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Now time for the story.

The blood squirts out of my father's neck.

It's warmth on my hand, a sharp contrast to the cool night air.

He makes a surprised choking sound and reaches back toward me.

My eyes are wide, seeing what I've done thanks to the little bit of moonlight that filters

through the pine trees we're standing under.

I recall everything that led up to this, a rush of memories and emotions, mostly fear.

And desperation.

My father has never been a good man.

He's never even been what you probably think of when the word father comes to mind.

Unless, of course, you've had a childhood like mine.

I'm 17 years old, and I'm surprised I've survived this long.

My earliest memory of my father is from when I was perhaps a year and a half old.

I remember walking up to him where he sat in his recliner, the lurking presence in my

life that I knew instinctively was supposed to protect me, and care for me, and love me.

...