text: I am putting my father to bed. Towering and weak. A paper skyscraper. As confused as he’s been for years I reassure him, guiding him to where I know he ought to be. Once useful yet now a babbling mess, hunched and harmless and humiliating himself with every breath he takes. Never as strong as he was I, now leading him as an elderly owner would an old dog waiting bitterly for both of our relief. He takes to bed quicker than usual. He grunts and he moans as he lowers himself onto the mattress like grieving mourners holding the ropes at some half arsed funeral. The downward trajectory had been clear as day for years now. Behold! The stench of the dying workhorse! Piss, biscuits and stale rum. Face like an old handbag, left out in the sun. ‘You’re alright now, Da. Not everyone has left you, here I am caring for you. Never once did I even consider it! Even after it all, the shite and the scraps and the lies and the lunacy, here I am making sure you’re alright. And you are alright, now, Da.’ He grumbles on, a low sub-frequency mumble. I don’t feel guilt for not listening, he hasn’t had anything to say for years, quite possibly ever. The scratchy mattress springs pierce over his deep rambling. Nonsense words and rusty metal. He rolls over, maybe he’s still speaking. I’m left and all before I finish wondering. And now for myself, not too much for me to do once I know he can’t hurt himself. He hasn’t been able to hurt anyone else in god knows. A brew, a book and my bed is all I’m good for now. I used to love some music, but for the hassle of waking him it wouldn’t be worth it. It always set him off, especially when he was dangerous. Now he’s only good for screaming and not I nor anyone could calm him down. Any semblance of calm has long run from him. And anyone who could calm him ran long before that. Not long now, I think, until I’m free from him. Not long now til he’s free from himself. Settle in the sheets before I can think too much about it, gander some other plight between the covers, soft linen and hardback. Take my mind away from what’s left of this place of ours. Not long now. That little cunt, the fucking coward. Too fucking long he’s thought he owned me and too poxy long have I let him. It’s always been too fucking quiet since he “took charge”. If I hear that kettle boil one more time I’ll gouge my fucking eyes out. Thump bump thump bump thump bump thump thumb bump. The veins in my eyes are fucking doubling in size. That little bastard never left me because he doesn’t have the bollocks. I built everything that little shit has ever had and he thinks it’s a virtue that he never got off his arse to make his own poxy cunting fucking life? Nah nah nah, not fucking long now til he learns. Wringing my hands so hard I’m nearly breaking them. Who the fuck does he think he is? Who the FUCK DOES HE THINK HE IS? EVERYTHING HE THINKS HE HAS IS MINE AND ALL THE SHITE HE THINKS I GAVE HIM IS HIS FUCKING OWN! I’m up, taller, stronger, more awake than I’ve been in years. The static is so loud I barely heard the bones in my back crack as I stood. So white and so red I can barely see where the door is. Not long is fucking right. Not long. Now. The animal stalks. Power in his limbs. Raw aggression. The animal knows where to be. Driven by pure instinct. Holding back, knowing that if it is too direct it could frighten away his prey. The sounds of the jungle mask its creeping. Cars, creaking doors, floorboards, distant arguments never to be resolved. In its age the animal may hunt less often, but it knows how to attack just as well as it did in its prime. Through the gaps in the tree line it spots its prey. In bed, reading. Lit only by a small lamp atop the nightstand on the far corner of the bed. Still as a redbrick building and twice as sturdy the animal surveys the scene. Mug, no steam, no threat. Lamp, cheap and flimsy, no threat. The animal never even considers the prey, it may as well already be a gasping pulp desperate to be shown the mercy of having its throat ripped out. The animal savours the moment. Holding its breath and not taking its eye off of its helpless and clueless victim. The animal has chosen its moment to attack. He never stood a chance. Before he could register who had kicked in his door with monstrous strength he was already being lifted from his bed by his neck and thrown to the ground. His father, elder, guide, beating his face into the ground with strength not seen in him for years. His fathers knees pressed hard down on his scrawny bicep, unable to move and too dazed from the blunt trauma to his head to even attempt it. Incapable of discerning one blow from the last, all the poor little man could do was feel his own hot blood pour from his shattered nose and flow into his gasping and screaming mouth, rendering him a teary eyed sputtering child unable to catch his breath to make sound anymore. The attackers fists like cinderblocks unstoppable in their downward trajectory. It was only the shock that kept the victim conscious, almost in awe of the power that was being exerted over him by a man he had long deemed a feeble and confused geriatric. Only when he realised he had regained the feeling in his hands did he notice that his father had stood up, taking his weight off of his arms and allowing the blood to flow properly through the vessels in his now useless limbs, and again reefed him up by his neck and slammed him against the thin plaster wall, almost sending him through it. Snarling like a beast possessed by some ungodly fury the old man stared into his already defeated sons eyes. It appeared to him that he had broken the socket around his son’s left eye, as the eyeball was slightly out of place and crimson. His face was equally bloodstained, with only the tears and mucus creating inconsistencies on the blood drenched face. He threw the hunk of flesh to ground and let a guttural harsh roar escape from his otherwise snarling mouth. The pulpy form had landed on its side, with its face and right shoulder towards the floor, its left shoulder pressed firmly against it. The towering animal of a man began stamping on the ribcage of what was once his son, stopping occasionally to launch hard kicks against the poor mass’s stomach. Through the hard thuds, sputtering and wheezing the form began to try to speak. ‘Contain...’ The beast stopped a second. Standing over this mass of veins and flesh that had somehow been gifted the ability to speak. Leaning over and pulling its hair to look at what may have once been a face, now shapeless and as bright red with blood as the beasts own face was with rage and exertion. From the deepest growl to the most intense, vengeful bellow, the beast screamed; ‘WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I?’ His father slumped beside him, deep in slumber as a man who’d ran a marathon on a bottle of Morgans, the son attempted to scrape together a single thought. Not long now..