Good Pet

“This condo wasn’t made for just a bachelor, Tommy,” she says, giving me a warm, intimate hug. “It was made to share with a boyfriend. A husband.” Under these words, I’m feeling a little less haunted, a little less spellbound by my memories of Vanacore. “I love having you here. I’d have you here all the time, even if circumstances didn’t demand this to be your safe house.”

She pulls away from me, reiterating her offers, that anything and everything in this condo that’s her is mine for my comfort and happiness. Again, I tell her I’m grateful, and that I’ll try to make use of some of it while she’s gone.

With a promise to be home no later than six p.m. after going to the grocery store to pick up food to make me dinner with, Melissa leaves me home alone. Like she’s my mother and father wrapped up into one being who actually gives a fuck, she locks her door securely then double bolts it.

When she’s gone, I allow myself to cry all the tears I’ve been holding back from after my encounter with Vanacore and my brush with sexual exploitation of the most intimate variety. I also let myself properly freak out, allowing myself to hug pillows, curl up in them, and talk to the Vanacore demon in my head. The way she had control over me with her eyes. The way she initially sucked me into work for her made me feel like I was strong enough to contend with her but ended up being completely helpless.

I have no idea for how long I do this, but I eventually decide I’ve cried and panicked myself through enough emotions and pent-up fears for a shower. Which is what I start undressing to do, right is my phone rings.

Initially, I hope it’s Melissa calling me, telling me she’s at the office okay.

But that quickly evaporates, the moment I see my home phone calling me. I almost don’t pick up. I say almost, because at the last moment, “good boy,” “good son,” Tommy picks up because he knows it’s Dad calling. And you don’t leave Dad hanging, no matter how much you just want to do without him.

Logically, I know he’s the last person I need to be talking to right now, right after what happened, but old habits die hard. “Dad,” I say.

The first thing he does is burp into the speaker. It’s a really long, juicy one. Ridiculously echoing. Unnecessarily vile and dismissive. “So, you’re not dead. I’ve been checking the newspaper for you in the headlines. ‘Fat and bloated dick found at the side of the road, probably killed by his coworkers,’ but I didn’t see anything like that, so I called you directly.”

At this point, I don’t even have the energy to address how rude and cruel the things he greeted me with is. There’s no point. It’ll just make him all the more creative in his next insulting words to me.

“I’ve been at work,” I say, swallowing all the terrible visions I have of Vanacore trying to corner me and trying to have her way with me. “I’ve been staying with my girlfriend since you don’t care whether I’m there are not.”

“Of course, I care, boy,” he says, burping around those words. “Who’s going to buy me all the food and drink I need?”

“Thanks,” I growl, fighting to not break my phone and half or throw it against the wall.

“So I bet she’s not charging you anything to stay with her, is she? Bet she lets you stay there as long as you want, as long as you get her off, right?” Dad laughs, and he’s the only one laughing.

“If it worked that way, sexual favors for rent, maybe Mom would’ve stayed with your sorry ass. That is if you ever bothered to pleasure her.” Under my breath, I whisper “fucker” and regret ever picking up the phone for him.

“You watch your mouth, boy,” he says.

“You watch yours,” I say, “you’re the backward hick who thinks he can say and do whatever he wants about my life, about how I’ve become successful in life, while he just sits there and gets fatter, dumber and less attractive with every year.” I take a deep breath. “I’m on my lunch break. If you don’t have anything more important to do then insult me, make me remember why I don’t miss being around you, I’ve got to get back to work.”

I don’t even bother to wait for him to answer. I already know he’s going to take what I just said as another opportunity to just be cruel and willfully ignorant about everything around him. I hang up, not feeling the least bit remorseful by cutting him off in the middle of another sentence. It’s probably just as filthy as the last.