Something inside of me snapped, and I bit out, “You got fucking answers, old man. That’s what you fucking got!”
Unable to hold back any longer, I charged forward. Holding my blades out in front, I ran at my poppa. His eyes flared as I plowed forward. He pushed out his blade, but his drunken fucking ass had his hand shaking too much to grip it tight. I easily knocked the blade out of his old fucking hands, the steel clattering to the wooden floor and I shouldered him back against the wall.
Using my forearm, I pushed it against his neck, and looking him dead in the fucking eyes, asked, “What the fuck happened to Isaiah? Why the fuck did you always count to eleven?” I leaned in closer and hissed, “And why the fuck did you rape me? Why the fuck did you fucking rape me and fuck up my head?”
My poppa coughed and his face turned bright red, unable to breathe. But the fucker wouldn’t get such an easy death. I was gonna fucking make him pay. Pay for it all.
Jumping back, I dropped my arm and watched him hit the floor. My head twitched and my neck ached with how tight it was straining. But I turned the blades in my hand, and called, “Viking! Hold the cunt down on the table.”
Viking moved into action, picking the bastard up by his hair and dragging him to the table in the center of the room. The table my mama would cook at. I paced the floor, fighting the memory of my mama standing in this room, defending me from this sick fuck. My hands fisted on the handles of my blades and I hit the side of my head as too many fucking memories flooded my mind.
“Done, brother.” Viking announced from across the room. When I turned, Viking was holding down my poppa’s arms, his legs kicking to get free.
Viking smiled. “The fucker ain’t going nowhere, brother.”
“AK!” I called. AK stepped into the room, his 9mm held high. He flicked his chin. “Hold down the fucker’s legs,” I instructed.
AK dropped his gun into his cut and did as I said. I paced beside the table, and when I looked down, my poppa’s face was watching mine. Holding the handle of my knife, I charged forward on a scream and smashed the blunt end across his face. Blood poured from my poppa’s mouth. Dropping my blade into my belt, I lifted his head by the collar of his stained stinking shirt, and asked, “What the fuck was done with Isaiah? What the fuck did you do with my brother’s body?”
My poppa coughed and spluttered but gave no answer. I brought his face to mine, and growled, “Where the fuck did you take him? What the fuck was done with his body?”
“I’d answer him if I were you. Answer him or he’ll fucking slice off your tongue. Your son’s a fucking stone cold killer, Daddio. I ain’t thinking you wanna fuck with him anymore,” Viking warned and my poppa’s eyes flared. And I knew… he was scared. I couldn’t read faces, but I knew his face. Knew his every expression. And I knew I’d never seen him like this before. Never seen him scared before.
I fucking loved that it was me who made him feel fear.
“Pastor Hughes,” he coughed out. “Pastor Hughes and Elder Paul came for you both. They came looking for me, and found you two. They knew about the cellar, so they knew where to look. They cremated your brother and tossed his ashes in the river. He was better off gone, than living with you and your tainted soul.”
The flames under my skin burned like fuck, they fucking scorched me from inside. Tipping my head back, I roared and screamed out loud. Isaiah. They fucking burned him. The fucking Pastor and Elder that tied me down, and filled my poppa’s head with all the snake shit, hid my brother’s fucking death.
Holding my knife, I slashed it across Poppa’s chest, the tip cutting the surface of his skin. My poppa cried out, then before he had time to scream again, I demanded, “Why eleven? Why eleven times? Why was everything always eleven?”
His teeth gritted together at the pain, and taking my blade, I placed the tip at the top of the slash I’d just given him and began dragging it down. “I said, why fucking eleven?”
Poppa gasped and cried, “There are ten commandments, eleven is a mockery of all that is pure. It’s for disorder and sinners. You have evil in your veins, darkness in your soul. Eleven was fit for the sinner you are!”
I stopped and, unable to catch my breath through rage, hit my head. “I wasn’t a fucking sinner. I was fucking different. I am fucking different. My head doesn’t work right, like others. But it wasn’t a fucking sin, I wasn’t fucking evil, I was different. But your fucking church told you I was evil. You thought everyone was evil: me, Mama, Isaiah. When it was you. You were the one that was fucked up!”
I blew out a loud breath. That breath turned into a fucking scream, and I slashed my blade across his stomach. The blade didn’t cut deep, but the fucker sure felt it. He felt the fucking sting of my blade.
“You are a sinner, Josiah. Look what you’ve become. What you would’ve always become,” he choked out. “An evil fucking retard with flames in his blood. The retard with evil in his veins.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snapped. I pointed my blade at his face. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up!”
His dark eyes watched me. Then pointing my knife at his face, I growled, “You put me in that fucking cellar.” I pointed to the cellar’s hatch I knew was there. “You cut me with a blade, night after night, for fuck knows how long. You starved me. You left me in the fucking freezing cold.” Then my body tensed as I forced myself to say, “You raped me. You fucking raped me. You sick fucking cunt." I paused to gulp in more air, then continued in a deliberate voice. "Mama, Isaiah… you fucking ruined them. They died because of what you did to us all. You and that fucking church.”