Prologue as an Epilogue

“WHAT PART OF THE WORD NO don’t you understand?
The  ‘nuh’ or  the ‘oh’?” The young man said pointedly, but devoid
of emotion.
   “He’s mine!” She screamed hysterically, wavering from side to
side. Then she held onto the mantel in mock composure.
   “You have established that a hundred times this evening. Must we
go over it again?” His face was still, a mask-like statue. “When you
come here like this, you get filled with misguided sentimentality, trying
to right a wrong over someone you committed too many years ago to
correct—and it just isn’t going to work! Not now—it’s too late.
Just look at what you’ve become? You are not even pitiful anymore—
you’re pathetic!” He snarled at her. “And you don’t give a damn about
anybody. You do what suits you and only yourself—period.”
He paced angrily around the room then stopped in front of her.
“You come and go with precious little warning. These sloppy visits
have taken me to the point where I just can’t think straight—and I
am sick of it!” He ran his fingers through his hair, in what appeared
a motion to enable to help him think clearly. Then he turned to her.
“You know I can’t even trust myself.” He continued. “I—I have to
back away from him. I don’t dare get too close when it’s like this
because of what I might say or do.” He rubbed his forearm. “And
whether you want to hear it not—you’re responsible! So why don’t
you just leave the damn check on the coffee table—as you always
do—and just  leave!”
   She hastily scribbled and wadded the check and then threw it at
him. He did not flinch. He picked it up off the floor and sat..
   He remained seated as the front door slammed behind her.
“Bitch—you’re always under foot and I’m always under your
thumb.” He muttered. “And it ends tomorrow night.”
   After stubbing out his cigarette, he released a tensed hiss of air
through his nostrils. He then looked to the stairway.
   He rose suddenly and ran up them.
   The little boy was huddled in a dark corner near the entrance,
crying softly.
   He grasped his hands tightly around the boy’s small shoulders,
encircling them, and shook him. “What have I told you!” The boy
flinched. “Do you listen? Do you  ever listen?”
   “Scared.” A peep, a small whisper of a voice replied.
   “No. No more excuses. You’re hearing ‘the voices’ in your
dreams—and that’s all.” He pulled the boy and slung him
effortlessly on his hip.
   In the child’s bedroom, he tossed him unceremoniously on the
bed, yanking the covers over him. “Now go to sleep. And I am
warning you now—if I ever catch you again, then I’ll give you
something to be scared about. Do you understand?”
   He loomed over the child like a shadow—a large monster that a
grownup checks for under the bed before a child retires. Then
reassured that the surroundings are completely safe, the child falls
into the safety of sleep. Instead, the little boy’s eyes widened, staring
myopically at him in fear, as the large hands pulled away. It was then
he noticed the boy’s little horned-rimmed glasses had fallen off the
nightstand during the scuffle.
   The young man bent and gently picked them up, inspecting them
for damage. “Poor little four eyes.” He muttered returning them
carefully to their place. “I’ll leave the door cracked and the bathroom
light on when you come to my room later. I don’t want you stumbling
and breaking your neck.” Then he sat on the edge of the bed and
wiped a tear with his thumb that was running down the boy’s cheek.
   “Poor little four eyes. The voices are just bad dreams. They seem
real, but they’re not.”
   The boy’s gaze was fearful, yet trusting. “I’m sorry.”
   He ignored the child’s remark. “My poor little four eyes.” He
repeated softly, kissing the child’s forehead then left the room.