Chapter 19
Torren
My bike weaves around potholes and road debris as I race along the backroads of the Patch. It’s early, and the sun has only just peeked above the eastern horizon.
The dark houses that flank the road look haunted. Each one has something that makes it look twisted: broken windows, a slanted front porch, and one even has an old baby doll nailed to the newel post of the front steps.
The entire day feels off, and that’s saying something for a place like the Patch.
I haven’t slept through the night since I told Felix never to see me again. No matter how much booze I guzzle, I awake in the night, gasping and clutching my chest.
Each night, I see Felix’s bloody body. His eyes aren’t closed in my dreams. They’re wide open, looking at me with a sad expression that guts me to my core.
Two straight weeks of the same dream, and I can’t fucking stand it anymore. I need to see if he’s okay.
Maggie’s Diner appears, and I slow my bike about a quarter mile from the actual restaurant—just close enough that I can see in, but still out of sight.
I see Maggie and Gilda, but no Felix.
I start my bike and pull a little closer. I’m terrified of him seeing me, so I keep my bike out of sight while still having a view into the restaurant.
I sit there for about ten or fifteen minutes, waiting to see him appear, but he never does.
My gut twists, and I start to panic. I start my bike once more and pull into the parking lot of Maggie’s Diner.
It’s not lost on me that things went from Felix creeping outside my home and place of business to me doing the same to him, but I don’t care. I just want to see him living his life with that mischievous glint in his eyes that I always told myself I didn’t like.
Big lie, by the way. I liked it.
This is so stupid. He’s going to come waltzing out of the back in a moment and see me sitting here on my bike, and all I did to push him away and keep him safe will be undone. He’ll know I can’t stop thinking about him, and he’ll come knocking on my door, then I’ll be back at square one.
I can’t be with Felix.
My hand travels to the ignition, fully intending on racing away, but I stop once more.
I need to know.
Maybe he’s in the back doing something, or perhaps he’ll be in later. I’ll never know for sure unless I ask. I kick the side stand and wedge my helmet beneath my arm.
The jingle of the door signals my entrance, and I’m met with a sour-faced Maggie.
“Well, look at this asshole. Where the hell have you been?” she asks with a hand on her hip.
“Busy,” I blurt out, then ask, “Is Felix in the back?”
Maggie cocks her head to the side. “Felix quit a couple of weeks ago. He said he had family stuff to tend to and couldn’t commit to the schedule.”
Her words hit me like a gut punch.
For a moment, everything stops. Like the world skips a beat, and I’m the only one who feels it.
I don’t waste a second turning on my heels and crossing the distance to the entrance.
“Hey!” Maggie screams after me. “Don’t you want a coffee and a donut?”
“No time. Soon!” I call back.
When I’m back on my bike, I text Gabe.
Open up the shop, will ya? Gotta check on something. Be back later.
I start my bike up and pull out of the parking lot, skid marks trailing behind me, and make my way to the Mayor’s Mansion.
I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, and that’s the part that scares me the most.
But I need to see him walking around, existing on this planet, or I’ll lose my goddamned mind.
Felix
Camera crews fill the lawn, setting up equipment and lights that reach into the sky. The clamor of Father’s supporters can be heard from within the mansion, where all of his aides rush about, getting everything ready.
The navy blue Armani suit feels like sandpaper against my skin, which has been crawling for weeks now, and I’ve scratched myself raw.
Father looked at my arms last night and examined the scratches.
“I’m just itchy. Probably from the meds,” was all I could say.
He didn’t say anything. He simply nodded and carried on practicing his speech—a one-hour diatribe about the perils of man in an age rife with sin and lawlessness.
I’ve heard the speech roughly three hundred times in the last four days, and each time, I find something new to hate about it.
I can’t sit. Everything feels awful on my flesh, and my body won’t rest. It’s like I’m jumping out of my skin, trying to walk off the gnawing feeling that something foreign pumps through my bloodstream.
My eyes scan the room. Each one of Father’s aides looks like they wish I weren’t here. Every so often, my body will just convulse, a massive twitch that startles everyone around me.
They stare at me with cruel eyes and expressions of disgust.
My feet pace about the room. All I want to do is rest, but my body won’t do it. It can’t.
The nighttime is torture. I shake my foot beneath my covers, hoping I’ll tire myself out, but I never do. My dreams are insane, and I sweat profusely now.
I probably smell like shit.
It’s been a couple of weeks, and these damn pills just won’t settle into my system. Nothing feels better. Every sad thought I’ve ever had is magnified by ten thousand, making me want to scream and beat my head in to stop the thoughts that never cease.
I won’t be like my mom.
But the thought is there.
Quiet.
Persistent.
Like it’s waiting for me to catch up.
Robert, my father’s chief of staff, approaches, and I jump.
“Sorry,” he says, annoyed and flustered. Nobody on my father’s staff likes me, but Robert is the most annoyed by me. He’s an asshole and genuinely admires my father, which I find astonishing. “The Mayor is about to make his entrance. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I reply with about as much life as a cadaver.
He scurries away, and my father descends the staircase, looking zoftig and imposing.
I can see him reciting the lines of his speech, his mouth moving as he looks skyward, trying to remember each line perfectly.
I hate my father a lot, but he knows how to razzle-dazzle a crowd.
He doesn’t inspire; he plays into people’s rage, riling them up.
He appeals to the worst in us, and I guess that’s all you need to achieve in politics these days.
I can count the number of policies he’s ever mentioned during a speech on one hand, but if I took a shot every time he said the words “lowlifes” or “liberal scum” during just one speech, I’d die of alcohol poisoning.
He looks at me and nods, a slight curl to his lip that makes my stomach queasy. I’m following orders, and he loves nothing more than when I’m compliant.
His aides ask if he’s ready, to which he responds by puffing out his chest and giving a single thumbs up. The door is opened, and we exit the house to applause.
My hand raises without me even realizing it. It’s like a remote control is operating my movements. I wave to the crowd standing next to my father, who pumps his fists in the air. The crowd erupts and mirrors his movement.
He basks in the glory of it all for too long to feel natural, then urges the crowd to settle and begins his speech. I take my place at his side, visible but not distracting, and breathe a sigh of relief.
All I have to do is stand here and not look visibly ill by everything he’s saying, and I can do that. I don’t like doing it, but I can.
Because I just don’t care anymore.
Every few minutes, a camera flashes, blurring my vision. Bright lights hurt my eyes since starting the meds. Father’s speech elicits the usual hoots and hollers that his ragebaiting tirades usually do. I’ve heard the damned thing for days, so nothing really surprises me.
He never once goes off script, uttering each word with well-rehearsed inflection. The minutes drag on, and the speech approaches its completion.
The heavy feeling in my chest for days is starting to break up. Once this is over, I’ll be able to hide in my room again. Maybe I’ll sleep for a change. That’s all I want to do.
But then my father says something that wasn’t rehearsed. “As most of you know, my beloved wife, Belinda, passed away earlier this year.”
What the fuck?
My stomach drops. Hard enough that I almost lose my balance.
No. He’s not doing this.
“Perhaps passed away isn’t the right term. Belinda was a sick woman. Her mental health took a drastic turn for the worse earlier this year, and she just…wasn’t strong enough.”
My body freezes in place. No. Not this. My mouth falls open. Why wouldn’t he tell me he was going to mention her? What’s he trying to do right now?
“It’s been incredibly hard on my family, but my poor son, Felix, has suffered the most.”
He motions to me and stares into my eyes with a phony, sympathetic expression, making my clenched fists shake at my sides.
“A young boy should never lose a parent to something as grim as suicide. Felix…”
He fully turns to me, holding his arms out, but making sure his mouth is close enough that the microphone catches everything he says. “I promise, I will be strong for you. I’ll take care of you, the way a parent should.”
The lights flash, and the applause grows louder and louder. My mother’s face enters my mind, and the worst thing imaginable happens.
I start to cry.
And I can’t stop it. It’s like something cracked open inside me, and everything just spills out.
To which the crowd responds with sounds of sympathy and praise for this disgusting man who doesn’t deserve the title of father.
Then the sick bastard turns to the crowd and screams, “I’ll be strong for all of you!”
Their deafening cheers swallow me alive as blinding rage consumes me.
Father closes the distance between us and wraps his arms around me, pressing me to his bosom. The old me would have bitten him, but I’m so shaken that I can’t do anything but just stand there like the prop that I am.
He used me. I didn’t even know it was going to happen.
He had it rehearsed the whole time and never once said it aloud in front of me.
Never once asked if it was okay to bring this up in front of hundreds of people.
Because he wanted it to rattle me, he wanted me to look completely crushed so he could swoop in and play the heroic father in front of the cameras.
The crowd cheers, and Father turns to face them, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and pumping his fist in the air.
I want to scream at the top of my lungs and tell this crowd what a monster he is—that he used his own son. I want to tell them that the only reason I’m here is because of my mother’s love and that she was the best thing that ever happened to me.
But all I can do is cry, which is creating the perfect photo op for my Father.
My legs buckle, and, for a moment, I fear that I’ll faint, but then I hear the rev of a motorcycle engine.
I don’t know why, but it cuts through everything. I can breathe again.
It gives me the strength to lock my knees and stay upright.
I won’t fall for my father. I won’t bow anymore.
This is the final blow.
Something inside me finally snaps clean.
I want out.