Daddy's Legacy

• Tegan Van Rijn
• Short Story
• 2010

Another grey morning shed bleak light over the drenched city still caught in the chilling downpour. The harsh hiss of pattering rain, the heavy splashes on saturated ground, the distant roll of crackling thunder - these filled the empty silence. Sound and sight merged to form a vision of sadness underscored by the booming echoes of angry guilt. Standing frozen in stillness and engulfed in rain was Vince Mandel. With streams of icy water dripping down every inch of his lithe, drenched body, Vince was invisible in the reflection of his own ambience. He was but a ghost of the man he wanted to be. Set against the bleak backdrop, Vince knew he became something of an apparition. It seemed his life would always be at the mercy of grey scale. But it was the sight of the usurper that drew his eye. It was the murmur in the quiet that shook him from his routine.

Vince stopped and carefully watched the figure set against the dreary haze, the child he longed for. The child’s sapphire eyes drove away the impending haze. But when the boy saw Vince he trembled, quickly turned and disappeared into the maw of his house. A faint chill trickled down Vince’s spine at the stark familiarity.

He felt sick. He of all people should have known it was wrong. He was a cop for Christs-sake. But he couldn’t help himself. The boy’s silky, ivory skin, lustrous beneath his fingertips. The boy’s divine panting. These thoughts plagued his mind, always there like static interfering with his attempts to control himself. He knew it was wrong but this way of thinking was so...natural, so easy. It was like he was on a one way road straight to hell, unable to stop and sometimes he wondered if he even wanted to. But he had to. He had to go see Him. For the boys sake, for his son.

Samuel was aware of the loitering presence outside the room, the faint shift of material. It took Vince 196 seconds to enter, 27 seconds less than Sam had estimated. Vince stood by the door, hesitated, steadfastly refused to look at Sam, sat down, and only then met his gaze.

Vince was greeted by a figure; shoulder slumped forward while its head hung limply from a pastel neck. Vince swallowed and struggled to begin, breathing in, but then out again with a muted disappointed grunt.
“You are not really here,” Sam stated matter-of-factly.
“What makes you say that?” Vince replied, following Sam’s lead in the conversation in the absence of a better starting point.
“Because you’re scared of me.”
“I am not scared of you,” Vince responded levelly.
“Correct, Vince,” Sam replied without a moments pause, “I am shackled to the table and you are most certainly carrying a sidearm. But you are both cautious and insecure. You do not fear me for what I could do, but for what I’ve done, because you’re the only one sharp enough to see inside me and see something normal. Because I am normal. And you’re...not normal. But you’re not far off. And you know that the only difference between me and you is that you’re free. You’ve seen how similar we are inside, and that scares you”

That disgusting smirk on Samuel’s face taunted Vince with nightmares he had tried so hard to banish. You’re really having a good time, aren’t you old man? Vince thought. Your memory still haunts me to this day. I wonder sometimes...would that make you happy? For the rest of my life thoughts of you lingering in my consciousness making me shudder in disgust or fear. Does that sound pleasant? Would you be happy knowing you left scars? Or would you finally see your wrong? I can still hear you saying my name. It slid off your lips without hazard. Like it was second nature. It shouldn’t sound so natural. It’s not natural. You’re not natural. I’m not natural. Vince thought. Do you know I can still feel your hands? In my nightmares I’m helpless to stop them, they claw at me. A gentle caress feels like sharp nails, hatefully digging into tender flesh. Your kisses burned like hot metal, a brand so much worse than the cigarette you held to my skin, making me swear to keep silent within a world of mindless pain. When I wake from my nightmares I swear that I can still smell my own flesh. Old wounds sting painfully in the aftermath. I force myself to lay back, panting, until the burning ceases. The position is comfortable. I never sleep on my front anymore. That’s how you like me. I never sleep on my front. Even long after you’ve left my life, I still hold dear to those things that make you angry. And I do them. Just to spite you.

Vince walked into his house and saw the boy with azure eyes, his son. He walked over and kissed his forehead. His lips tingled and his insides felt as though they were on fire. The past haunted him every day and night and he couldn’t escape it. He was cold in the prison of his sick mind, locked behind the bars Daddy had built for him.