Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry I lost it back there. You know I love you, right?”
Love. I’m not sure Paul even knows the meaning of the word. Or perhaps he does. Maybe to him, love is violence with glimmers of light. Perhaps when he places his hands on my flesh in bouts of anger, it’s moments of true unbridled passion. I don’t comprehend what’s in his mind, and no matter what I do, I can’t change who he truly is. All I can do is accept this place he has made for me in hell or dig myself out, hoping to find peace and tranquility again.
His fingers dig into my biceps, warning me to pick my words carefully. He’s letting me know that one false move and the makeup I applied will be for nothing because fresh bruises will cover my body like a blast. “I understand, Paul. I’m sorry for everything.”
I’m pathetic. But at least I realize it. I’m not convinced Paul cares for me anymore. Perhaps he never has. Today is the day I recognize without a doubt that if I stay, Paul will kill me.
Chapter Two
BRYCE
I fling the door open and stare at my son. He’s not a large man, but he’s inherited my height. At six feet- three inches, his short girlfriend looks much like a child. His arm possessively holds her to his side like a woman clutches a designer handbag she can’t afford. Something flashy to show the world that he’s somebody.
Paul’s always been weak that way, unable to stand on his own merit. More interested in projecting the idea of what others might see as desirable. The fucked up part of my world, the parts I loathe, all wrapped up in my progeny. I could use the excuse that when I had Paul, I was a kid myself, sixteen and a father, but the reality is that my father’s genes are dominant in his veins. My old man would be proud to witness Paul, his grandson, the same monster he always wished I’d be.
I’ve seen Paul on and off through the years, but when he needed me the most, I was locked up in Bedford Hills for bashing a guy's head in after he shot one of my buddies outside a club in Hell's Kitchen. I got ten years for excessive force. What was I supposed to do? Give the asshole flowers for killing my buddy and putting two bullets in me? I’ve still got the scars to prove it.
When I got out, Paul was fifteen, and the damage was already done. He’d been left to his own devices, and his mother was good at using my criminal record to keep him from me. We only reconnected when he started showing up in my circles, trying to make a name for himself on the streets.
So I did what any father worth a lick would and kept my eye out for him to ensure his smart mouth didn’t get him shot or dead in a ditch. I was too soft on him because of my damn guilt, which did him no favors and created something far worse. A fucking wife beater.
Even as a kid, Paul used to bully others. But if anyone who presented a fair fight stepped up to him, Paul would tuck his tail between his legs and run. Just like my father, picking on those he could easily overpower but pissing his pants when he had to step up to someone who could bash his head in without even breaking a sweat.
Remorse churns in my gut because I’ve got no one to blame for how he turned out other than me. I used to ignore Paul’s behavior. I want to say Julie made it hard, and though she did, I could have done better. I could have stepped up, but ten years behind bars and my fear of the system kept me from being there.
I used to tell myself I didn’t know shit about being a father anyway. It wasn’t like I had an old man who could teach me. I learned on the streets, and so would he.
As he got older, Paul involved himself with some sadistic kids, all as corrupt and cruel as him. Messed up kids who liked to torture small animals to see how long they would wail in pain before they finally died. A band of losers united in their inferiority, desperate for power and willing to get it in many repugnant ways.
There was one glaring difference between Paul and me. I did the shit I did to put a roof over my mother’s head and food on our damn table. Paul did what he did because there was a demented darkness in him that got off on hurting others. He never needed to be out hustling in the worst parts of New York. He could have been comfortable living in a brownstone in Brooklyn, with all the necessities of life provided for him without him lifting a finger.