20 Questions

Chapter 141

Hunter

"You're not coming in?" I ask my wife, but she just shakes her head. "Even after everything he's done to you? You don't want to watch him pay for it with his life?"

She shakes her head again. She's never been this quiet. Hell, she can't even give a simple no to the people at the booths in the middle of the mall who try to sell you everything from watches to hand lotion. They get a "No, thank you" and a long drawn-out story about how she already has a hand lotion brand she loves and a cell phone that gives her the time.

"Why, J? Why won't you come inside?"

"Because I don't need to, Hunter. You can give me the play-by-play when it's all over, but it's not something I want to see. I know I should want to after all the hell he's put us through, but I don't. Just go do what you need to do to get your closure and then we will go home. I'll be fine out here by myself."

Well, ok then.

"Ok," I resign. "Just knock on the door if you need anything and I'll come out."

She gives me a halfhearted thumbs up and turns to sit in the one chair in the room. I don't understand her reasons, but much like assholes, we all have them. I open the door to see a room full of men and a table lined with all types of instruments. Of all the men in the room, I am only focused on one of them. And that one man is tied to a chair in the center of the room, bloody, wide-eyed and a face that looks like roadkill. The minute he saw me walk in, he knew his time was up and he's fucking right. Finality falls upon us.

I circle around him, assessing the injuries given to him by the team who I'm sure he provoked. He's mouthy and disrespectful, always has been. In his mind, he's never wrong, it's always somebody else's fault. He never accepts responsibility, never thinks about the consequences of his actions and he has zero regard for human life. And these are the things that make ending him the easiest decision of my life.

I complete my walk-around and stand in front of him, towering over his battered body and glaring down at him. I've thought about this moment my entire life, but as I capture his expression, it's not what I envisioned growing up. In my mind, I saw an arrogant smirk on his face and challenging eyes. He would taunt me, insult me, do everything in his power to tear me down. Because that's who he is, a textbook narcissist. I pictured the moment where I shut down his words with a strong closed-fist blow to his face, a victorious feeling passing over me as I watched his blood splatter across the room. I'd grab a dull blade and slice him limb to lung, watching him bleed out and punching him again because he got blood on my shoes. I'd grab another instrument and jab it into his throat so I didn't have to hear him speak the words that made me feel like that dirty, abused kid from the trailer park.

I'd fire off a series of questions about why he felt the need to abuse and neglect me. I'd scream at him and tell him all the ways he destroyed my life. I'd make him feel the psychological pain he inflicted on me as a child that lingered as I got older. I'd blame him for never being a real father, never teaching me how to be a man, never being there for me because he was always in jail. I'd profess my hate for him for what he did to my mom. I'd express my disgust for him raping her, enabling her addiction, and never getting her help.

I'd ask him why he didn't just give me to another family that wanted kids. Why he didn't keep me safe. Why he viewed me as a burden and not a blessing. Why he thought being a real man meant beating his wife and abusing his child. Why he never let us have a Christmas tree and why he never let me believe in Santa Claus. I'd demand that he tell me why he went to great links to track me down and kill me instead of just moving on with his life. Why he went after Jenna, the only good thing that has ever come into my life.