Only then do I yank my arm free of his hold. He stumbles off balance at the sudden movement.
“Drunk bastard,” I mumble under my breath.
“What did you say, boy?” He regains his footing. “I told you to leave. Your sorry ass didn’t listen!” He pulls his hand back, preparing to hit me.
He won’t be hitting me, not tonight. I’ll never let him hit me again.
I easily duck as he takes a swing at me.
He huffs, his nostrils flare, and his eyes widen until I can see the whites of his bloodshot eyes.
I’ve dreamed about killing this man for so long—in so many different ways.
A gunshot to the head.
A knife to the throat.
A snap of the neck.
Right now, my mind is quickly rotating through all of my options, trying to decide which way this man deserves to die.
He tries to hit me again while I’m thinking. I take a step back and dodge his fist once again.
This time he stumbles and has to catch himself with his hand to keep from falling completely to the ground.
It’s then that I realize how this monster deserves to die. He doesn’t deserve anything special. It won’t take much to kill him. Just one wrong step, one stumble because he’s too drunk to stay upright. Then I can finish him off.
“Stop moving and take your beating like a man! You deserve it!” he shouts at me.
I step around him until I’m just in front of the water’s edge.
“No son deserves to get beaten by their father.”
“You’re no son of mine! You’re a bastard; your mother cheated on me so many times, I’m not even sure you are mine.”
I wish his statement were true. I wish I wasn’t his son, but we share the same eyes, the same lanky body, the same jawline—I’m his.
I stand firm as the lake sloshes at my heels, biding my time until he swings again.
On cue, he does. This time, I wait until the very last moment—until his fist almost brushes against my cheek before I move out of the way.
I watch his body fall face-first into the water. He can’t catch himself; it’s too late. His body hits the water hard. From the way his head bounces, he landed on a rock beneath the surface of the water.
Slowly, he tries to push himself up.
That won’t be happening.
I press my foot down on top of his back, holding him down easily with my weight. He’s too drunk, too weak to get me off, even though he’s twice my size.
This is for everything he’s done.
I watch wordlessly as he struggles beneath my foot. Every second he’s one step closer to death. Each second he loses more and more oxygen. His lungs begin to fill with water. His arms stop flailing. His body stops moving.
He’s dead.
I hold my foot on his back for another couple seconds—processing the moment. He’s dead and I killed him.
My mind goes blank. I don’t feel anything. I can’t feel anything.