Semper Prixus (pt 2).

When he was a kid, he was convinced that his father was a machine – not a robot or something ridiculous like that, but that he had clockwork parts inside of him and likely needed to be wound up at night. Because when he moved it was unsettling, precise and measured, and when he didn’t move it was worse, exactly like something coiled and ready to pop. His mother said it was the war that did it, but Kyle didn’t know.

His dad is sitting in his now-ex-son-in-law’s recliner, a half-glass of scotch dangling from his fingers as he watches the weather on WGN. He’s always done this. He doesn’t like movies or tv shows or books; he doesn’t like plots and surprises.

I got something to say to you, his dad says, not looking away from the tv, talking out of the side of his mouth. His face is all angles and scars; his haircut is precise. I been holding it in, his dad says, and brings the whiskey to his mouth, sipping.

Yeah, you’re really known for that, Kyle says, sitting on the ottoman. Holding it in.

Always such a smart ass, his dad grumbles.

Just say it, then, Kyle says. Just say whatever the hell it is.

His dad grabs his wrist; not the one with the stitches. Kyle tries to pull free but his dad is a hundred thousand times stronger than he is. He holds Kyle’s hand up. The ring finger is missing at the knuckle, puckered with a white gnarled scar.

That happened two years ago, Kyle says. That’s some amazing powers of observation you got there, pop.

His dad throws his hand at him, sneering at the wrist bandage. Now this shit, this suicide attempt. Cowardly, that’s what I think. Cowardly and stupid. You think I nearly got my ass murdered in the war so I could have a kid who goes and does it anyway?

Well dad, I don’t know what to tell you. Kyle stands up. That’s what happens when you mess with drug dealers I guess. You get hurt. But what do you care?

His dad sucks his dentures into place with a dull click; this has always felt to Kyle like the period on the end of a sentence.

Knock it off, his dad says. Sit the hell down. He take a long draw from his glass. I think I need to tell you a couple things.

No thanks, Kyle says. There’s not much you could tell me about much, dad.

His dad snickers. Is that right. Well kiddo, I could tell you one single word and it’d shut you up so fast it’d make my whole week.

And what’s that, Kyle said, crossing his arms.

His dad upends the glass, finishing it. Shark, he says.