Page 92 of Ethan & Grace

I looked up to see him now alone in the room, sitting in a leather armchair. He was smoking a cigar and held a glass of scotch. With his legs crossed casually, he looked completely carefree. There was no trace of tears or remorse in his eyes. The anger had vanished from his face, leaving only a mask of indifference. He cared about nothing and no one. He had no conscience, no morals. Those women whose lives he’d ruined meant absolutely nothing to him, just like my mum meant nothing to him. If he cared about her even the slightest bit, he would have shown at least a hint of shame. My mother didn’t need to calm down. She had every right to be hurt, angry, and upset, as did I. I was seething—which was probably the reason for what I said next.

“Shut the hell up,” I hissed.

My dad drew himself up. “What did you say?”

I strode over to him, stopping right in front of his armchair so he had to tilt his head back to look at me. My burning glare locked onto his icy one. Again, I was reminded of how much I hated the fact that I looked like him. Why did I have to inherit his features?

“I said, shut the hell up,” I repeated.

He pressed his lips together, set his cigar down in the ashtray, and got to his feet. He was close enough that I could smell his stale, smoky breath. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I can and I will,” I shot back, echoing Henry. “How can you treat Mum like this? I have no idea what she sees in you, but for some unfathomable reason, she seems to love you. I can’t see why else she would put up with your shit.”

“Your mum is no saint.”

“Maybe not. But she’s not a pathetic bastard like you either.”

The vein on his forehead bulged. “Watch what you say.”

“Or what?”

He eyed me. “You know exactly what.”

I shook my head. “You don’t scare me. Not anymore.”

“I’m still your father.”

“And I wish you weren’t.”

The slap came out of the blue. A burning, familiar pain flashed across my cheek, bringing back all the memories I had banished to the deepest recesses of my mind. They hit me with a force stronger than the blow itself, nearly knocking me off my feet and unleashing a flood of feelings I had hoped to never feel again—panic, fear, helplessness, weakness.

But I was no longer weak and helpless, no longer a little boy at the whim of his father’s moods. I was a grown man. I was bigger than him. Stronger. I didn’t seem to have more self-restraint than him, though, because before I knew what I was doing, I gave my dad a powerful shove. He stumbled back and fell over the armchair. With a loud crash, accompanied by a cry of pain, he hit the floor.

Perhaps I should have felt bad about bringing down a man in his sixties, but I didn’t feel a single pang of guilt. In that moment, I was just as ruthless and cold as the man at my feet. He didn’t deserve my pity. With satisfaction, I noticed that he had tears in his eyes.

“I hope you rot in hell,” I said coldly, turning away.

With my fists clenched, I left my parents’ penthouse and went back to my own flat. The door slammed shut behind me with a loud bang. I was shaking all over. Without stopping, I marched into the bathroom to get out of my sweaty running gear, but my reflection in the mirror above the basin made me freeze.

Not because of my flushed cheek. No, it was the expression in my eyes—his eyes. It was as if he were still standing in front of me, only a younger version. In my own eyes, I recognised the same ice-cold contempt he had levelled at me. There was no compassion in them, no pity. Only satisfaction at having hurt him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

I stared at my hands. Without thinking, without even a flicker of hesitation, I had let my hatred and contempt get the better of me and had shoved him. A cold shiver ran down my spine. I’d pushed him—and taken pleasure in his tears. What kind of person enjoyed another’s suffering?

The answer was obvious: a bad one.

Over the past few months, I had tried so hard to be better, to become a good person, but I hadn’t succeeded. A good person didn’t delight in someone else’s pain. Yet I had enjoyed his, just as he had once enjoyed mine. For years, I had tried to become someone he would hate, but in my effort not to be like him, I had inadvertently become just that.

Ruthless.

Overbearing.

Arrogant.

A fucking self-fulfilling prophecy.

People had often told me how similar my dad and I were, even my mum. I’d always hated hearing it, but perhaps they’d all seen what I’d refused to face: I really was like him. After today, there was no denying it. Because if I was honest, I hoped he was in pain right now too—just like my mum, just like me, just like this whole family. If we had to suffer, he should suffer too.