Chapter Colin Adams
COLIN ADAMS
“Goddamn life!”
I hurled my second glass of whiskey against the wall, furious at everything and everyone around me.
I’d been holed up in my private bar for two hours now, drinking nonstop since the moment I walked in.
Break? What for?
I get why people judge me for who I am—I really do—and I couldn’t care less. But I also know my life’s gone to hell, and every time I visit him, the urge to hurt that man grows stronger. He deserves it.
“What are you doing?” Hanna’s little voice came from near the doorway.
What the hell is she doing here?!
“Go away,” I said, my voice low but sharp.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Go find your mom and stay with her!” My tone rose, but I still didn’t look at her. I was drunk, angry—furious just for being alive.
“Oh, I was with her. I just wanted to stay with you for a bit. We can—”
“Go away, Hanna!” I shouted, finally meeting her eyes, my own burning with rage.
I’m a monster. A real one.
Who the hell yells at a five-year-old girl who actually cares about him? If there’s a hell, I belong there.
I’d never raised my voice at my own kids—never even snapped at a child before. But tonight, I’d done the unthinkable.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at her again. I dropped my head, the weight of what I’d just done crashing down on me. She’d never talk to me again. Kids these days...
Then something unexpected happened—something that stopped my heart.
“I know you’re sad, Uncle Colin. Your daughter’s not here, and you love her a lot.”
Her tiny hand rested on my head, fingers brushing through my hair, soft and steady. I froze.
“Do you want a hug, Uncle Colin?”
And that was it. I broke. The tears came before I could stop them.
Why does this little girl do this to a man like me?
Why does she act like my fears don’t scare her away?
Why does she stay close, even when I’m harsh and hollow and unworthy of her kindness?
This bar was supposed to be my place—my solitude, my punishment. But this little being doesn’t understand no.
And now here I am, crying like a child while she runs her small hand through the hair of a broken man who has no idea how to move, or what to say, or who he even is anymore.
I don’t even know if I can look at her. She sees right through me—straight into whatever’s left of my soul.
And I’m not used to being this vulnerable, especially not in front of a child.
I’m completely defenseless.