Unexpected

39. Harry

Pain.

Fear.

Impotence.

Worry.

Lately it's all I feel, every day, every moment that he's close to me, and every moment that he's not.

Pain. His words have always hurt, always, but now that he's back, as he looks me in the eye without those bars that divided us, his words cut deeper than a fucking knife. I always feel guilty of everything, when the fault lies solely with him.

Fear. The fear that everything could repeat itself just like ten years ago, and end even worse, because now I have grown up and he has learned his lesson. He would be watching me this time, and he's more violent than before.

Impotence. Until something serious happens, I can't do anything to legally blame him and get him back to prison, where he belongs.

Worry. My mother. I'm worried about her; that's why I'm not leaving her alone for a second. She needs me more than anyone else.

My father got out of jail.

Hell started a month ago and I can't take it anymore. I haven't been to university for a month. I haven't heard from my friends for a month. I haven't been out of the house for a month, except with my mother. I haven't slept properly for a month. For a month my life has started to go downhill.

I haven't seen Helen for a month. The last time we met, we didn't leave each other on good terms and that breaks my heart. She called me a billion times, she left a lot of messages on the voicemail... but I couldn't answer her. I don't want to drag her into hell with me, but I hate being away from her.

But the only thing I want now is to get rid of this worm of a man. No, he is not a man, he is a monster. He deserves nothing, nothing. If I had been the judge, I would have given him a life sentence. He didn't kill anyone, but he's just a danger; he should never have gotten out of there.

I have to take action, and it's my turn, because Mom is destroyed. And I can't take it anymore.

* * *

It's like repetition, every day is like the one before and sometimes even worse. Today it's one of them apparently.

My father is dead drunk, like every day, sitting in the armchair with a beer in his hand.

"Harry, son," he calls me mumbling.

My mother squeezes my hands tightly, then I get up to go to him. "Don't you dare call me that. What do you want?" I burst out.

A wry smile appears on his bearded face. "You are my son, why shouldn't I?" He is a complete psychopath.

With two long steps I am in front of him and with anger and strength I tighten the collar of his sweaty blue shirt. "I'm no shit to you, except a guy with some of your shitty DNA!" I scream in his face. I'm sick of him.

He bursts into laughter. "But look at you! You can see that you are my son! Look at you... look at you, little Davis."

I look up and look in the mirror hanging on the wall behind him.

I see my eyes full of anger, my face red, my jaw set, the veins in my neck appearing from the force I'm exerting, my tense bicep.

It's almost exactly the same image I saw ten years ago, the only difference is that I have no knife in my hand and I'm not attacking my wife.

Disgusted, I let go of him and let myself fall on the sofa, my gaze lost in the void. I'm not like him, I'm not.

"You see, Katie darling," he turns to my mother and stands up, "he reacted just like I did that day."