By Dennis Eamon Young
Scully felt the heat of the blood run down his arms and chest. It was burned into his brain. The look, smell, the taste— all part of that vivid long ago picture. He’d been nineteen at the time, but it took four grown men to pry him off his father.
“Was it that confrontation that started you on such a life of violence, my son?” the old priest asked.
“No, Father. That just provided a stop along the way.” Scully noted the shaky edge in the priest’s voice, and the lack of eye contact. The man didn’t want to be here anymore than Scully wanted him. That was obvious. Scully didn’t care.
“Don’t be afraid, Father. The guards are right here. They won’t let me hurt you.” Scully laughed from that deep, dark place inside, the place where a little boy had cowered in abysmal fear for as long as he could remember. The same little boy who’d been hurt time and again, and who covered his eyes so he didn’t have to watch his mother getting battered. Continue reading Nightwriters: No Need For Forgiveness