Chapter Text
Shiv turned the picture face down and lit his fourth cigarette. He wasn't supposed to smoke in his little shithole apartment, but he did anyways. He'd lived in the same one for about a decade now. The ceiling was yellow from all the different things he'd lit up in his living room over the years, and his couch was sunken in where he always sat.
He always kept that picture turned down, but sometimes he did lift it enough to lock eyes with his son, only to gingerly plant it back down against the oak. It wasn't even that great of a picture. School photo. They never took pictures. He wished they had now. Even if he had to cut his mother out of them, maybe just him and the boy smiling would have been nice. Acting like they liked one another. A sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he leaned his head back. The misery felt among the most distinct he had ever known.
Its May 3rd. He would've been 17. He died when he was 14. Shiv thought about how it might not have happened if he had stayed with his mother. But, fuck, can you leave a kid in a crack house like that when he wants to get out? Asks you to get him out?
The worst was that he almost did. He didn't really want to be a father. He didn't want a kid until it was too late and the universe decided he'd made up his mind. He laughed, reached up, held his face. He was miserable--he was scum, he was nothing. He'd taken the boy, but that didn't change how he'd felt about him and treated him. Like a bother. A chore. Like he got in the way. Well, he did, from a factual standpoint. Hard to do business when you've got a teenager living with you. But that was because Shiv was leading a lifestyle he should have never picked up to begin with. He never had his priorities in order.
Shiv had missed a couple of his birthdays while he had lived with his mother. One time he hadn't even felt too guilty about it. It was something that filled his soul with vitriolic hatred towards the self. It was probably his darkest secret, but he'd played it off to his 'friends' like a joke before his death. And they had laughed. They did, in fact, laugh. And he did too. And then he saw him two weeks later with a cheap make-up present. Because that fixes it. Right?
Well, he had still wound up the parent he'd decided to go with, which was alarming when lined up against his mother's treatment--the fact that he wanted to move in with somebody that didn't seem to give a fuck about him told Shiv what he already knew: this kid never had a good life for even a day.
And Shiv never took care of him and cherished him like he wished he did now. When he could have picked up so much slack. Turned him into a good man. Raised him right. Shown him what he was missing all those years. Somebody that just cared.
And he wished he could've died instead.
And he knew that that was selfish of him. If Shiv had died instead, he would've been shipped back to mom, or been homeless, or... He squeezed his face with the hand still across it. Why? Why? Did he think it'd all be fine one day? Did he think the kid would hit 18 and just go? He figured his son probably hated him towards the end there, and he would've been right to. The only thing he had started to do right was to start saving to get him a car--but even that was twisted into barbed guilt that sat somewhere in his aching chest. He had only been doing it to get him out of his house sooner. And that money? It wound up being the funeral fund.
They could've done a lot together. He could've taken him to see movies. Could've taken him to the park. The library. Attended his basketball games. Shiv blindly reached for his drink on the table, took a big swig of his whiskey and sour. Grimaced, shook his head. It was definitely more Jameson than sour mix.
He missed him. Son of a bitch, he missed him. But of course it took a funeral to make him open his eyes. Couldn't have it any other way. He'd always been a real hard learner--fucking up until he had something nasty to show for it. He couldn't even think about things revolving around kids anymore without feeling like he'd puke. He got vehemently envious when parents and their children laughed and played in public. And then he got so angry at himself for wasting all that time. And then he went home and drank and thought about opening the window and just jumping out down into the street. Land on or in front of somebody's car. Feel his ribs shatter and set his stupid heart free. Choke on some blood. Choke on anything and just die.
He missed him. He really missed him. And he held onto the tiny pieces he had paid attention to like they were treasure now. His son loved reading about sailors and he loved cheap comfort meals and he loved rain when it was warm in summer. His boy. Could he even call him that? He didn't deserve anything good in his life at all. He should kill himself, he drunkenly decided. Yes, Shiv has to die.
"And he will die... to-day," a drunk murmur. He picked the picture up again, eyes turned down towards the relic of his progeny. He had his nose. His hair was a little bit like his mother's. His awkward smile looked like the one Shiv had on his face sometimes when he didn't know what to say to somebody.
He sat it back down. Another drink. Put out that cigarette, start a new one. He had been the one to select his son's name and everything. And then he left. And then he took him back, and treated him like an annoying roommate. And then he watched him die and Shiv reached for the knife on the coffee table he had his feet propped up on and tapped the pads of his fingers along the edge before wondering if Talon would notice if he started up this bullshit again and for a moment he didn't care and he felt like he would have a heart attack or maybe weep or maybe, yes, he would leap out the window, and New York would be down one more pretty-boy.
He twirled the knife between his fingers, sat it back down without making any cuts this time.
He was jealous of people who got father's and mother's day gifts. He was jealous of people who had their children's pictures on the fridge. He was jealous of people who took family photos. He was jealous of his past self for having everything he needed and squandering it. His past self was jealous of the wisdom that came with sudden, intense, soul-crushing grief. Why did he cry when he died, if he kept complaining about him to his friends? Shiv deserved to die. He was the scum of the earth. He was the salt in a wound. He was a finger getting a folding knife snapped back onto it. Not the boy. He acted like he was so suave all the time, like he was the only rooster in the run. Nobody knew--nobody knew, nobody knew. Because he never bragged about him. He never knew his son was trying to write his own stories about sailors until he was looking through his things a week after he'd buried him. One of the characters in it kinda reminded Shiv of how he acted in public. Now it was a little too late to learn if the story wrote it out like the guy was a hero, or just fucked everything up for everybody.
He had told Talon that no parent deserved to bury their children, but he figured it was the best punishment the world could have ever given Shiv, really.
If only it wasn't at the expense of the kid. But that was the kicker. That was the kicker! That was the kicker! That was the full-force steel-toed boot to the back of his head! He had finished his glass, so he started to just drink from the bottle.
17 years old. What kind of man would you be by next year? He could've taught him how to shave in the bathroom mirror, given him advice about girls, secretly hated each girlfriend but been nice on the outside. Asked him how school was. He could've at least fucking picked him up from the bus stop.
Shiv slowly rose, swayed, moved to lean against the kitchen counter. Recipe for disaster. He barked a laugh.
He just had to wait for the ritual. And then he could make it right. He strummed his fingertips against the counter. Even if it took torturing a motherfucker, or himself, he would get him back. New York hadn't seen him prime for a few years now. That was going to change. He wasn't just pissed off, this time--he was a housefly headed towards the broiling sun with suicidal, fanatical intent. And we're gonna get ice cream right afterwards too, bud.