Most kids don’t grow up wanting a dead-beat dad. Those kids don’t understand how much worse it can truly be. How it feels to grow up wishing your father was a neglectful dead beat and not a living nightmare.
I did. I do. And my safest place is to hide among the monsters. So, that’s what I do. I blend into a sea of criminals and the depraved. Any of them are far better company than my father.
It’s been over two years I’ve stayed safe, over two years of keeping the balance, over two years of being someone else and living their life.
Then he walks through the dark red lacquered doors of my hiding place. His eyes searching, probing, and knowing. Now, this temptation swirls on the tip of my tongue, teasing my taste buds, making me want to confess all my sins to a man who could punish me and free me in the most wonderfully worst ways.
This isn’t a romance. This isn’t a love story.
This is primal. This is raw. This is obsession.