Page 212 of Embriagado

Returning his smile, I then stared ahead at the ocean.

“We used to be a close family until my mom got sick and died within a year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Now, with the fireworks all over, it was the sounds of the waves coming from afar that followed his words.

“Thanks,” I muttered, brushing a hand over my neck while thinking of those days. “To handle the pain, or maybe just numb it, my dad started drinking, and that cost us just about everything.” With a sigh, I moved my hand up to my hair, pushing it back. “Picking up gambling, he spent less and less time at home, collecting debts and whatnot. Now, I know this next part was on me, but instead of trying to help him, I blamed him for ruining our life, which caused him to disappear even more.” My heart clenched, remembering some of the awful things I said to him. “It was during my second year in prison when he got caught up in a bar brawl, after some asshole hit his woman.” By now, I could feel my tears threatening to break free, so I forced them down. “The idiot still thought he was his old self, capable of winning any fight, so he tried defending the girl, and those fuckers beat the shit out of him.” The pain that never truly went away settled deep in my gut, making me fume with anger. “Once they were done, they left him to die like some dog in a back alley, as if he were yesterday’s trash.”

It was much easier to blame his death on the drinking, rather than on the fact that he was truly a good man, down to his last breath. After all, getting angry at him was better than beating myself up all those years, because if I wasn’t a complete fuckup, I could have been there to help him, and he would still be alive.

“Do you feel guilty?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“You know, there’s nothing majestic about guilt, only pain.”

My brows rose as I remembered where I’d heard that line before.

“You said that to me once, right?” I nudged closer to him. “Yeah, you did. Back when I asked you how you got this scar.”

He traced his hand over it. “You still want to know?”

“Only if you’re cool with telling.”

He shrugged, bringing his hands to his lap. “To be clear, this isn’t some pity contest over who had the most tragic life, okay?” He side-eyed me when I laughed.

“Sure.”

“Well.” He poked the inner side of his cheek with his tongue. “My mom was the one who did this to me.”

My eyes went wide because fuck.

“Why?”

“She… how can I put it… she didn’t have the easiest life, and having a child was probably the worst thing that could have happened to her, or so she kept telling me.” Staring ahead, he pursed his lips while slowly moving his fingernails along his forearm. “She was a prostitute, and my conception was the product of rape. And despite her decision to give birth to me, it seemed that my mere existence angered her. She was a miserable woman, living an awful life, who chose to blame it all on her child. Maybe it was her survival mechanism or just pure villainy, but she always let out her anger at me every time a client left the apartment we lived in.” He snorted, shaking his head. “If you could even call that shithole an apartment. It was a crack house, filled with needles and the rotten peaches she left everywhere.”

That awful smell of peaches. Get rid of it.

His words from back then struck me like a slap to the face.

“Whenever I was home while she had a man over, I’d hide in a small closet. You need to understand, it was a one-bedroom apartment the size of a shoe box, so there really was nowhere else to hide. Not that hiding helped.” He paused for a moment and bit his lip. “I heard every foul cuss thrown at her, every moan they forced from her, and every time they struck her.”

No wonder he hated it when I swore. Just hearing this awful story made my soul hurt, and I couldn’t even begin to imagine what he felt living it.

“There was this one client who was particularly mean to her. A doctor, if you’d believe it. Anyway, she’d always lose it after he left, and if I were around, she’d come after me. That day, it rained, so I stayed home, hidden in my closet until they were finished.” He scratched himself harder. “After he left, she didn’t even bother putting on clothes and instead came for me, only holding the piece of glass she then used to cut through my face.”

I shuddered, physically shuddered, but noticing he was now on the verge of hurting himself, I grabbed his wrist, stopping him from scratching his skin so hard. He looked down at my hand and then back up, almost as if he didn’t realize what he was doing.

“Ari—”

“You know what was the worst part?” His face was as cold as ever, not a single emotion showing on it. “The worst part was that one time wasn’t enough, and she went for another cut, digging the glass in much deeper the second time.”

Feeling completely at a loss for words and unsure what to do, I did the only thing that made sense at that moment and pulled him into my arms. He didn’t hug me back, but he also didn’t pull away, so I held him for what felt like eternity, even though it still wasn’t enough. Eventually, I had to let him go, and we returned to sitting shoulder to shoulder like kids on a school break.

If only.

“I killed him, you know.”