Three weeks ago, there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
Now, everything is pitch black, and all I got are my fucking nightmares.
And here this fuck is, destroying the memory of his boy. Maybe it’s not a big deal to him. After all, he doesn’t need a picture to honor his son because he knows what it feels like to hold him in his arms. He knows the sound of his laugh and I bet he’s memorized his smile.
“You want some fatherly advice, Blackie?” he sneers, wrangling one hand free. He snatches the other back and takes a step closer, getting in my face. “You’re better off not knowing your kid. At least you won’t get attached. The kid will be better off too. He won’t be disappointed. I mean, look where you are. You think you’re any good for your kid? That you can give it everything it deserves. That you can love him. Protect him. That you can fucking heal him from the pain you cause because if you stick around, if he gets to know you, you’re only going to hurt him. You’re a fucking animal locked in a cage just like me and odds are, that’s all you’ll be.”
His words slap me in the face. They fucking sting but then again, the truth usually does. Biting the inside of my cheek, I remind myself this ain’t about me and I bend to pick up the pieces of the torn photo.
“Leave it,” he shouts as I straighten up.
Lifting the two halves, I study the boy for a moment before turning back to Bishop and holding the image up so he sees his sons toothless grin. This man has no idea how lucky he is.
“Look at him,” I demand.
“No,” he croaks, deliberately ignoring the damaged photograph. His jaw clenches and his features contort. “Don’t you fucking get it? I can’t look at him,” he seethes.
I can see this is going somewhere dark and uninviting. A place that sucks you in and strips you of your soul only to spit you out in pieces. I’ve been there. Hell, I’ve got a foot in the door. If I was smart, I’d leave him alone and respect his limits. But I’m not smart. I’m the fucking king of bad decisions.
“Why?” I press.
“Because I can’t save him,” he growls, dragging his fingers through his hair. He fists the ends and grinds his teeth as he stares at me with a vengeance. “You want to know my story, motherfucker? Huh? Is that what you want?”
Peering into his tortured eyes, I’m certain I don’t want to know his story and yet, I don’t object because pain recognizes pain. It fucking thrives on it. I want to know he’s just as fucking miserable as I am. That he’s not as lucky as I think he is. I want to know he’s lost every good thing in his life just as I have.
“Conner,” he says. “That’s the name his mother gave him. I didn’t have a say in it mainly because I didn’t give a fuck. Back then, a baby was nothing but a roadblock between me and my drugs.”
Shock courses through me and I take a step back as Bishop goes silent.
“What’s the matter?” he taunts. “Didn’t think there were track marks under all this ink?” he asks, bending his arms at the elbow to display his forearms.
I cup the back of my neck as I divert my eyes to the tattoos, wondering how I missed the signs. Back in the day, I could point an addict out from a mile away. Before I can give his admission anymore thought, Bishop brushes past me and my eyes follow him as he takes a seat on the bottom bunk. Propping his elbows on his knees, he lifts his eyes to me.
“You do drugs?”
If that ain’t a joke, I don’t know what is. Then again, this whole scenario is a bit of a mindfuck if you think about it. Ten minutes ago, I was ready to have this guy help me score some shit so I can escape my own misery and now I’m listening to him confess he suffers from the same hell. Either I wear my bad habits on my sleeve or Bishop still holds the ability to recognize one of his kind because he answers his own question.
“Yeah, you do,” he says, keeping his gaze steady. “What’s your poison?”
“Anything that gets the job done. I don’t discriminate,” I tell him evenly as I recall crushing the amphetamines and snorting them before the faulty drug deal with the cartel. Shaking the pathetic image from my mind, I cross my arms against my chest.
“You clean?” I question.
“Yeah, not that it matters,” he murmurs. “What’s that saying? A day late and a dollar short? That’s the story of my fucking life.”
I can relate to that. Life has taught me it doesn’t matter when we wake up and right our wrongs, if the timing is off, you’re fucked.
“You got right for your boy, though,” I comment. I might’ve missed the mark on realizing Bishop had a problem with drugs but there is no denying the man is straight as a pin right now. That’s gotta count for something.
“Don’t make me sound so noble,” he replies. “For three years of that boy’s life, I was the douchebag who ignored his baby mama’s phone calls. When he was born, Kiki, would call and ask me for money…”
His voice trails as he pauses for a beat.
“If I close my eyes, I can still hear her crying on the phone, telling me she didn’t have money for diapers and formula,” he reveals, shaking his head at the memory. “Conner was born with some stomach issue and he needed a special formula. One she couldn’t buy with her WIC checks,” he explains, pausing to draw in a breath. “Anyway, she’d call and instead of robbing houses to support my kid, I stole to feed my habit. I’d drag my ass to my dealer’s house and blow every fucking cent I had on heroin. The shit thing is I didn’t feel a lick of remorse until the high wore off and the truth hit me hard and still, I got high over and over because it’s always easier to run from your mistakes then face them head on.”
Ain’t that the truth.
“He was three when she took me to court and the judge gave Kiki full custody and honestly, I was relieved. Every now and then I’d feel guilty and sometimes I found the nerve to show up on her doorstep. After three times she got a restraining order against me. A year later, Kiki died in a car crash.”
At that, my gaze snaps back to him and I open my mouth to offer my condolences, but he keeps on talking. It’s almost as if he’s opened a wound and can’t control the bleeding.
“I was in no position to raise a child and no one in their right mind was going to give him to me. A judge awarded guardianship to Kiki’s brother, Pete.”
He stops for a moment and I watch him clench his fists at his side before continuing.
“I had only met him once or twice and didn’t know much about him, but I figured he was the best option for Conner. The kid barely knew me, and he had just lost his mother. I checked myself into rehab and after twenty-eight days I went down to family court to see about getting visitation. It took some time, but I was finally able to get court appointed visits. Conner didn’t really want to be bothered with me and I had no one to blame but myself. Then one visit he was just…different. He didn’t look like an innocent little boy but rather someone who was dragged down by life and at four years old, no kid should look like that. I thought his mother’s death was hitting him or my sudden interest in him was too much. I was about to call the visits off and tell him he never had to see me again, but then he said one word,” he says with a strained voice.