunger for exploration. At the tender age of six, Grant’s quest for knowledge surpassed mere childhood inquisitiveness, evoking memories of his father’s own sinister proclivities.
I try to suck in a breath, but there’s no air in my lungs. What the fuck is he inferring?
Among the haunting tales, one incident loomed over their shared history. Grant’s encounter with a delicate bird’s nest concealed within their backyard sent ripples of unease through the mind that penned these unsettling memoirs. Instead of a passive appreciation of its fragile beauty, Arco writes how Grant succumbed to what he called a “predatory instinct.” It welled Arco with pride when his son’s innocent hands closed around the unborn lives within. For Arco, it was a chilling reflection, a confirmation of a dark legacy he had unknowingly bestowed upon his son.
From behind prison bars, Arco reveled in the twisted possibilities. The notion of Grant carrying forth his father’s malevolence, of mastering the art of manipulation, ignited a nefarious pride within him. His imagination wove intricate narratives within his diaries where Grant’s path intertwined with his own, both predator and prey, mirroring each other’s dark desires.
In this enigmatic dance of nature and nurture, the omniscient observer glimpsed the blurred lines of Grant’s fate. Would he succumb to the haunting allure of his lineage, embracing the legacy of darkness that coursed through his veins? Or would he defy the shackles of his bloodline, forging a path untainted by the sins of his father?
Jesus!
Fuck!
The book falls from my hands, thudding to the carpet. I lurch off the bed and stagger into the bathroom. Falling to my knees, I barely get the toilet cover opened before I vomit. The beer comes up mixed with the soup, splashing in the toilet bowl. My stomach empty, I continue to wretch as the words I just read reverberate through me.
Panic starts to overwhelm me and it feels like a cinder block is on my chest. I try to drag in a deep lungful of air to break the claustrophobia of my anxiety, but I’m only able to pant through the terror of it all.
I push away from the toilet bowl and sag against the shower door. Something tickles my cheek and I reach up, realizing my face is wet with tears.
That fucker lied. I had no such predatory instinct and I most certainly never tried to destroy those bird’s eggs. I was so excited to find them and I showed my mother. I wanted to touch one, but she wouldn’t let me. Arco was sitting on the patio, drinking a beer and watching us.
And that was it.
That’s all that happened, but he portrayed me as having the same dark desires he had.
He’s a sociopath, I remind myself.
Rather, his official diagnosis was antisocial personality disorder.
Among its many characteristics are manipulation and lying for personal gain.
All of it is a big fucking lie and yet… it’s been printed. It’s in the hands of thousands upon thousands of people. News channels are discussing it, reporters are calling me to get my side.
Because they fucking want to believe that I crush eggs with baby birds inside.
I rub my hands over my face and when I open my eyes, they land on the book lying just past the bathroom door on the carpet.
There’s no way Simone read this book because if she’d read just that one passage, she’d be running as far away from me as possible.
My resolve is renewed. Simone can’t be a part of my life. She doesn’t deserve the fetid stink of Arco’s legacy and all I can think is, Thank fuck we didn’t get pregnant.
CHAPTER 6
Simone
The Zoom meeting is wrapping up and I share my screen with the team. “If you’ll look at the spreadsheet, I’ve broken down this week’s collections prospects. Hardy’s team will handle soil, water and foliar samples. Renshaw will do the insects and invertebrates.”
“Bug dude,” someone calls out, but I don’t know who.
Several people laugh and Renshaw says, “Can’t help it if you scientists are too weenie to catch and dissect the critters.”
Ordinarily, I would laugh and give everyone else hell about it, but nothing seems funny anymore. I plow right along. “Farber’s team is on lichens and tree core samples. Any questions?”
Of course there are and I weed through them one by one. Ordinarily, if I were back home, I’d be on one of the collection teams as we work on the acid rain project and then I’d have my face pressed to a microscope, which is my favorite part of what I do. But now I’m doing mostly project management and data analysis as I work from Pittsburgh.