Sold to the Mafia.
I felt a single tear roll down my cheek leaving a damp trail in its wake. I shook off the burly mans hand and shot a look of death towards my father.
Turning around giving him my back I limped out through my front door and to the black S.U.V that waited for me.
"I hope that money kills you." I said to the wind as it swept by me, grabbing my words and carrying them to some far off place.
Stopping in front of the cars door I looked at my house in the reflection. I don't know if it even counted as a house. It was nothing but aluminum walls and a hollow center. We slept on the floors and ate from our hands, cooking whatever we had killed in the surrounding planes.
We didn't have the luxury of money or furniture because my father had traded it all for drugs. Meth, Cocaine, Heroine, Lsd, Ecstacy, whatever he could get his hands on for a good high. I figured it was because he was afraid of reality. My Mothers passing killed him on the inside, all he was/is, is an empty shell. For this man who would sell his own flesh and blood, his own son could not have a soul.