Devil on Your Back Read online

  DEVIL ON YOUR BACK

  Copyright © 2015 Max Henry

  Published by Max Henry

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: April 2015, by Max Henry [email protected]

  Edited by: Lauren McKellar

  Cover Design: Louisa of LM Creations

  Cover Image: Michael Meadows of Michael Meadows Studios

  Cover Model: Tommy Barresi

  Formatting by: Max Effect

  CHOICES. NO matter how many options you’re given, it all boils down to one thing: are you making that choice for yourself, or the ones you love?

  I’ve spent the better part of my life convincing myself I did what I had to for my family, but now . . . I’m not so sure. If I’d been gifted the ability to see the long-term effects of my actions, would I have done the same? Or would I have been selfish and taken the easy road out?

  I gave up on them, and I started making choices for me, for what brought me happiness—even if those decisions were hollow and short-lived, sourced from the bottom of a glass bottle.

  A shot of instant gratification.

  A drop of chemical bliss.

  Doomed to wear out, and leave me lower than before.

  But did I learn? Hardly. I chose to wallow in my pity for the self-depreciating emotions it brought with it. After all, if I could revel in my sadness I could justify it. I could remain ignorant, and place the blame on the shoulders of those who had no part to play in the events that brought me to those lows.

  People like my son.

  And I did. I lumped those around me with the burdens that were mine to bear. I let go of all responsibility, and did no more than continue to hope somebody would hear my silent screams for help. I allowed myself to become less of a man in the vain attempt at attracting a soul who could save me from the pit of despair I lived in day-to-day.

  But what happened?

  Nobody came.

  Nobody heard me.

  Instead I pushed the weak lifelines I did have aside, and dropped lower into the black, sticky tar that was my grief. I allowed it to consume me, and seep into every pore.

  I allowed myself to become the grief.

  That was, until a kindred spirit stepped into the darkness with me, and showed me how to live with a painful past shadowing my now. She showed me how to manipulate the tar until it became a neat little ball that I could lock away in the dark chambers of my heart. Most of all, she showed me how to live with my inky past and a bright future side-by-side. That it was possible.

  That I could love again.

  And now, she is the force driving me to get my son back.

  The reason why I have to fix the biggest mistake I ever made before it’s too late.

  Before I’ve failed and the tar spreads once again.

  “I CAN’T stand watching this, Dad!” my boy yells at me, his face displaying maturity belying of his thirteen years. Yet I do nothing. “Every fucking day is the same. When are you going to start being like the other dads, huh?” He yanks at the hood on his sweater, pulling it over his head to conceal his face.

  It’s no use; I’ve already seen the tears.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I admit. “I can’t be what you want.” I remain frozen in place, standing in the middle of our living room.

  “Then be something you want,” he snarls. “You can’t tell me you’re happy being this loser who sits around all day. You never even come watch me skate.”

  “I’m sure you don’t want your old man hangin’ around the skate park, kid.”

  He mumbles, turning away from me.

  “Sorry?”

  “I said, maybe I do because then I’d know you give a shit.”

  “Watch your language,” I scold. The best and lamest response I can give him.

  Alice’s gaze meets mine, and the pain behind his brown eyes is damn near tangible. The regret and disappointment slice though me like a hot knife through butter. I’m exposed, revealed for all to see, and I don’t know how to cope with the pressure.

  “I wish things had been different.” My gaze drops to the floor, unable to bear a second longer of the harsh truth before me.

  “Is that it?” he asks. “You wish things had been better? Why not make them better?”

  “Nobody will hire me for work, Alice,” I snap. “I can’t get paid work. Do you have any idea in that child’s head of yours what it’s like to not know if you can feed your family for the rest of the week?”

  His frustration ebbs, replaced by a tide of crushing rage. “You can’t get work, Dad, because you’re fucking drunk half the time.”

  Heat peppers my cheeks. He may be stating the obvious, but it doesn’t mean I like to hear it spoken out loud.

  Especially from my child.

  “I may be a kid,” he continues, “but I’m more fucking mature than you’ll ever be.”

  “Language!” I holler.

  “Fuck. You,” he bites out. “Who the heck are you to tell me what to do?”

  “Your father,” I bellow. “I’m your God damn father.”

  “Then fucking act like it!”

  He turns on his heel and marches down the hall of our small apartment. With the little money I manage to bring in from cash jobs here and there, it was never going to be enough to keep our house. The bank foreclosed, took all the profit to recover debt, and kicked us out. By the sheer grace of God, I stumbled across a ‘For Let’ sign out the front of our apartment on my way to a job interview the week we were due to move. The place is dingy; it’s small, and mice frequent the rooms more often than we do, but it’s a roof over our heads. And it’s a dry place for me to drink every day.

  Because I do drink . . . a lot.

  Crashes and thuds echo as Alice hurls things around inside his room. The symphony of my life. My common sense tells me to go sort it out, tell him to pull his head in, but my heart rules the roost when it comes to my boy.

  After all, I’ve let him down in the worst way possible and in return, I believe it vetoed my right to tell him how to behave. Who am I to say what he should and shouldn’t do? When his father is an alcoholic and a lousy role model then I’m pretty sure that gives the kid license to look to others for guidance.

  What cuts me most is that I have no idea who they are, or where that is. Every day after school he skates until dark with his friend, Toby. Other than that, I have no idea what he does. He could be hanging out with drug users, petty thieves, or crime gangs. Fuck, he might even be the drug user—what would I know?

  Not a fucking thing.

  He’s right to feel disappointment when he looks at me—embarrassment even. Three years ago, he saved my life; he cut the rope I put my final hope into and brought me back, with a broken rib and a severe case of sha
me. I prayed every day, begging for forgiveness for what I’d become, but I learnt the hard way that Jesus doesn’t save men like me. Even the devil runs the figures before he decides if he wants the bother. As a consequence, I’ve lost my faith—lost my hope that all this shit happens because a higher being has a purpose for me.

  What good could I honestly bring to this world?

  Nope, at the end of the day it was my kid that saved me—my flesh and blood. And what have I done since then to repay the favor? Nothing. I slipped further into my self-pitying state, and left him to his own devices while I searched the bottom of a bourbon bottle for answers to my problems.

  He has no need for me.

  Alice emerges from his room carrying a duffle that couldn't contain more than a handful of items. He strides past me, heading right for the door without a single thing to say to his old man before he goes.

  “Where are you headed at this hour?” I ask.

  Dusk passed a while ago, and the kind of neighborhood we live in isn’t easy on kids his age wandering around alone.

  “What do you care?” he snaps in return, choosing not to face me. “Just go have another drink, Dad.”

  With my heart beating a solid tempo in my ribcage, I march up to him and wrench his slight frame around by the scruff of his sweatshirt. His body tenses with apprehension, but my child looks at me with the defiant stare of a man. His eyes hold no regret, no fear, and it sets a chill deep in my bones.

  An attitude like his will get him killed. He hasn’t learnt how unjust and cruel the world can be to those who believe they’re untouchable. A naïve boy like him will get chewed up and spat out within days.

  “Take your shit back to your room,” I order, “and come help me with dinner.”

  He shakes his head. “Not this time.”

  I release my grip and narrow my gaze. “Excuse me?”

  Alice shirks the creases out of his sweatshirt, and stares me down. “Why do you do this to yourself—drink the day away and deny any responsibilities for us? What do you think Mom would do if she could see you? She’d fucking tell you how pathetic you are.” His face grows red with the force of his hate. “You’re a fucking waste of space, and I wish you’d died instead of her.”

  My hand lashes out and smacks him square across the jaw. “Don’t you fuckin' speak to me like that again.”

  It pains me, knowing I just hit my boy. But I stand my ground. I raised him better than to be so disrespectful.

  “That’s what you have?” he spits, throwing his hands in the air. “You think that’ll make me stay? I’m out. I’m out of here.”

  “You’re going nowhere,” I shout as he tugs the front door wide. “You’re only a kid, and you’re my responsibility.”

  He spins, fists clenched at his side. “I’m only a kid, but I sure as fuck know I’m not your responsibility. I haven’t been for years, Dad. Years!”

  “Get the fuck over here, now.” I stab a finger at the ground before me.

  “No!” He steps onto the shared path that runs along the front of the apartment complex. “See you later, Dad. Go fucking hang yourself again. This time I won’t bother stopping you.”

  “Alice,” I roar as he walks out of our house, out of my life.

  He spins on the front path, and screams back at me. “I told you not to fuckin’ call me that anymore!”

  My chest aches, and my throat tightens as I watch the last thing I had left to love walk away.

  I should have showed that boy I loved him more, but I know the reason why I never did—because I can’t find it in me to love myself. And if I can’t give myself the respect I need to feel confident in my decisions, then how the fuck did I ever expect him to believe in me again?

  My feet itch, eager to chase after him, but it’s too little, too late. I’ve ruined any chance I ever had with my son, and going after him now would just add insult to injury. The kid’s better off without me.

  Wherever he ends up.

  "I'M GOING to have to let you go."

  I grimace as the words echo through my head time and time again. The story of my life. Let you go. Isn't that what everyone does in the end? Lets me go? My last drop of whiskey swirls in a neat whirlpool around the inside of the glass in my grasp. I should drink it—down the fucker like the poison it is, but I’m too fucking frugal.

  Too fucking broke.

  “You gonna nurse that all night?”

  I lift my gaze to the hipster behind the bar. After a second or two of deciding where exactly he stands amongst the blur of black and grey, I give him a wry smile and respond.

  “You gonna sponsor my next round?”

  “Whatever, old man. I’ve got people who’ve got money to spend, so if you ain’t going to drink up, move on.” He continues assembling the required bottles for whatever concoction he’s creating.

  The last sip of alcohol slides down my throat with a welcome burn, and I slam the glass down on the bar. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t falter in his movements as he prepares drinks for the noisy bunch over my shoulder.

  I turn, and lean both elbows on the bar as I take the rowdy fuckers in. Young, tattooed to the eyeballs, and full of misplaced testosterone. Exactly what I used to be.

  And they’re the only ones here apart from me.

  Some clientele, buddy.

  A couple of pretty young things make their way around the group of men. A blonde sits on the lap of a young, inebriated guy whose hands have a mind of their own. Her smile is fake and her laugh strained. Her eyes betray her, but nobody notices. Nobody cares.

  Fuck, even I don’t care.

  Her life—her loss.

  “What you starin’ at, old boy?” The obvious leader of the pack stands, and puffs his chest out like a fucking rooster.

  Easy on.

  “Nothin’ worth my time, kid.”

  “Wise-ass, hey?”

  “As natural as they come.” I give the little upstart a wink, and he strides around the table toward me.

  The hipster behind the bar sighs. “Fuck me.”

  Not that he needs to worry. I’ll have this over in no time. Young punk, thinking he has anything on me. Youth these days—honestly.

  I push off the bar, and take a much less steady step than I’d hoped toward him. The floor shifts beneath my feet, and I shoot a foot backward to steady myself. The heel of my steel-capped work boot catches in the feet of a bar stool, and I’m forced to swing my blurry vision around to try and work out what the fuck I need to do to stay upright.

  I swear it shouldn’t be this hard to do.

  Two more of the group stand, and proceed to back the first guy up—young Blue-Balls with the grabby hands included. I give up trying to count how many people remain at the table when the faces all blend into one flesh-colored stripe.

  “Why have I never seen you in here before, anyway?” The instigator stands before me, arms crossed, chin raised.

  Taking my time, I walk a crooked circle around him. I make a show of reading the name on the back of his cut and stopping to squint at the badge on the front.

  King. Vice President. Fallen Saints.

  “I’m pretty sure”—I do an exaggerated sweep of the joint, almost falling on my ass—“that this is a public bar. Excuse me for not signing in.” I wave my hand in a writing motion.

  His nostrils flare, but he holds the staunch show pretty darn well for a young fella. “How about you take your pensioner card and step out. Get a cab back to the nursing joint, granddad.”

  Granddad? That’s all he’s got?

  “You had your eyes checked lately, boy?”

  “Why’s that?” He plays into my line with a grin.

  “Because last time I checked, people in their late forties didn’t have pensioner cards.”

  “Whatever,” he snarls. “You’re a darn sight fuckin’ older than me.”

  “And yet, you still can’t work out who your elders are—you know, the people you’re supposed to pay respect to. Where is it, huh?
Where’s the respect, kid?”

  “You have a death wish?” He frowns, and cocks his head to the side. “Because you sure as fuck don’t know when to shut up.”

  “Habit kind of forms when you usually have the last word.”

  The kid scoffs, and looks at his monkeys for appraisal. They laugh along with him like the good little henchmen they are. “You’re fuckin’ pissed, dude. You couldn’t beat your knuckles against a brick wall if you tried.”

  “Want to bet?

  His eyes flick to the empty glass on the bar, and back to my face. “You win, I shout you for the rest of the night. I win, you fuck off.”

  “Deal.” I spit in my palm and offer it to him.

  He slaps his hand in mine without hesitation, and shakes it with vigor. Every part of me hums, not only from the alcohol but from the anticipation of the fight. It’s been a while since I’ve found someone to go a few rounds with. The pain is overdue and exactly what I’m searching for.

  “Come on then, boy.”

  I turn to lead him outside, and find myself reeling from a fist to the side of the face.

  Dirty little fuck.

  I shake it off, and straighten to face him. A smile splits his face in two; his monkeys nod and grin in approval.

  “Take it we aren’t doing this like gentlemen then?”

  He opens his mouth to give me some smart-ass response, but I shut it with a quick uppercut.

  Teach you, you bastard.

  A collective ‘wooo’ comes from his table. All drinks are down, and the remaining five are watching with interest as our exchange unfolds.

  The leader swings, connects, and I relish the pain as my head snaps around. My bearings on gravity become a jumbled mess of color. I feel like a fuckin’ Rubik’s cube in the hands of some world record breaker—left, right, over, under. I just hope it stops soon so I can keep this fight up a bit longer.

  We throw fists in quick succession for what feels like an eternity. Blood spills, he spits a tooth, and the hipster behind the bar wanders over to shut the front doors.

  Turns out nothing sobers a man up like a few rounds with an opponent. Knuckles on flesh, blood on the ground, copper on my taste buds. Heaven.