What's home, if not the first place you flee from? What's love, if not that blazing, unexplainable feeling born from the ashes of hate?
Reputable for her appeal, servility, and obsession with cartoons, Alaina is a workaholic immigrant doctor who's s...
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Kendrick Lamar ft. Sampha - Father Time.
5TH MAY, 2020.
♣️
MY PAPA WAS A TALKATIVE MAN. He had a way with words that made you believe he was someone like Aristotle, Albert Einstein, or, in our case, Alphonso fucking Capone.
But he was none of them. He was Draco Anthony Ash.
I held that man in high regard because he taught me the essentials: discipline, cleanliness, self-control, authority—qualities that seemed to define his essence and gave him an air of wisdom, perfection.
But papa wasn't wise. He wasn't perfect. He was a liar, a cheat, a fraud, and without a doubt, the reigning champion of the "worst husband of the year" award. He didn't live by the rules he set, and in the end, it cost him. He died a shameful man.
For most of my life, I hated him. But his strange quotes and off-hand one-liners burned themselves into my mind like brands. When he died, I vowed to live by his rules, but in a way he never did—maybe then I'd become a better man than he ever was.
His rules became my culture.
The loudness of his voice, the noise of his life, is what shaped me into the man I am today.
Tap.
"Mr. Davian...Mr. Davian, sir..." The voice is distant at first, like background noise to my thoughts, but it grows louder. "Davian."
The sound of gasps penetrates my reverie.
What?
I blink, dragging myself out of the fog.
I scan the room, locking eyes with every person at the table. The look they give me is the same: a blend of pity and fear.
There was a time when fear in someone's eyes gave me a rush. A time when my knuckles were always raw and bloody. But now, after eleven damn years, it's tiresome.
Most of the board, if not all of them, know about the secret life my father led. Somehow, they've kept me in the same light...as if any moment, I might pull a gun and start laughing like a madman.
I focus on the young man who dared to call me by my first name, tilting my head, narrowing my eyes.
He flinches, swallowing nothing.
Maybe this isn't so boring after all. I kind of like the fear in his eyes. The kind that makes grown men piss themselves out of respect.
As papa used to say, "What else can a man trade for absolute respect, if not fear?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my blonde secretary blowing a kiss to the intern—who's a good few years younger than she is—and winking. I keep my eye roll in check. With her half-buttoned shirt and exposed cleavage, she was probably busy with him in the bathroom earlier.
