LGBT Fiction: The Cycle: A Violence Begets... Novel by Denys P.T

Author:Denys, P.T. [Denys, P.T.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Indie Artist Press; Wilde Works
Published: 2017-07-07T04:00:00+00:00

Kevin

I’d called Emma and told her I had an emergency with a client and that I needed her to pick up Isaac from counseling.

I pulled up a barstool and glanced at an empty one next to me. The bartender threw a coaster down on the bar as he offered to take my order. I stared at him blankly, then back at the empty stool that wasn't empty anymore.

“Two top-shelf whiskeys, neat,” I said, hesitating. “Wild Turkey if you’ve got it.”

“Someone joining you?” he asked as he placed a coaster in front of what appeared to be an empty seat next to me.

“At some point,” I replied vaguely as my father whispered his approval in my ear. I knew better than to respond to him in front of the bartender. I wasn't so far gone that I didn't recognize my own delusions.

“It's been awhile,” I said, ducking my head and talking to the counter in front of me.

“Several years, in fact,” he said sardonically.

“I thought you were finally gone.”

He chuckled, “No you didn't. I've always been here.”

The bartender with the nametag reading Paulo returned with the drinks and asked if I wanted to start a tab. I nodded as I handed him my card.

“He's cute. Don't you think?”

I didn't respond as I stared straight ahead at the wall lined with different colors and sizes of bottles.

“What? Order a drink and then ignore it all night? That's not very nice of you,” my father chided as I avoided making any move to look at or pick up the whiskey.

“Go away,” I mumbled.

“You know it's never that easy.”

I shook my head, knowing the only thing that had ever made my hallucinations of my father disappear was Rick at my side, pulling me out of the past. But he wasn't around to keep the darkness at bay. He wasn't with me because I'd fucked up and hit him.

I glowered down at my drink.

“Thata boy! What should we cheers to?”

Not only was the fucking illusion of my father sitting next to me, but I was positive it was only a matter of time before his real form made an appearance in my life. I wondered if I'd be able to tell the difference.

“I think we should cheers to the fact that you’re just like me. You turned all that pent-up rage onto another person,” my father said.

I picked up the glass, swirling the caramel-colored alcohol around gently. “But not just another person—the so-called love of your life.” I could hear the laughter in his voice as I brought the glass to my nose, closing my eyes and inhaling the pungent smell, then slowly exhaling fifteen years of sobriety.

“Welcome to the club, son.”

I touched the rim of the glass to my mouth and pretty much pulled the trigger as I let the alcohol gently touch my top lip. It crossed my mind to use the Springfield pistol resting against the small of my back, certain it would be more efficient. I drew the glass back and my tongue flicked out, assaulted by the bitter residue.

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