The only thing that had any worth to him was his car. A beat up, held together with duct tape and baling wire, missing the passenger-side rearview mirror, big hole in the dash where the stereo used to be, slathered with bondo 1979 Chevrolet Monza Spyder, direct descendent of the unsafe at any speed Corvair.
A POS, but still more reliable than any member of his family or any of his so called friends.
It had been years since the last time he had actual contact with a family member. As he drove east along the 40 he mentally adjusted the mileage from the distance given to Knoxville into minutes. He fidgeted in his seat as he looked at his cell for the time and figured it would be at least 45 minutes before the Sunsphere lights would come into view.
For awhile he fought off the memory of the last fight, but to no avail.
His brother's fist driving into the drywall, his sister screaming for both of them to stop, his mother crying in the kitchen. Good ol' home sweet home.
The fear in his sisters face seemed to intensify with each recollection. Her screams still pierced his ears. He never actually heard his mother's crying, but he sure as hell felt every punch his brother landed.
His brother, the meth-addicted scumbag, regarded as a hero for defending the family honor.
Honor among scum, what a joke. The fact that their father had been known as the Bastard of Beaumont and never took responsibility for any of his actions (or lack of action in regards to supporting his family) hadn't dulled the regard his mother and older siblings inexplicably held him in.
Remembering his father was not painful, as the only memories he had of the man was the day he met him at the service station on North Central, and his funeral.
The fact that his father had named him after an actor who starred in a cheesy ass 1980's action film didn't bother him much. After all, it was a decent ice breaker in certain dating circles.
Remembering the ceaseless adulation for the man that his mother and siblings had for him was painful though, specifically because he was keenly aware of how much his father had abused the hell out of each of them.
What was wrong with all of them? Stockholm syndrome or something like it? It was incomprehensible.
The minutes and miles passed as he drove on. A few more miles he would be crossing over the Clinch.
That was the demarcation line. That point right there was when he began to regard himself as being back home, and it had been almost two decades since he last had that thought.
Long enough to almost get a college degree, get married, have a couple of kids, get divorced, lose everything, and work like mad to get back on his feet and keep up the child support payments.
At least he wasn't following the family tradition of simply abandoning his children and forgetting he even knew they existed.
Yeah, he had that...at least.
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