I was six.
When my dad left, I mean.
I was six.
And he was in his forties.
And he left us.
My mom and me, I mean.
He left us one afternoon.
Left and didn't look back.
I don't really remember what he looked like.
Mom said he died when I was sixteen.
Ten years without him.
She walked in my bedroom.
Your dad is dead.
Knifed in a bar.
What was I supposed to say?
I didn't do anything.
She didn't say anything.
She just told me.
And I accepted it.
And i regretted not being able to confront him.
I've always felt a little bit empty.
My dad denied me.
My mom was forced to keep me.
Who else would ever want me?
And by choice no less.
Maybe that's why I was in this business.
Maybe that's why I wanted to hurt other people.
Bloodying took it out of me.
All that anger and pain.
I could smash and smash and smash into someone else's skull.
And eventually I would feel calm.
I miss that calm.
I wanted to feel that calm now.
But instead, I stared out my window, feeling my heart explode.
How many beats per minute could it take?
I don't know how long I slept.
But the lights of the hotel flashed their neon decay into my eyes.
Completely covered the sunrise.
What if that was my last sunrise, ever?