Day 8
Sometimes the lie becomes too much. I still remember holding the gun, its handle cold to the touch like the stiffened remains of a cadaver. He stood frozen as well. He had never considered this was even a possibility. Well who’s afraid now, trembling like a dog that has just come back from a swim. I wasn’t shaking, and neither were my eyes.
He had money. It was probably the main reason my mother never spoke ill of him. Thou shalt not use the lord’s name in vain as they say. Then again, it could have been fear. I don’t blame her. I mean, what are the odds that she—born with a silver spoon in her mouth, cushioned by wealth even into adulthood—could raise two boys about to hit puberty without a father? She needed him more than she needed us, and for a while, so did we.
No one ever believed me. “He’s just strict.” Strict. Right. Strict is making you mow the lawn. Strict isn’t locking you in the basement for hours with the lights off just because you looked at him wrong. Strict isn’t smashing your PlayStation with a hammer while he makes you watch.
