Frankie's Obsession

Epilogue - Heaven's a Lie, But You're Real.

"Find what you love and let it kill you."

- Charles Bukowski

Six months later.

Benedict Pierce. That was his name. My son.

I loved him because he was innocent in a way that stripped the world of its bitterness, because that's what children did to you; they reminded you of everything good and untainted. I loved him because Frankie had chosen him. And I loved him even more deeply, more fiercely, because he had chosen me too, because when he looked up at me and called me Dad, it meant everything to me.

And for everything the world had put our boy through, his mother and I needed blood.

We had spent months tracking down that worthless piece of shit, the one Benedict's strung-out excuse of a biological mother had traded him to for nothing more than a few hits of whatever poison she was chasing. The bastard knew what was waiting for him the moment he heard I was coming. He knew exactly what I'd do once I got my hands on him.

But no one can run forever. Eventually, even the fastest man runs out of road, and when he does, he finds the devil waiting for him at the end.

And tonight, that devil was me.

My phone rang. The call I'd been waiting for.

"Logan?" I answered.

"Got him, boss," Logan said. "Taking him to Goat's old place."

"Good job, Logan." I said, already reaching for my keys. "I'm coming."

I could've had Logan bring the bastard to me instead. Hell, Frankie would've preferred that. She would've wanted to look him in the eyes, to say the last words that had been burning in her throat since the night we first heard our son scream in his sleep. But Frankie was eight and a half months pregnant now, and the doctor had told us she could go into labor at any moment. I wasn't about to risk putting that kind of stress on her.

What she needed now was rest. Quiet. Peace.

And, to be honest, sex, but she hadn't been in the mood lately, and I sure as hell wasn't going to push my luck. So, yeah.

I stepped back into the living room, my eyes immediately finding my wife, the woman I loved more than life itself, slumped in a mountain of pillows, looking beautiful even in her exhaustion. Lately, the contractions had grown more intense. And God, it tore me apart to see her like this, to know that no matter how many shoulder rubs I gave, how many warm baths I ran for her, how many times I massaged her swollen feet or fetched her every craving, none of it ever felt like enough.

Frankie was stretched across the new, ridiculously soft couch I'd surprised her with just last week. She'd built herself a fortress out of pillows, settling there most nights instead of climbing the stairs to our bed. And so, I started sleeping on the adjacent couch. She needed me close at night.