Absorbing White

by Charlotte E Hart

  “Then put it away, father,” he said as he emerged from the shadows and walked slowly towards the man. For a split second the bastard looked shocked, but it was quickly replaced by arrogance and that same, never-ending smug smile.

  “I wondered when you’d turn up, Nicholas.”

  “My name’s not Nicholas,” he replied quietly as he edged past the man and into the house.

  It was yet another representation of decency – highly polished floors and quality antique furniture decorating the hallway as if he was being introduced to some kind of family home. All lies. The only aura this man had was one of lies and brutality. He could feel it with every breath the man took. The arsehole closed the door behind them and turned to look at him.

  “You think because you made a new life for yourself that you are no longer my son? Your name is Nicholas Adlin. It will always be Nicholas Adlin,” he said sharply as he walked past him and back into the lounge again. “Drink? Cognac, isn’t it?” How the fuck did he know that? He followed him through carefully and stifled the need to take his leather jacket off at the sudden heat. He wouldn’t be staying long enough for that.

  “Did you send the texts?” he asked calmly, desperately trying to quash the terror holding him hostage, raking up old thoughts and terrorizing any element of control. Just looking at the man was enough to disable all rationality. Thoughts began to merge and blur into confusion as the clear game plan disappeared into the fire along with logical thinking. He shook his head to try and regain some calm as Daddy turned back and tilted his head with those same eyes bleeding hate at him from across the room. They were still the same eyes, still the same disgust and loathing pouring from them, damned liquid depths of black holes boring in and forcing him to look at the floor briefly. The fucker chuckled and snorted in contempt.

  “Of course it was me, Nicholas.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re my son,” the bastard replied with another snort of disdain, as if he were an idiot for asking the question. Stupid little boy. Pathetic. Look at you. He halted the need to break something. Looking at these walls adorned with pictures of happy families, none of which were real, was enough to send him crazy with fury and uncertainty. What sort of life was the man trying to portray, for Christ’s sake? He turned away and stared at a picture of a woman he now knew to be his mother. He felt the venom leave his stomach almost immediately. It was a different one than the one he had. She was wearing a blue dress that sparkled the same colour as her eyes, but she was dull other than that, just sitting in a chair someone had presumably made her sit in and told her how to appear. A glass was placed in front of him on the table, so he stared down at it and wondered what the hell the man was trying to achieve.

  “Did you kill her?” he asked quietly, nodding at the picture, not touching the glass in the slightest as he watched the man close the curtains.

  “She fell. Your mother was a clumsy woman,” he replied as he made his way to the desk and began signing documents. Did she fuck.

  “What do you want? Why did you text me?”

  “I want my son to behave appropriately. I’m your father and I deserve some respect,” he replied, his back hunched over the desk as he shuffled papers about. “It’s Christmas, son, time for families to be together.” If it was possible for his eyes to pop out of his head they would have. What the hell was the bastard going on about? Happy families? Christ, he hadn’t seen the man for years, and the last person he wanted to spend a minute with at Christmas was him. Christmas was for people like Elizabeth and her family, people who loved each other and wrapped intricate bows around presents.

  “Respect for what?” he asked as the man scribbled on a folder and tucked it carefully into his desk drawer.

  “You’re alive, aren’t you? And you’ve done well for yourself. Shouldn’t I be rewarded for my efforts in teaching you?” He just stared at the bastard’s back again, now wondering what teachings he was referring to. As far as he could remember, the only teachings he had received were those of fear and of turmoil. His throat tightened again as he watched the man’s fingers working the pen in his hand. He could see the loose hold he had on it, the relaxed manner of the way he held it, the same way he’d held that fucking tie for all those years as he’d walked toward him with it. So familiar. He frowned at his own pathetic trembling again and tensed every muscle to combat it. “From what I can see, son, you are feared, respected, and privileged. Your business is thriving and you have a woman that is very appealing. Elizabeth, isn’t it? I’m certain I must have had something to do with the creation of that.” Anger rose up inside him with such force he barely tamed the thought of killing the man as he sat there. How dare he mention her name? Who would fucking miss him anyway? No one. Not one person on this planet deserved the pain of having to deal with such a man. He took a step towards the arsehole and inwardly smiled at the prospect. He could do it. He could just squeeze and overpower the old man. It would be quick, easy even.

  “There isn’t a reward for what you created. You should be jailed for what you did to me,” he snarled out as his body reminded him of his job. The bastard turned his head from the desk and then lifted his frame out of the chair. He was still so big, and the instant feelings from his childhood came hurtling through his own bloodstream in sudden panic as he watched the man sneer in response.

  “You wouldn’t be the man you are today without it, son,” he said, stepping toward him.

  “Do you honestly think that’s true? You’re mad. Why?” he managed to reply as he took a step backward from the bastard and hit the table.

  “Look at yourself, boy. You’re not afraid of anything. You go after what you want and get it. You have everything you will ever need. You would be nothing without me and my guidence. You’d have ended up working in some mechanics shop fucking around with engines. That’s all you ever wanted to do, mess around with that ludicrous little plane.” His plane. His little red plane. He loved that plane, spent hours when he was alone dreaming of flying in it and being free in the air.

  “It’s the only toy I ever had,” he mumbled, now taking another pathetic step away as the man seemed to grow in size again. “You never let me have anything else.”

  “Toys? What good would toys have done you? You needed hardening up. You were weak, just like your mother.” Weak. Weak and pathetic. Useless. Stand there ‘til I tell you to move. Maybe you’ll get a treat. He was four when that happened, and he stood still for three hours, hoping to be rewarded with something nice as his father made phone calls. He just stood in the middle of the carpet, even pissed himself rather than move. Must keep Daddy happy. Instead, he was given a beating when he tried to sit quietly through exhaustion, just to keep Daddy happy. Must keep Daddy happy. Daddy. Daddy was never fucking happy. He frowned at the thought and felt the anger coming back, a rage building and quieting the noise in his head.

  “I was four years old when you broke my fucking ribs. Why?”

  “I did not break your ribs. You tripped on the stairs. You were as ham-fisted as your mother was.” Both eyebrows shot up at the lie. Was he really going to pretend it didn’t happen? Surely the bastard was man enough to admit what he’d done.

  “You beat me until I couldn’t breathe and then stamped on my ribs. You fucking did that. You. I fucking remember it,” he said, his voice now finding a level of irritation and power again as that quiet kept swirling through him.

  “I only hit you when you needed putting straight about something. And be careful with your tone around me. You’re still my son.”

  He scowled at the man as he got within arm’s reach and pushed the need to just kill him away. That fucking suit hid a monster inside. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be alive even. He should rot in the ground with all those other repugnant wastes of life that he’d taken.

  “You tied my fucking neck to the banister and taunted me. You left me out in the cold to freeze, burnt my face in the oven. I didn’t even have a bed, for fuck’s sake. I deserved
better than that. I was a child, and…” The bastard held a finger up to stop him, and without thought, his mouth clamped shut. It always had done when that happened. It was warning enough for what would come next. Fucking ridiculous. He was a grown man now, for God’s sake. He glowered at himself and inched forward to the man. He would do this. He wasn’t afraid anymore, couldn’t be.

  “I think you better leave. You’re clearly not thinking straight, son,” the bastard said calmly.

  “STOP CALLING ME YOUR SON, YOU FUCKING-”

  The hit of something hard to his head caught him completely off guard and sent him reeling into the bookshelves behind him, then to the floor. Pain seared through him as he grasped onto the side of his head and winced like a pussy at the intense throb assaulting him.

  “Stop whining, you little shit,” the bastard said from above while swinging a large glass decanter in his hand. “Always whining. Whine, whine, whine. Where’s my mummy? I want my mummy. You needed to grow up so that’s what I did. I helped you. Don’t you see? Do you still whine for her, still wet the bed like a disgusting little prick?” Alex cowered beneath the man and held onto his head as he heard the change in voice, the low tone of evil resonating like a death bell coming at him from all directions. “How does your new little thing like it when you cry like a baby?”

  “Leave her out of this,” he muttered quietly as he remained on the floor, suddenly not daring to get up and face whatever was coming next. Stay down. Just stay down and be quiet. Be a good boy and he’ll stop.

  “Why? She’s a pretty thing. I’d hate you to ruin your chances with her, fuck that handsome face of yours up. Perhaps she needs a real man instead.” He couldn’t find any language to respond with. Nothing. But the mention of her was enough to force something from his throat, anything.

  “Please, just-”

  “How does she fuck, Nicholas?” the bastard asked as he kicked his thigh with the heel of his boot then ground it in deeper. “Look at you down there. You really are a disappointment. I thought you’d be stronger than this by now. It seems I was wrong. Do you need some more instruction?”

  Panic reared its ugly head again so he just kept staring at the floor, shielding his head and wishing something would come and take him away. He could feel the thoughts of a young boy racing in as Alexander left him. All that was left in his place was a snivelling, terrified four-year-old, dreading what was about to happen. He tried to move a little to ease the discomfort on his leg but the bastard just ground his boot in harder and laughed. That laughter echoed in his head, louder and louder, until all he could hear was the sound of his bedroom at night. The sound of those shiny shoes clomping up the stairs towards him had him almost choking on tears but for the fear of actually doing it. His body tried to move again, tried to find a way out, but there never had been anywhere to run to, nowhere to hide either, and so he’d just waited there for his punishment. He’d just waited like a good little boy and tried not to cry as every blow rained down on him, just as he was doing now. Mustn’t cry. Just keep Daddy happy. Must keep Daddy happy. Be stronger.

  “Get up, Alex. I love you. Be more than this.” Her voice again, chanting in the background, swirling through him and dulling the pain a little. “Show me more. I love you. I want it all.” He tried to hang onto it, but the chiding laughter wouldn’t go away, and he couldn’t breathe all of a sudden. Why couldn’t he breathe again? He pulled his hands to his throat at the onslaught of the attack to try and keep it at bay, but he couldn’t stop it. All he could feel was the dull ache in his head, the piercing pain in his leg, and the fear of what was to come. Why was his daddy hurting him again? Why?

  He pulled himself into a ball and let the inevitable come as another wave of punishment slammed down on his head. Useless little shit. How many times have I got to show you this? You disgust me. You’re not worthy of any of it. He couldn’t tell if the man was saying it or if it was just memories, but the voice was drowning out everything, killing any sense of reason and just destroying all she’d told him, all she’d promised. She was wrong. He wasn’t worthy, and certainly not of her. She’d be fine with someone else. They’d protect her from this and give her the good life she deserved.

  Another kick to the ribs had him howling in agony and grasping onto the shelf to avoid the next one. He didn’t. It just rammed into another part of him as he lay there. Keep Daddy happy. He should fight. He knew that, could feel it somewhere deep inside, but he couldn’t find the anger he needed. He was scared, terrified even, and all he could see was her eyes staring at him as he shook in fear. Her angelic face looked revolted as she sneered at him in disgust and laughed along with his dad. Useless. Worthless. “Elizabeth,” he mumbled to himself as something wrapped around his throat, and he closed his eyes to the sensation. Just keep Daddy happy. Stay down. Be quiet. Don’t cry. His body began to move across the floor, and he tried to kick his legs out for purchase but the fight wasn’t there, and what was the point anyway? My throat. Mine now. Her voice came out of nowhere and sparked across his thoughts. Her throat. Hers. He’d given it to her. It wasn’t this bastard’s to have anymore. The vision of her face became stronger as his back dragged across the wood, a smile now spread across it as her hand floated in front of him. I love you. Don’t leave me, Alex. He reached a hand forward for her but the pain in his throat was too much, too tight, and he gasped for air while trying to reach her.

  “You got heavy, Nicholas.” Nicholas. Nicholas. Nicholas. No, Alex. Her Alex. It was all for her, and she was disappearing. Why couldn’t he see her anymore? Where was she? He wrenched his hand at the constraint around his neck and heaved to get back to her. Nothing happened, but his movement stopped and she was there again. That red hair of hers was flaming as her smile broadened once more and she beckoned him. He pulled again and watched her blow him a kiss and giggle, such a beautiful giggle, so free and wonderful. He wanted that giggle, needed it more than anything, and he wanted to hold her and kiss her and tell her he loved her, tell her that she completed him and made him whole, and that without her, his life was empty. “Come for me,” she whispered. “Show me.” He needed to, with every strangled breath. He had to reach her, had to show her that she was his world. He had to show her that nothing would stop him from getting to her and keeping her safe. Only death would ever stop him. Death.

  He hauled again on the rope and felt it giving enough that he could get the other hand in, too, so he wrenched at it again and scrambled his feet to the floor. The creak of his leathers caught his attention and cleared the air of the other confusing noise in his head. “Up, Alexander. Be more.” Now Pascal’s voice, clearing away all the others apart from hers. It was as if they were one and the same somehow. Guiding him, calling him, calling him home.

  He snarled at himself and watched his own feet plant onto the floor in front of him as he rose, and with a final tug, he felt the rope loosen around his neck and then finally go slack in his hand.

  “Got stronger, too,” Daddy said behind him with a chuckle. He turned to find the fucker smiling at him, smiling with some expression he’d never seen before. Uncertainty. He looked down at whatever it was in his hands and found a tie there. A fucking tie? He threw it on the floor in disgust and raised his eyes back up to the man.

  “Don’t ever fucking touch me again,” he growled out, barely containing the need to rip the bastard’s head from his body. She wouldn’t want that, would she? That would be wrong, immoral. The dick just stood there, still smiling, and reaching for the glass of cognac he’d poured earlier.

  “Look at what you’ve become, son,” he said as he took a swig and rolled up his sleeves. “It makes me proud to see you like this.” Proud? He sucked in a breath and tried to walk past the man. He had to leave. He couldn’t find any peace here. All he could think of was murder, death and revenge. Years of revenge, clawing its way around him and telling him to kill the threat in front of him. Sadistic, twisted thoughts now clouded over the love she’d created again to help him throu
gh all of this. The bastard put a hand on his chest to stop him. “Don’t leave like this. We have matters to discuss.” They had nothing to discuss, nothing. He was done here.

  “I have nothing left to say. Stay away from me and my family, or I’ll kill you,” he replied quietly as he glared at the man’s hand and watched it slowly pull away. His father’s hands were the same as his own. In fact, everything about the man was too familiar, like looking in a mirror really. He frowned at the thought and clung onto the vision of her smiling at him as he stepped around the bastard and headed for the door.

  “You’ll regret walking away,” his father called as he reached for the handle.

  He might regret a lot more if he stayed.

  The moment he hit the cool night air, he grabbed hold of his ribs and head to check for damage. At least one rib was broken. He could feel it moving, and his head was pounding as he limped up the drive. He swiped his fingers across the area and added more fresh red to the dried blood already coating his hand. There was a small gash, but he could feel the tenderness already filling with fluid as a lump started to form. After briefly considering going to a hospital, he made it to his bike and blew out a breath as he stared back at the house. The lights were still on, and he considered what his father meant by regretting walking away. What did that mean? He wasn’t sure he gave enough of a fuck to think about it any longer so just climbed on his bike and gingerly pulled the helmet over his head. The bastard couldn’t do anything to him now. He’d just proved his point. He may have needed Elizabeth to help him with it, but he’d finally done it, beaten the man at his own game and walked away with his head held higher. She would be pleased with him for that, proud of him. She’d think he was decent for his behaviour, given the scenario, and her opinion was the only one he cared about. She’d be proud of what he did.