TOXIC BLOODLINES 1/4

ALIGATOR

ARIK

I've been in the hospital for a month, sitting through numerous tests and speaking with reporters. My dad carefully scripted everything that I had to say. He repeatedly made me practice it in front of him until it was so believable that nobody would question it. He did the same with Kim, who I hadn't seen since she left.

Nobody was allowed to visit me, and he didn't give my phone back either; I had no connection to the outside world. The room felt like a prison cell... an expensive one with a crap view. "When can I go home?" My dad sat across the room, not paying attention to me. I slowly sat up. "Can I at least have my phone or my laptop back? I'm bored."

"No. You need to rest," my dad responded with his eyes fixed on some documents he was furiously scanning.

He was agitated; I could tell. He usually grinds his teeth and taps his foot when he's really pissed off. This would've been a moment where every other kid would have asked, 'Dad, what's wrong?' and then gotten some warm movie-type answer or something, but we didn't have that kind of relationship. My dad thought showing emotion was trivial. He shut himself off since my mom left us a few years ago.

"It's been three weeks-I'm fine now. I want to go home!" I shouted, trying to get his attention by all means necessary.

My dad looked up at me briefly and shook his head, unimpressed by my tantrum. He picked up the morning newspaper and began reading it. A very prominent look of wrath appeared on his face as if he was offended by something he had seen.

He sat up, flipping through the pages and grinding his teeth. He put it on the table, pulled his pen from his front pocket, and angrily circled paragraphs. I could see the veins on his neck and forehead protruding.

Damn, he's really pissed.

I didn't care for it; I just wanted to go home.

"DAD!" I shouted louder, breaking his concentration.

He angrily slammed his hand into the coffee table. "ENOUGH!" He roared.

He re-composed himself and then carried on reading. Most people would have been scared straight by his little outburst, but he's my dad. I would annoy him until I got an answer like I did with everything else. I waited a few more minutes for him to return to the zone. I was about to throw the TV remote at him when the door opened.

It was his secretary, Miss Angela. She made a gesture with her eyes cautioning me to stop. Angela always acts like my dad's some dangerous animal. I put the remote down as she slowly walked into the room, nervous as usual, which I always found hilarious. She had bad news; I could tell because of her 'don't eat me' smile. Everyone usually has that silly look on their face when speaking to him. I rolled my eyes as I rested back and stared at the ceiling.

"E-excuse me, sir, the- uhm—"

"—Get on with it," my dad snapped his fingers at her.

"Richard Stevens—the journalist is here to see you," Miss Angela informed him with a shaky voice.

The big man loudly circled the last paragraph. He finally lifted his eyes from the newspaper, and then my dad took off his glasses and placed them on the coffee table. He calmly responded. "Send him in."

Miss Angela's eyes widened briefly, almost as if she regretted telling him; she left the room with a nod.

Am I about to witness a murder?

I'd seen my dad in action before, but this was different.

He was furious.

Whatever he read in that paper ignited a rage in him, and one thing my dad hates is a wild card.