What's home, if not the first place you run away from? What's love, if not that unexplainable, blazing feeling which comes after a period of hate?
Reputable for her catchy appearance, her over-niceness, her obsession with cartoon animations and her...
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Kendrick Lamar ft. Sampha - Father Time.
5TH MAY, 2020.
♣️
MY PAPA WAS a talkative. He had a way with words that would make you think he was some kind of Aristotle, Albert Einstein, or in our case, Alphonso fucking Capone.
He wasn't any of those people, though. He was Draco Anthony Ash.
I held that man in the highest regard because he taught me a lot: discipline, cleanliness, self-control, business strategies, authority...things I thought were the building blocks of his essence, which made him wise and perfect.
But my papa wasn't wise or perfect. He was a liar, a cheat, a fraud, and he definitely won the "worst husband of the year" award consecutively until he passed away. He didn't live by his own rules, and as a result, he died a shameful death.
I hated him for most of my life, yes, but his odd quotes and one-liners got engraved in my mind like a brand. The day he died, I vowed to live by his rules, contrary to what he did—maybe then I'd become a better man than he was.
His rules became my culture.
His past garrulousness is part of what made me the man I am today.
Tap.
"Mr. Davian...Mr. Davian, sir..." The voice is faint, like background noise to my thoughts, but it grows louder. "Davian." The sound of gasps breaks through my reverie.
What?
I blink, snapping out of my aloofness.
I scan the room, meeting the eyes of every person around the table. They look at me with the same expression: a mix of pity and fear.
There was a time when I'd get high seeing fear in someone's eyes, a time when my knuckles were always busted and bleeding. But now, it's getting old. It's been eleven fucking years.
Most of the board—if not all—knew the kind of life my father led in secret, so somehow, they've managed to hold me in the same regard...like I'll spontaneously pull out a gun and start laughing maniacally.
I turn my attention to the young man who dared to call me by my first name, cocking my head. I narrow my eyes, and he flinches, gulping down nothing.
Maybe it's not so boring after all. I kind of like the fear in his eyes right now. It's the kind that makes grown men piss their pants out of respect.
As my 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 way younger than she is—and winking. I refrain from rolling my eyes. Judging by her half-buttoned shirt and exposed cleavage, she was probably busy with him in the bathroom not too long ago.
