THE WITNESS

Even now Kyle could smell the musty pillows smothered against his face, the heaviness of fear in his own damp breath, and the unforgiving stench of his father bearing down upon him. Sweat. Scotch. Stale urine. Swearing. His hands rough and cruel. Even now.

Kyle had wondered if watching his father burn would finally help him forget. He wasn’t sure. Instead, he simply mused which horror was worse. Was one worthy of the other? He had dreamed of his father’s death over-and-over, but his hatred for him was always frustrated by pity. He was an empty, useless, old fool who had destroyed everything he had ever been given. Sick fucker.

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