Squeak

Erik King

Erik

"Erik...please put the cigarette out. There's no smoking in this house," my stepfather tiredly sighed as he swatted away the smoke that threatened to taint the taste of his fluffy stack of buttermilk pancakes. I took another hit and slowly eased my head back until my eyes met the white ceiling tiles. My neck was completely exposed, and I couldn't help but wonder if Charles fantasized about slitting my throat with the steak knife he used to saw into his ham.

I thought about it. More than once, several times, if I were honest. I hated him. He thought he could marry my mother, and then all of a sudden that made him my father. He could live 50 lifetimes and could never compare to Jacob King. My father wasn't a saint, nor did he ever claim to be. In fact, he was the furthest thing from it. A devil was a more appropriate label.

Charles was a nuisance and a menace, always sticking his nose where it didn't belong, trying to pit me and my mother against each other. I overheard him attempting to convince my mother that a military school for troubled teens might've been the best option for me.

Wrong.

It was the best option for him.

Charles feared me, and rightfully so. He warned my mother I would become just like my father– a killer. Perhaps, he was onto something, and his sending me to military school was an act of self-preservation. Could I fault him for that? Wouldn't every living being do what they could to not become prey to a predator higher up on the hierarchy? It was basic instincts, but what Charles failed to realize was that you couldn't simply get rid of Erik King.

I made a sudden move for my steak knife, and he flinched. A dark chuckle emitted from me as my fingers curled around the personalized steak knives they received as a wedding present. My eyes rolled into the back of my head at the sight of the "M" monogrammed on the faux ivory handle.

I drove the tip of the blade into the maple kitchen table, causing Charles to mutter obscenities under his breath.

"Erik, please stop. You're ruining the table."

"My father built this table with his bare hands. He hunted down the tree, sawed it, and now your fucking elbows are resting on his table. It just doesn't seem fair to me."

"The builder of the table is irrelevant; you're destroying a perfectly good table."

"So, now, my father is irrelevant," I challenged.

"I didn't say that. All I'm saying is that you shouldn't make your father's hard work go to waste. I'm sure he wouldn't want that."

"So, now, you know what my father is thinking?"

"Helen," Charles pitifully called out. This is why I could never respect him. He oozed pussy energy. He couldn't hold his own against an 18-year-old, requiring my mother to play referee.

"You want me to tell you what my father is thinking?" I asked as I slowly crowded his space.

"Not really, Erik."

"That's too fucking bad because I'm going to tell you anyway. My father is wondering how a pansy-ass, limp dick motherfucker like you was able to bag his wife."

"Helen!"

"She won't come for you, Charles. She doesn't even love you. I'm sure she married you and told herself she'd learn to love you. If you didn't have money, she wouldn't have even looked your way," I whispered, playing on his insecurities. "You see, my father is a very generous man and provided her a certain lifestyle filled with the best things money could buy. No way would she give that lifestyle up. You think she was attracted to you because you were nice?" I laughed as his face went from bubblegum pink to cherry tomato. "As a man in his forties, I thought you would've figured it out by now. Nice guys always finish last."

I had impeccable hearing, like a bat, and could hear my mother's padded feet walking towards the kitchen. From the looks of it, Charles could only hear the blood rushing in his ears. He should do us all a favor and die.

"You're a placeholder, Charles. My father will get out of prison, and the first thing he'll do is dump his seed in my mother, giving her the baby you can't."

Charles slapped me across the face so hard that I almost fell out of my chair. It was absolutely...glorious. The pain made me feel more alive, and my mother's distressed cries in the background echoed against the walls as she yelled at Charles for putting his hands on her only son. I forced crocodile tears out of my eyes as she rushed to grab an ice pack out of the freezer. Charles looked like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs after getting caught relieving himself on my mother's favorite Persian rug. It would make my fucking day if he started shaking like those pint-sized, bug-eyed chihuahuas.

"Are you alright, sweetie?" she cooed in my face as she brushed my curls away from my forehead.

"I'm fine. He...he got so upset because I brought up Dad, but I miss him," I whimpered.

"You're a got damn lie! Tell the truth, Erik!" Charles shouted.

"May I please be excused from the table? I don't feel safe," I cried, making sure I choked a little bit between my sobs.

"Yes, you can be excused. You need to leave in a few for school anyway. I don't want you to be late for your first day. I wouldn't be surprised if the school counselor calls us in on some bullshit abuse claims. This handprint doesn't look like it'll go away anytime soon. Do you need lunch money?"

"Yeah."

"Will $100.00 do?"

"No, but $250.00 should be fine."

"Two hundred and fif–"

"And can I have Dad's rings?" I asked, suddenly cutting Charles off.

"Of course, you can, sweetheart. I'll go get them from the safe and meet you at the front door."

"Thanks, Mom. You're the best. It'll make me feel like he's with me."

A smirk graced my face as soon as my mother left the kitchen. I stood to my feet, chair loudly scraping across the wood floors, and retrieved the cigarette that fell.

"I tried to warn you, Charles. Didn't I? She doesn't respect you, and the sooner you realize that, the better. I'm a fucking piece of shit. I know it, you know it, and she knows it, but she'll always choose me."

The shaking started once I pushed the smoldering embers of the cigarette into the middle of his short stack.

"Now, take your elbows off of my father's table, you fucking low-life pig," I whispered in his ear. I removed the cigarette and tossed it in his coffee before taking my leave.

I found my mother in the foyer with one hand full of my father's rings and the other hand full of cold hard cash.

"Please be careful with your father's rings. Don't lose them."

"I won't," I mumbled as I slid each one onto my fingers. He gave them to me years ago, but I could never fit them, not until now. "Thanks for the lunch money."

"Mhm. Listen, Erik. Don't fuck this up, please. This is your senior year at a new school with a new start. No fighting, please."

"I can't help it if I need to defend myself."

"I know, Erik, but the last time you "defended" yourself, a kid ended up in a coma. In fact, he's still in a coma."

"That last part is his parents' fault. They should've pulled the plug a long time ago instead of waiting on a Christmas miracle."

"I would do the same for you. I love you. Make sure you're home in time for dinner."

I accepted two cheek kisses, that made my insides curl up and die and left. I stepped outside into the humid August heat and immediately wished we were in Washington again. Our departure was troublesome, but apparently, it was highly frowned upon to put your classmate in a coma and maim another.

I'd be on my best behavior, but I wouldn't mind leaving a trail of bodies behind me if they decided to try me. 

08/01/2022

Author's Note

What do we think about our boy, Erik?