Page 93 of Under Control

I sit on a chair across from him and cross my legs under me. “My mom kept the criminal stuff out of our life. I didn’t even know she was related to your dad until recently.”

“Lucky you,” Arsen says, and there’s that bitterness again. He glances away. “For what it’s worth, I was ordered to burn down your mother’s house.”

Anger stirs in me. “That doesn’t really make me feel better.”

“I figured it wouldn’t.”

“She’s your aunt. She’s yourfamily. And you almost killed her.”

“What was the alternative? Refuse and let my father send someone else? Take a beating, lose another tooth, get a new scar on my back? I learned a long time ago that when my father tells me to do something, I better fucking do it, whether I want to or not.”

“And did you want to? Hurt my mother?”

“Not at all. I’ve never even met my own aunt before, and I was supposed to burn her to death. That seems pretty fucked, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, and you tried.”

“Like I said.” A wry, bitter smile. “Not much choice.”

I take a few calming breaths. He’s going to rationalize what happened all he wants, but the fact remains that he assaulted and tried to murder his own flesh and blood.

Orders or no order, that’s fucking evil.

But once my heart rate starts to slow and I’m thinking clearly again, a thought occurs to me. “You didn’t sound happy to be speaking to your father.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“I’m guessing you two don’t get along.”

“Putting it mildly.” He glances at me. “Is this an interrogation? Should you get one of those knives? I have some cuts you can reopen where your husband already drained me of everything I know. Feel free to start there.”

I glance down at the plastic wrap on the floor. It’s all brand new, which means someone changed it out.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Wonderful. That’s a first.”

“But I’m curious why you hate your dad.”

His eyes narrow. “I never said I hate my father.”

I’m worried I went too far, too fast, but I push ahead anyway. I sense an opening, and I want to wriggle my way through before it closes down again.

“No, but he clearly used to hurt you, right? You said something about scars.”

“Father had a very particular method of discipline.”

“You sounded surprised that he’s going to trade my mother for your life.”

He tries to shrug, but his ropes prevent it. “He made it clear a long time ago that my status as his son didn’t guarantee me anything. Even if I’m the oldest.”

“That must be hard.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” he says, jaw setting in a tough line. “You had a normal life, didn’t you? I hear your dad died, which sucks, but you got to go to school. You didn’t have to learn how to sell drugs at fifteen. You didn’t kill a man at eighteen. You didn’t spend your entire life attempting to please a man that treats you like a fucking dog. So don’t tell me what’s hard.”

I don’t say anything at first. I let his emotions fester for a few seconds as I process.

These things happen in cycles. A father hits a son, abuses him, and a son goes on to become an abusive father, and it rolls on like that, generation after generation, inflicting the same traumas on each other because humans are fallible and stupid and petty and mean. It’s not his fault, but it also very muchishis fault, and I don’t want to empathize with him too much.

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