Souls Unfractured

Then I heard it: movement from the bedroom.

I smelled the stench of alcohol.

Then he staggered out.

All the air rushed out of my lungs as he entered the living room, a fucking long sharp blade in his hands. His dark eyes landed on me and his teeth gritted together.

“Get the fuck out!” he snarled, clothes dripping with sweat, skin yellow and pale. “Get the fuck out before I call the cops. I got nothing for you here!”

“Fuck,” I heard from beside me, but I was rooted to the fucking spot. “That’s the cunt?”

I watched as my poppa’s eyes darted to each of us. He held up the blade in his old shaking hands. “I said, get the fuck out!”

But we didn’t move, and somehow, his eyes kept returning to me. Then one time, they stayed. They examined my body, flicked to the blade in my hand, then snapped back to lock on my face.

His mouth hooked at the corner, as if in realization. “Well I’ll be fucking damned. Wondered if I’d ever see your expressionless face again one day, Josiah. And here you are. Looking as evil as I always knew you were.”

I stared at my old man, heard that fucking name dripping with venom from his stupid fucking mouth. And I could feel myself shaking. I could feel every fiber of my body fucking shaking. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move.

I was trapped.

“I got nothing for you here, Josiah. So you and your sinner friends can just turn the fuck around. I ain’t got no money, so you can get the fuck out. Don’t want you bringing your demons into this house again.”

Something inside of me snapped, and I bit out, “You got fucking answers, old man. That’s what you fucking got!”

Unable to hold back any longer, I charged forward. Holding my blades out in front, I ran at my poppa. His eyes flared as I plowed forward. He pushed out his blade, but his drunken fucking ass had his hand shaking too much to grip it tight. I easily knocked the blade out of his old fucking hands, the steel clattering to the wooden floor and I shouldered him back against the wall.

Using my forearm, I pushed it against his neck, and looking him dead in the fucking eyes, asked, “What the fuck happened to Isaiah? Why the fuck did you always count to eleven?” I leaned in closer and hissed, “And why the fuck did you rape me? Why the fuck did you fucking rape me and fuck up my head?”

My poppa coughed and his face turned bright red, unable to breathe. But the fucker wouldn’t get such an easy death. I was gonna fucking make him pay. Pay for it all.

Jumping back, I dropped my arm and watched him hit the floor. My head twitched and my neck ached with how tight it was straining. But I turned the blades in my hand, and called, “Viking! Hold the cunt down on the table.”

Viking moved into action, picking the bastard up by his hair and dragging him to the table in the center of the room. The table my mama would cook at. I paced the floor, fighting the memory of my mama standing in this room, defending me from this sick fuck. My hands fisted on the handles of my blades and I hit the side of my head as too many fucking memories flooded my mind.

“Done, brother.” Viking announced from across the room. When I turned, Viking was holding down my poppa’s arms, his legs kicking to get free.

Viking smiled. “The fucker ain’t going nowhere, brother.”

“AK!” I called. AK stepped into the room, his 9mm held high. He flicked his chin. “Hold down the fucker’s legs,” I instructed.

AK dropped his gun into his cut and did as I said. I paced beside the table, and when I looked down, my poppa’s face was watching mine. Holding the handle of my knife, I charged forward on a scream and smashed the blunt end across his face. Blood poured from my poppa’s mouth. Dropping my blade into my belt, I lifted his head by the collar of his stained stinking shirt, and asked, “What the fuck was done with Isaiah? What the fuck did you do with my brother’s body?”

My poppa coughed and spluttered but gave no answer. I brought his face to mine, and growled, “Where the fuck did you take him? What the fuck was done with his body?”

“I’d answer him if I were you. Answer him or he’ll fucking slice off your tongue. Your son’s a fucking stone cold killer, Daddio. I ain’t thinking you wanna fuck with him anymore,” Viking warned and my poppa’s eyes flared. And I knew… he was scared. I couldn’t read faces, but I knew his face. Knew his every expression. And I knew I’d never seen him like this before. Never seen him scared before.

I fucking loved that it was me who made him feel fear.

“Pastor Hughes,” he coughed out. “Pastor Hughes and Elder Paul came for you both. They came looking for me, and found you two. They knew about the cellar, so they knew where to look. They cremated your brother and tossed his ashes in the river. He was better off gone, than living with you and your tainted soul.”