55. Fifteen Years Ago
TOMER
A gentle click of the gear shifter sliding into park breaks the silence. Big Al doesn’t make a move to turn off the car. As I examine the front of the house, I’m assaulted with a lifetime of memories, each one worse than the one before.
The familiar sting of hunger and gut-wrenching loneliness settle in my muscles. Echoes of a life I’ve been dead set on burying in the past. And I’ve been quite successful at doing so. Or so I thought until Big Al told me otherwise.
Be a man. Face him.
Fred Stillman doesn’t deserve to occupy any more of your thoughts.
That’s what he said. That’s what brought us here.
I’m unsure whether I agreed out of a compulsion to please him or a desire to truly fix something broken inside of me. Probably the former, if I think critically about it. No sense in attempting to repair something irreparable.
I glance in his direction, pondering once more why he isn’t making me embark on this mission solo. After he suggested this would help put my fucked-up childhood behind me, his gaze pierced me so sharply I feared he could see clear through my skull. A three-second glance turned into ten, maybe twenty seconds.
Then he nodded and told me he’d drive. That was it. I assumed it was his way of supporting me without making me ask for assistance. Allowing me to save face.
Now I’m left second-guessing it. Perhaps he determined I’m too weak to do this on my own.
Oh well. Too late to change my approach. And he’s right, anyhow.
Now we’re sitting in a rental car in the South Carolina sticks on a freezing cold night, about to confront the man who raised me.
Correction . The man who had sexual intercourse with my mother, then made the first eighteen years of my life a living hell. Same difference.
Big Al heaves a haggard sigh, tossing a look at me. “Well, kid. Now or never. Am I going in with you or waiting here? How can I help?”
There it is again. An offer he knows I need without forcing me to speak the request and reveal my cowardice.
He’s such a good fucking man. Tough and kind. Honest and loyal. Why he’s taken a shine to me, I’ll never know.
Since our last deployment ended, he’s been on me like white on rice. All the other guys in our unit went home to see their families and friends. Since I have none, I stayed on base at Fort Benning. So did Big Al.
He caught me one night, shitfaced in the barracks, trying to drown the memories of bloody battles. A half-empty bottle of whiskey in my hand. That was the night I drunkenly rambled about the horrors of my childhood. I spilled my life story like the bottle I eventually knocked over when I could no longer see straight.
The next evening, he invited me to dinner, sat me down, and said he’d done some thinking about the shit I shared with him. Then he did a mind trick to get me to agree to this plan.
Running my palms over my jean-clad thighs, I offer a single, crisp nod. “No time like the present.” I meet his eyes as I unlock my seat belt. “You should come in. It’s too cold to stay out here.”
He doesn’t call me on my lie.
Thirty seconds later, we’re on the front porch, my fist poised at the door to knock.
On my own front door.
I might have lived here, but this was never my home. When I left to join the Army, I made that abundantly clear. Also promised never to return. Not even for his funeral.
Tonight is an exception.
The icy wind whips around us as I call upon my inner fortitude, allowing it to solidify my resolve. With determination coating my entire body, I flick my wrist to rap on the distressed wood door. Heavy footsteps approach from inside the rundown shack.
Big Al clamps his hand on my shoulder. “I’m right here.”
His words steady me, grounding me in the moment.
By the time the door flings open, I’m disconnected from the sparks of humanity he brings out in me.
Cold. Distant.
Unaffected.
The man on the other side of this door cannot hurt me.
Fred Stillman doesn’t deserve to occupy any more of my thoughts.
The door flings open. Glassy eyes latch onto mine. Rancid, smoky air seeps from the living room.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” His wrinkled upper lip curls as he sweeps his gaze up and down my long frame before cutting a glare beside me. “Who’s your friend? Gay lover?”
Big Al’s humorless chuckle meets my ears.
“This is my squad leader, Alan Lancaster.” I turn sideways, making introductions like we’re at a fucking dinner party. “This is my... Fred Stillman.”
I want to add something to the effect of piece of shit, garbage human . But Big Al already knows that part.
My dad lifts his wrinkled chin to study the man beside me. The movement reveals the sagging skin around his neck, coated in a sheen of gray fuzz.
He hasn’t spoken enough for me to ascertain if he’s intoxicated. But given the time of day, the odds are strong. Not that it would change my strategy for the mission. If I waited for him to be sober to do this, it would never happen.
Big Al claps my upper back. “We were passing through town. Tomer suggested we stop in for a visit.”
My sperm donor takes a step backward and slogs away. “Well, come in already. You’re letting out all the heat.”
Closest thing we’re gonna get to a welcome home. I expected nothing more.
Big Al utters an irritated curse under his breath.
Upon entering the living room, I view it through fresh eyes. My time away from this hellscape hasn’t diluted my memories. It’s as disgusting as I remember. Smells the same. Like desperation and filth.
The man I’ve hated since I was old enough to understand the emotion doesn’t speak. Doesn’t offer us anything to drink or ask how I’ve been. Not even a gesture to the frumpy sofa to invite us to have a seat.
All he does is plop down on his recliner and fix his dead eyes on the television. With a groan, he withdraws a can of beer from the cooler beside his chair, popping it open and slurping it down. Lazy fuck can’t be bothered to walk into the kitchen.
“Let’s sit,” I mutter to Big Al when the awkwardness peaks.
I lower to the couch, taking the spot farthest from my father. A puff of dust wafts into the air. Instead of settling against the cushion, I scoot to the edge and keep my hands off any surface in this place. Big Al does the same.
Glad the military inoculated us so thoroughly.
Another thing I appreciate about the Army is the forced cleanliness. They taught me hygiene and sanitation. I damn sure didn’t learn it in this cesspool. Since Basic, I take pride in having spotless quarters. After discerning how pleasing it is to be clean—both in body and my surroundings—I’ve never regressed to the boy coated in grime and grease I was when I languished here.
The thought spurs me to glance over my shoulder in the direction of my bedroom. I quickly avert my eyes when goosebumps pebble my skin. Never want to be in that room again.
I’m rapidly growing unsettled by the onslaught of emotions this visit is stirring up in me. For so long, I haven’t felt anything. It’s beyond jarring.
The sooner I get this over with, the better.
My father’s grating laugh at whatever he’s watching is the last straw, propelling me into action mode.
Surging to my feet, I stride to him and swipe the remote off the arm of his chair to cut off the TV from over my shoulder.
Flatly, I state, “Fred, I’d like your attention.”
“Excuse the fuck out of you.” He narrows his eyelids to slits. “You’re a guest in my house, boy. Show me some fucking respect or get the hell out.”
A sheepish apology immediately soils my tongue, but I don’t let it loose. Miraculously, I resist the urge to tuck my tail between my legs. A lifetime of cowering from this man proves a hard habit to break. Not even the years I’ve spent as a soldier have prepared me adequately for this encounter.
As if he knows I need a reminder of his presence, Big Al crosses his booted foot over his knee.
Fred Stillman doesn’t deserve to occupy any more of my thoughts.
This ends tonight.
I roll my shoulders back, infusing steel rebar in my spine. “I’ll leave when I’m ready. With pleasure. And when I do, I’ll never look back. But first, I need to get some shit off my chest, and you’re going to listen.”
Before I can hit him with my rehearsed speech, he mocks me, throwing my words back in a nasally taunt. “I need to get some shit off my chest. Look at me. I’m a big bad soldier. So brave I couldn’t even come here on my own. I had to bring my drill sergeant with me to hold my hand.” He waves his hand in front of his face in my direction, dismissing me. “Same pathetic boy you’ve always been.”
The ignorant fuck doesn’t even know the difference between a drill sergeant and a squad leader, even though I introduced Big Al as such. Or he’s too inebriated to remember.
I keep my eyes on my father, watching a puff of smoke rise around him when he lights another cigarette. “Big Al, would you mind waiting in the car?”
Wordlessly, he egresses, closing the front door behind him. He did his part by getting me here. Helped me figure out what I needed to say. Wouldn’t let me cower from this.
Fred Stillman doesn’t deserve to occupy any more of my thoughts.
Big Al made me say that out loud again and again. Until I believed it.
Or until I got as close to believing it as possible.
Casting my fists at my sides, I plant myself in front of the television, giving the monster no choice but to face me. “All my life, I’ve believed your bullshit lies. You made me feel weak, unworthy, and small.” My vision hazes in and out as I try to remember precisely what Big Al suggested I say. “I’m not any of those things. You can hate me all you want. I came to tell you that your lies don’t matter. You don’t matter.”
Although I said the words from behind an unaffected mask, they don’t ring true. Instead, the opposite sentiments resonate far stronger.
No one will love you, boy.
Disgusting creepy maggot.
“Fine. You told me. Now you can fucking go, boy. I didn’t ask you to come here.”
I clamp down on my lower lip, tightening my fists. “What the hell did I do to make you hate me?”
With palpable disregard, he clicks his tongue at me, then dabs his finger at his mouth to remove something. Hair. Dirt. Lint. Tobacco. Who fucking knows?
“You want to know why I hate you? Fine. You were born. ‘Nuff said.”
“That’s illogical. I had no control over that.”
“You were born, and then your bitch of a mother wouldn’t fucking leave because she couldn’t raise you without my paycheck. Then I was stuck with you. A weird little creep I never wanted, draining my wallet.”
Something pricks at the back of my mind as if there are holes in his explanation. Shaking it off, I defend myself. “None of that is my fault. You could have put me up for adoption or forced mom to take me when she left. Why keep me if you detested me so much?”
With a disgruntled sigh, he extinguishes his cigarette in the ashtray, hefts to his feet, and stomps toward me with an unsteady gait. I could blow on him and knock him down right now.
And yet he calls me the pathetic one.
He jabs his finger into my chest, the dirt under his nails catching my focus. “Let me guess. You went off to the Army and tried to grow a pair. So now you think I owe you an explanation or somethin’?” A grin slithers onto his face. “Is that right, boy?”
“I have a name.” My nostrils flare, and I raise my voice at him for the first time since I turned eighteen. The day I left. “I deserve an explanation. You made my life hell. Explaining why is the least you can fucking do.”
Without warning, he smacks me across the face. Hard. My head kicks to the side, and my hand lifts to cup my stinging cheek.
My breath scuffs its way out of my throat.
“Don’t you take that fucking tone with me, boy.”
I stand there, vision fixed on the dingy carpet. My pulse slams so violently I feel it in my wrists, elbows, and neck.
He stumbles back, dumps himself into the recliner, and chugs the rest of his beer.
I’m stuck. Frozen in place.
Chastised and shamed.
Belittled to nothing.
Again.
He tosses his empty beer can at me, smacking me in the chest and dampening my shirt with the few remaining drops. “Go, dammit. You’re blocking the fucking TV. Take your fuck boy with you, and don’t come back.”
Still, my feet don’t move. But I find the courage to look at him, preparing to say goodbye for the last time. Not that he deserves such a courtesy.
“I know you’re dumb, but are you fucking deaf too? I said move your ass.” He shoos me to the side. “Too bad they didn’t kill you over there. A good man probably died so you could live.”
My chest collapses, oxygen shuttering from my lungs.
Opening his cooler, he digs through the ice. “Son of a bitch.” He glances up at me, disgust clouding his beady eyes. “Before you go, make yourself useful and get the other six-pack from the fridge.”
I don’t know why, but my legs obey his command. Next thing I know, I’m in the kitchen, retrieving his beer like I’m a kid, desperate to please him. Subservient to his wishes in a pathetic attempt to earn his affection.
None ever came. None ever will.
My fingers tense, curling through the stretchy plastic rings that hold the cans together. The cold aluminum brushing against the side of my leg snaps me out of the fog. Seconds tick by while I’m torn between opening each can and pouring it down the sink before I go, heaving them onto his chest, or slamming them on the kitchen floor. So many options. All of them enticing.
Scanning the kitchen, I catch a glint of metal on the edge of the counter. Drawn to it, I approach stealthily as if I’m frightened to spook it. Stupid since it’s an inanimate object sitting on a stack of mail. Unpaid bills, probably.
It’s only a spoon. A black ring stain on the bottom. A lighter beside it. Syringe a few inches away.
Out of nowhere, a vision slices through my mind, its blade both sharp and dull.
My mother.
Her sandy blond hair, damp and greasy. My father raising his fist to her, punching her in the stomach and laughing as she clumps onto the floor.
The memory skips ahead. She’s lying on the dirty linoleum. In this room.
He’s on top of her. Straddling her chest. She’s crying, trying to fight him off. But he’s too strong.
I want to go to her. To help her. Yet all I can do is watch from the edge of the kitchen. Each time I yell for her, my father flings venom at me. Warnings and threats I know he’ll make good on.
So I watch.
Watch him hold the flame of the lighter under the spoon.
Watch him draw the liquid into the syringe, then jab the needle into her veins.
I listen to her whimpers as they fade to nothing. Until her breathing stops.
From a forced overdose.
The six-pack slips from my hand, falling to the floor with a clunk. A can bursts open from the force, spraying mist toward my shins.
Did this really happen? Did I watch him kill her? How come I never remembered it until now? Why did I think she left us?
One of my teeth threatens to crack, and my jaw protests in pain from my fierce clench.
I thought she left us because that’s what he told me. He blamed me for it. Said she left because she couldn’t stand the sight of me any longer.
He fucking lied to cover up what he did to her.
He murdered her.
Through rapidly clouding vision, I notice a single remaining knife in a water-stained butcher’s block. Shivers skate over my skin.
Blinking, I open my eyes to find the knife in my hand. No clue how it got there.
After another blink, I’m standing in front of my father’s recliner.
Fear darts behind his fathomless eyes. He puts his hands up and tries to stand on shaky legs. With one hand, I push him back down.
I blink again, and now I’m on top of him on the floor. Straddling him like he was doing to my mother. One cheek is red like he’s been punched, and his eye waters on that side. Blood pours from his nose, tracking down his face. One of my hands encircles his neck, and the other hovers the knife an inch above his murderous face.
My breathing is rushed and choppy, and my throat is suddenly dry. Yet my resolve is strong. He’ll die tonight by my hands. Payback for what he did to my mother.
An eye for an eye.
“You killed her,” I spit the words, my white-knuckle grip on the knife tightening even more. “You fucking killed my mother.”
He can’t speak because my fingers surround his vile neck, cutting off his airway.
And it feels fucking good.
I lift the blade, preparing to drive it into his skull. Inches from his repugnant face, I scream and roar in a fit of wrath.
He tormented me. Starved me. Beat me. Killed my fucking dog.
And my mother.
My scream cuts off as I plunge the knife forward.
To be continued in Unexpected Redemption - the final book in the Unexpected Trilogy.
Thank you for reading Unexpected Heroine. I hope you loved it!