Widow-Maker

''Hey, son. Yeah, I'm talkin' to you. Damn it-blasted phone. Will call you later. ''

At least 15 new voicemails got in the notifications on my phone. Grandpa.

''Well, trapped in goddamned Mount Shiveer. Stupid place. You know, tryin' to find the stupid treasure yer grandma left me. t-t-t--t-''

''God, Trev. Sorry 'bout that. Got caught by a few warlords an hour ago. Praise the Lord for bobby-pins. well-t-t-t-t-t-t''

I shook my head. This guy was delirious. Long grandfather hair, women's bobby-pins all caught in those gray strands. He always called me; I was his only grandchild, a grandson. He'd always wanted a granddaughter, but my parents got unlucky. And as an infant I'd killed his daughter, my mother- when she tried to conceive me.

I turned up the volume.

''Well found out you turned 17 today. Happy birthday Trevor. Y-know, when I was t-t-t-t-t-t-t''

A loud and annoying rasping sound ended all of his messages, save for the first. It sounded like a wounded dog.

I scrolled through all of the voicemails until I reached the most recent. ''7:31. That's around two hours ago. ''He had left voicemails every thirty minutes. I wondered what had happened. Maybe he gave up trying to get a hold of me, with my dad taking my phone and trying to figure out how to block people.

I put on my earbuds so my dad wouldn't hear the messages. It seemed very quiet.

''Volume up, Trevor. Let that music control your thoughts. Let it flow through your memory. Then you can shoot a rabbit.''

TREVOR-

It sounded loud all of a sudden.

''LISTEN TO ME. DON'T TELL YOUR DAD. BECAUSE HE'S A DAMN FOOL. GET OUT OF THERE. NOW. BEFORE THEY FIND YOU.''

I heard the rasping sound. t-t-t-t-t

''THEY HAVE ME AND I WON'T LAST FOR A WHILE. AND NOW THEY WANT YOU.''

Why would "they" want me? Suddenly I heard my dad stomp towards my room. He was drunk. Again. Ever since I killed Mom, Grandpa said.

"Trevor," he growled. His voice sounded a bit clogged up. "Trevor, Trevor, Trevor, oh how you piss me off. Oh how you make my fists rattle."

He said the last part in a bit of a sing-song voice. I stuffed my phone under my bed. I had only a mattress with whiskey-stained sheets, but he would be too drunk to see it.

"Trevor!" he said louder. "Why'd you kill her, goddamn it Trevor! Why! Tell me WHY!" he swung my door open.

I felt myself shake. The hairs along my arms stood up. Dad. He didn't want me to call him Dad. He wanted me to call him Eddy.

Eddy took a swing at my head, and I'd barely dodged it. I was too fast for him, and he was still groggy from all the beer. I took a sprint for the door before he grabbed the hem of my shirt.

"Dad!" I screamed. "Please! You don't know what you're doing!"

"I'll kill you boy, I'll kill you, yes I will," he said in a sing-song voice. He threw me against the wall. Grabbed my legs before I could scream.

"Coward!" he yelled. "Real-men-don't-scream!"

He paused between words while he banged my head on the wall. I was used to this, but this pain felt worse. My birthday. I was 17, and I was being beaten. Out of the corner or my eye, I saw blood ooze from my forehead. Then I saw Eddy gasp and pant. He was sweating, and the sweat trickled down his wrinkled forehead. He sat on my bed and held his face in his hands.

He was crying.

I heard the muffled whimpers escape his sweaty palms.

"Get out," he sobbed. "OUT!"