Instantly, Viking was by my side. I met my brother’s eyes. “You stay up front with me.” Viking winked, holding his favorite Berettas in his hands, and dropped back behind me.
Then I faced that fucking wooden door. The same wooden door I was hauled out of by the scruff of my neck as a fucking kid, and dragged screaming to that fucked up church, day in, day out.
Without thinking, I found my feet moving forward, the blade that belonged in this fucking hellhole gripped tightly in my hand.
And I couldn’t hold it back. The flames that had been quiet for days flared brighter, surging through my fucking veins. My head twitched, my hands clenched. I let loose every bit of fucking rage I had for this shithole and for the cunt who might be inside.
And I fucking embraced it. I let that shit burn.
Reaching the old door, I raised my foot and smashed the hell mouth wide open. Storming inside, I sensed Viking right behind me, guarding my back. I stopped dead.
Nothing had changed. The place was dirtier, more rundown. It was a fucking shithole. But everything looked the same—same stained floor, faded curtains, even the old furniture. My heart lunged into a sprint as I scanned the room. My body shook with rage, so much fucking rage at being back in this place that I could barely fucking think.
Then I heard it: movement from the bedroom.
I smelled the stench of alcohol.
Then he staggered out.
All the air rushed out of my lungs as he entered the living room, a fucking long sharp blade in his hands. His dark eyes landed on me and his teeth gritted together.
“Get the fuck out!” he snarled, clothes dripping with sweat, skin yellow and pale. “Get the fuck out before I call the cops. I got nothing for you here!”
“Fuck,” I heard from beside me, but I was rooted to the fucking spot. “That’s the cunt?”
I watched as my poppa’s eyes darted to each of us. He held up the blade in his old shaking hands. “I said, get the fuck out!”
But we didn’t move, and somehow, his eyes kept returning to me. Then one time, they stayed. They examined my body, flicked to the blade in my hand, then snapped back to lock on my face.
His mouth hooked at the corner, as if in realization. “Well I’ll be fucking damned. Wondered if I’d ever see your expressionless face again one day, Josiah. And here you are. Looking as evil as I always knew you were.”
I stared at my old man, heard that fucking name dripping with venom from his stupid fucking mouth. And I could feel myself shaking. I could feel every fiber of my body fucking shaking. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move.
I was trapped.
“I got nothing for you here, Josiah. So you and your sinner friends can just turn the fuck around. I ain’t got no money, so you can get the fuck out. Don’t want you bringing your demons into this house again.”
Something inside of me snapped, and I bit out, “You got fucking answers, old man. That’s what you fucking got!”
Unable to hold back any longer, I charged forward. Holding my blades out in front, I ran at my poppa. His eyes flared as I plowed forward. He pushed out his blade, but his drunken fucking ass had his hand shaking too much to grip it tight. I easily knocked the blade out of his old fucking hands, the steel clattering to the wooden floor and I shouldered him back against the wall.
Using my forearm, I pushed it against his neck, and looking him dead in the fucking eyes, asked, “What the fuck happened to Isaiah? Why the fuck did you always count to eleven?” I leaned in closer and hissed, “And why the fuck did you rape me? Why the fuck did you fucking rape me and fuck up my head?”
My poppa coughed and his face turned bright red, unable to breathe. But the fucker wouldn’t get such an easy death. I was gonna fucking make him pay. Pay for it all.