So yeah, he liked females—just young ones. And that’s just about the worst thing in the whole damn world, so bad I can’t even begin to process it.
Against my better judgment—not that I had anyone to tell me if it was right or wrong; I was so on my own I sometimes had full-on conversations with myself—I visited him once after sentencing. He’d been such a conniving asshole—why I was surprised, I don’t know—that I’d vowed never to see him in the flesh again.
He’d already gone jail soft, the weight around his belly stretching his requisite prison uniform of starched white T-shirt and light blue jeans. His skin was pale, an unnatural white tinged with green, his eyes pale, too, and a patch of hair had gone missing right in the direct center of his scalp.
He looked small. Weak. He’d once seemed mighty and powerful, like the Great Oz when I was a kid. The only one who knew how to push the buttons and pull the strings, the one I looked up to and told everyone near the end of third grade, “I’m going to grow up and someday be exactly like my daddy!”
A shiver steals over me at the memory. How I’d idolized him for that short period of time. He went from being the ideal father to the man who slowly, methodically turned into a monster.
Now who’s the soft one?
Once he recognized that I had no plans on coming back to visit, he wrote me letters. Five to ten pages of angry, nonsensical ranting, about how I failed him as a son, how the system failed him, my mother, all the whores he’d ever been with, all the little girls he’d touched and disposed of so casually, as if they were nothing but dolls he’d played with for all of thirty minutes before he tossed them aside with disdain.
Letters so full of disgust and hate I’d burn them immediately, though I could never stop myself from reading them first. I had to open every single one. I don’t quite know or understand what compelled me. It was like—an obligation. I might not see him anymore but I still needed to read his words. Needed the reminder that this evil, horrible man was my father. I come from him. A part of him lies deep within my soul, my bones, my heart and mind.
That scares the shit out of me.
On occasion I receive a letter that reminds me of a different man. The man he was before he became so twisted up with hate he didn’t know how to do anything but lash out. My childhood memories are nothing close to pleasant. I can’t lie. But there was a hopeful point in my life. A very small period of time where everything was . . . okay, and I was full of innocence. Ignorant innocence, I suppose, but that’s better than the cold, stark reality.
God, I’ve really lost it. Here I am with the girl of my dreams and I’m wasting my opportunity. The minutes are just ticking by. Tick, tick, tick, and soon the girl who thinks I saved her because I’m some sort of good citizen rescuing lost females with a single bound will realize I’m an idiot who can’t fucking speak. And she’ll shrug her shoulders, get into her car, and take off.
Never to be seen again. Well. I may be watching her like some sort of fucked-up jerk who can’t figure out what he wants, but I want this. The closeness, the chance to spend time with her, talk to her, touch her . . .
I knock myself out of the memories, out of my yearnings, and focus on her.
“So. What brought you out here today?” I ask.
She peers up at me for the briefest moment, wariness in her eyes. “I, uh, just needed to get out of the house.”
She’s lying. But I’m not about to challenge her.
“What about you?” she asks. I see the curiosity in her gaze and I like it. I want her curious.
I need her interested.
Pleasure blooms in my chest despite my brain scrambling for an answer. “I wanted to check out the beach. It’s one of my favorite spots.”
She turns her head west, toward the ocean, and shields her eyes with her hand, effectively hiding her eyebrows completely. The sun is bright, reflecting off the water, and she squints against the glare. “It’s definitely beautiful today.”
“The weather’s perfect,” I add and she nods, flashing me a brief smile as we continue walking.
I shouldn’t be doing this. Talking to her. Getting to know her. It’s wrong. Twisted. Being honest with her would be best, but how do I bring that up in casual conversation?
Oh hey, want to know who I really am?
Yeah. I can’t do it. If I continue on with this charade, with this pile of lies that will only grow taller, I’ll never find a way to come clean.
This is the last time you’ll talk to her. You got what you wanted—a chance to look her straight in the eye and see that she’s all right. Even better? You rescued her. You did your job. Now you walk away. Escort her to her car and end it now.