Playing His Own Games | ✔︎

chapter eight | the scars of the soul

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"Some days, I feel everything at once. Other days, I feel nothing at all. I don't know what's worse―drowning beneath the waves, or dying from the thirst."
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Mason

I SIT ON THE COUCH, shoulders pulled back, eyes straight ahead, making sure my face is void of emotion. My dad places a half empty glass of scotch down on the bar next to its bottle, humming softly, circling around me as he takes a drag of the cigarette.

The smell of cigarette smoke and liquor is making my stomach roll. His lips are nearly pressed against the side of my neck, his breath hot on the skin.

"Discipline," he whispers the word I've come to hate so much. One hand gripping my shoulder, his nails piercing the skin, the other lifting the cigarette to his lips. "Do you believe you've done wrong, Mason?"

I hate these manipulation games where he takes the role of the victim and everything ends up being my fault. "Yes, sir."

"It's my responsibility to punish you and make you understand what is right and wrong in this world," he begins to lecture and I feel the heat of the cigarette butt breathing dangerously on my skin. "The world is a harsh place, Mase, and it doesn't tolerate insolent little boys playing around with toys they don't understand. It is my duty as a parent to punish you as I see fit. Now, tell me what you've done wrong."

Goosebumps raise my crawling skin at his soft voice, full of suppressed rage and indifference. "I disobeyed you, sir," I say, my gaze fixed on the floor.

"List all of them." He grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my neck back and forcing our eyes to meet. I feel a few hairs detach from my scalp, the burn only intensified from its previous assault an hour or so before.

"I lied to you, I betrayed you, I argued and tried to fight back and...well Michael and stuff," I'm speaking quickly, my terror mounting.

He pushes the still burning cigarette butt into the groove of my collarbone and I grind my teeth together to stop myself from crying out, nails clamping down on my legs, tearing desperately at the skin to try and distract myself from the pain.

My father chuckles darkly, lighting another cigarette. "You never learn, do you, Mase? No matter how many times I try to teach you to behave you always find some way to royally screw up."

My heart rate picks up, every inch of my body on high alert. I struggle to distance my mind from my body, desperate to find the escape root from reality and into my fantasies. But I can't. Not when my mother is lying six feet under and I've just discovered the family she left me for are a pack of complete jerks.

He puts out the second cigarette just below the previous one. I breathe deeply through my nose, unable to stop a small gasp from escaping me.

"Go upstairs and get changed into some more appropriate clothes," he orders, grabbing the collar of my shirt and yanking me to my feet. "I need to prepare something for Ruby and Jared when they arrive home from basketball. And then—" his eyes flash dangerously "—I am going to discuss and voice a few of my concerns."

I remain silent and that is answered with a sharp slap across the face.

"Got that, tough guy?" he snaps.