Page 85 of Babalon

“What are you doing in my house, Nadia?”

“Came to see my dear ol’ dad, of course. Your doctor called me a few days ago saying you haven’t attended any of your appointments. I wanted to see if you had died yet.”

“You’re such a cunt, you know that? Wishing me dead.”

“Did I say I wished you were dead? I mean, I’m sure I’ve thought it, but I don’t believe those words ever come out of my mouth.”

He steps closer, bringing his face near to mine in an attempt to spook me, but I don’t care. I’ve learned to accept any sort of pain and thrive.

“You’re lucky you work for that damn prison because if I had it my way, I’d strangle you and send you back with bruises around that scrawny fucking neck of yours.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that. I’ve been choked out by men twice your worth, albeit incarcerated, and went back to work the next day.”

That was a little bit of a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. Truth is, Kace had me out for only a few days, and it wasn’t what I would have chosen for myself. The warden forced me to take the time, and I hated every minute of it.

“I’m not surprised. You probably volunteered for it. Don’t think I have forgotten you spreading your legs for my coworkers.”

“Never expected you to forget, Dad. I want you to walk this town as embarrassed of me as I am to be your child.”

“If I knew you would be this way, maybe I should have taken on a different business adventure since you’re so eager to be a slut.”

“Is that what you did to Mom? You always blamed me for her leaving, but if you were anything like this to her, I understand why she ran.”

With his illness and his sluggishness, I see him lift his hand before he can bring it close enough to cause any harm. Slapping his arm away, I used my other to grab his wrist, turn, slide under his arm, and wrench his wrist back to me. His back bowed as he yells at the pain now radiating through his shoulder and down his spine.

Taking things a step further, I kick him in the back of his knees and drop him to the filthy carpet. Cancer ridden or not, he doesn’t deserve my empathy or help. He’s where he belongs, on his knees and in pain, experiencing a fraction of the discomfort he caused me through my whole life.

“You fucking bitch!”

“Awe, Dad, does that hurt?”

“Let me go!”

“No, you’re going to listen to me. You’re the only person I have left in this fucking life and I may hate you with all but one cell of my body but I’m going to make sure you go to your appointments, even if it’s to watch you suffer through the poison they pump through your veins. And watch you die anyway.”

“I should have sent you with your mother and never laid my eyes on you again.”

“Yeah, you should have.”

With a hard shove, I watch him fall forward and try to catch himself with his hands, but he is too weak and not fast enough to stop from hitting the floor.

Pathetic.

Standing up straight, I step over him as he sprawls across the floor and head down the hall to my bedroom—his grunts and gasps for air fading when I step through the door.

I never knew what to expect coming home and though I thought he would have cut my existence out of his tiny memory, the sight I walked into was almost heartbreaking. Everything I had was destroyed.

My bed posts were bent and sitting at odd angles with my blankets, pillows, and the mattress gutted like wild game. My trinkets smashed and broken; the desk I use to do my homework at, crushed down the center. Clothes yanked off the hangers and strewn everywhere and from somewhere came the scent of urine.

What in the actual fuck.

This was my father, the man who raised me. He attempted to influence and make me into someone he could depend on—a woman with a strong back bone–and while he got just what he wanted, it quickly turned on him.

Stepping further inside, I amble over to my night stand and pull the drawer open, rummaging through it for anything left of value, but there’s nothing. This room, this house, it is a stain on my past that I can no longer stomach. Yet, in the very bottom, tucked away in the back, sits a Zippo I managed to swipe from Kaleb when we were in our Ag Mechanics class so many years ago.

My heart squeezes looking at the metal, remembering the boy I loved before I ever could find love for myself. Popping the lid, I flicked the striker and a flame sparked to life. I can’t begin to explain the comfort that settles over me when the scent of flint and butane fill my nose. It smells like him—what I could remember. All I am missing is rich leather and that cologne by Azzaro— Chrome, I think.

Closing the lid, I stuff the Zippo in my pocket and slam the drawer so hard the furniture rattles. Heading around the foot of my old bed, I walk past everything like it means nothing, and in a way it does. This girl, this motherless, emotionally stunted girl is gone. Kaleb wanted more for me; my friends still strive to bring me out of the darkness my soul seems to linger in.

---