Bad Games

64



The last thing Patrick could clearly remember was Arty pointing the gun at his son’s head. Rage blurred what happened next.

Patrick dove at Arty with the impact of a train, Arty’s body nearly folding in half as they were launched across the room, Patrick stuck to him in a savage embrace. The gun flew from Arty’s grasp and slid to a halt beneath the family room’s coffee table.

Patrick mounted Arty. A primal savagery took his tongue; obscenities were garbled sprays of spit and snot and fury as he rammed the blade into Arty’s chest, piercing him just below the collarbone.

He brought the knife down a second and third time, each plunge more powerful than the last, each piercing Arty’s chest plate, squeaking as the blade was wrenched from blood and bone.

Arty cried out, tried bucking Patrick off. It was futile. With wild eyes and a crazed delight, Patrick finally growled something coherent into Arty’s face.

“You’re going f*cking nowhere.”

Patrick stabbed again and again, short, frenzied hacks in the same spot. He changed rhythm and raised the knife overhead, ready to plunge it deep into Arty’s neck, repeatedly if need be.

A sound stopped him.

It was a sound he knew well; the only sound in the world capable of penetrating the wrath that pounded the inner walls of his head. It was his wife’s voice, and she was calling for help.