Page 90 of Kings Against the World

I’d had the order of events wrong. Probably my attempt to cushion the blow and ugly reality my own parents hated my guts.

A broken sound tears out of me. I don’t even recognize it as I let out a roar of pent-up fury and frustration. I rip the letter to shreds and let the pieces rain down on the floor.

“Screw you, you fucking piece of shit for a father!” I snarl at the torn pieces of paper. “You wanted me gone? You thought you got rid of me? What if your worst nightmare turns back up on your door? What then, you fucking dipshit?!”

I’m shaking as I stand and snatch up my duffel bag to fill with a few of my things. I need to get away from Pulsboro, go on a trip somewhere, and as I grab my helmet off the shelf and swing my duffel bag over my shoulder, I know the destination I have in mind.

The one place that needs to be burned down to the ground for what they did to me and how they discarded me like trash.

24

OZZIE

The wind bitesat my face as I tear down the highway, the engine of my Softail Deluxe humming beneath me like music to my ears. This time of year, the air is crisp and cool enough to keep me alert and awake as I ride for hours.

The California border blurs past, a sun-bleached sign welcoming me back to a place I swore I’d never return to. The sky’s that kind of pale, washed-out blue, like summer’s still got its claws in the season, refusing to let go.

Riding on an open road has always been the one thing to quiet my chaotic brain. All the static and noise fades out, replaced by the steady pulse of the road underneath my tires. There’s no judgment or expectations. It’s just me, my bike, and the pavement stretched out before me.

By the time I hit Newport Beach, the sun’s started its slow crawl toward the horizon. The salt in the air greets me like an old familiar friend. Palm trees sway along the streets, their fronds rustling in the breeze. I ride by million dollar homes and their manicured lawns and notice all the luxury cars occupying thestreets. At a red light, some teenagers cruise by on skateboards, laughing loud enough to cut through the rumble of my engine.

I watch them, remembering a time when I was them. Just some kid with my skateboard heading out with pals to go enjoy ourselves. Back then, nothing felt serious. School was a joke, something to survive not excel in. I’d bomb tests no matter how hard I tried. Words on a page never lined up right and things like algebra were an even bigger waste of time.

What was the point when I’d never live up to expectations?

And now here I am—back where it all started.

I ease the bike to a stop in front of the wrought-iron gates of my parents' place. The Spanish Eclectic style home with its sloped red roof and white walls dredges up even more memories from the past. Countless times I snuck out after hours only to return minutes before dawn.

Neatly trimmed hedges flank the front of the home, the rest of the lawn and paved driveway like something ripped out of some home magazine. Perfect and polished in every way. Mom wouldn’t have anything less.

Keeping up appearances has always been important to her.

A couple minutes pass where I’m lurking in front of the tall gates, processing what it’s like to be back at my childhood home.

The front door opens. My mother steps out in a floral blouse and capri pants, her blonde hair swept up in some fancy twist. She approaches the gardener currently trimming the hedges and starts gesturing to the work he’s doing. Probably pointing out all the flaws as she demands perfection.

I duck back from behind the front gate, heart pounding in my chest like I’m fucking fourteen again trying to sneak into the house unseen.

No more than a couple seconds later, the gate grinds into motion, sliding off to the left. Someone’s used their remote to open it.

I bow my head the moment I realize who it is, hiding my face from view. Not that the man behind the wheel of the sleek black Maserati notices.

My father’s speaking to somebody through his Bluetooth earpiece as he grips the wheel and steers his pricey set of wheels through the open gate. He parks in the center of the driveway just like old times. He’s getting out of the car when my mother’s done bitching out the gardener and goes over to greet him.

Temptation flickers through me, the urge to step through the open gate and pop up out of the blue like their worst nightmare.

This is what I came all the way to Newport for. I wanted to cause some trouble and disrupt their perfect little humdrum lives. Maybe make my mother cry and get some licks in on my father as payback for the times he had no problem putting his hands on me.

For a second, I’m on the verge of doing it. My boots edge forward and I’m curling a tattooed fist thinking about how sweet it’d be to introduce it to my father’s face.

But then… I don’t.

The urges, the adrenaline, the bitter thoughts and feelings, all fade at once. Instead, I swallow against the lump in my throat and then start backing away. I mount my bike half a block down and twist the throttle, peeling away from the curb before they can ever see me. Before they ever know their son’s come back from the dead.

Hundreds of miles traveled and years of bad memories stuck in my head, but it doesn’t change the reality of the situation. Something I should’ve realized sooner than later, no matter how fucked up and unresolved it all is.

There’s nothing left for me here.

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