Page 486 of The Tempted

Chapter Two

There is a little boy who lives in my dreams and forever in my heart, a little boy named Jack Parrish Jr. He was my little brother and I was five years old when I watched him die. Literally, I stood there and did nothing as he ran into the street. I thought I would forget that someday the memory would fade as I became older—yet it seemed to only grow more vivid with every year I aged and he didn’t.

Lala.

That was what he used to call me because he couldn’t say Lacey.

“Lala,” he cheered as his wobbly legs ran out the front door.

I was only a kid myself but I knew that he shouldn’t be outside without an adult and more than that I knew he could get hurt. I tried to get my dad’s attention, telling him to help me get Jack back inside the house but he was too engrossed in the madness that consumed him. I had never seen my dad like that before, so out of control, so far away in his own mind that my cries went unheard.

I ran outside as my father repeatedly beat down the walls of our home. I can recall him shouting about bugs but I thought he was looking for creepy little critters; the ones I would shout for him to stomp on. That wasn’t the case, and I learned later on that my father was looking for the bugs the Feds plant when they are looking to send your ass to jail.

That was the first of many memories I have of my dad losing his battle with hismaker. His maker is his mind, and it reigns over everything. My father is Jack Parrish, president of the Satan’s Knights MC and he is a manic-depressive.

He didn’t know at the time of Jack Jr.’s death he was mentally ill, and it wasn’t until after my little brother was buried six feet in the ground he sought help and was diagnosed.

He blames himself for his death but it wasn’t his fault.

It was mine.

I stood there as Jack Jr. smiled and pointed at me.

“Lala, look!”

I should’ve run after him.

I could’ve asked a neighbor to help.

Something.

Anything.

Nothing.

Instead, I stood there listening to my father shout at the demons in his head and watched as the car sped down the street.

I want to believe that I called out to him, that, I shouted at the driver to stop but I remember nothing other than standing there and watching as the tires skidded across the tar and over my baby brother. I try to block out the last sound he made a shrill cry that rings over and over again in my ears until it fades to silence. The silence is worse though because it reminds me that when his cries faded so did his life.

My father snapped out of it too late and when he made his way to Jack, he fell to the ground and cradled the child he lost.

His maker won that day.

Andminewas born.

Today would’ve been Jack’s fifteenth birthday. It’s also the one day a year my father goes off the grid, a day when he struggles to find the courage to end his life and be reunited with his son.

It doesn’t matter I’m still here.

And I suppose it shouldn’t.

Because I let him die.

I’m the reason my dad didn’t get to watch his little boy grow into a man.

I’m also to blame for why my mom will never dance with her son.

It’s my fault I’ll never hear him call me Lala again.

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