“But, but…”
“No fucking buts, Phil. It’s time to face the fucking truth. Your son is an evil, abusive criminal.”
“It’s just… the alcohol..”
“Face the fucking music, Phil. It’s not the alcohol, or even the copious amount of drugs he’s done. It’s your parenting. You created a monster, a demon that hurts women and children.”
His face flames with indignation. “Well no, that’s not true?—”
“Oh, shut the fuck up, Phil. There are rigorous studies that show subhumans like your piece of shit excuse for a son become that way because of their value systems. And where do you think people—especiallymen—develop their value systems from?”
“I—I?—”
“Oh, shut the fuck up. Stop making excuses. The reality is that you are largely responsible for all the pain and trauma and damage and loss that your son has caused. Instead of being a man and holding your son accountable, you preferred to brush his actions under the rug, choosing your own peace over protecting others from pain. You willingly stood by your son in the face of evidence of his wrongdoing, going so far as to gaslight his victims and make them feel evenworse, questioning their own sanity.”
His breathing is ragged now, and I can’t tell whether it’s from anger or fear and honestly, I couldn’t give a flying fuck which it is.
“Your son might be a dangerous, evil mess, Phil. Butyou…youare the lowest of the low. The tree that the Timmy apple fell from. You, in your own way, abused his victims. Did you get off on that, Phil? Did you enjoy calling Margaux a ‘volcano of pain’ and blaming her? Did it make you feel better to abdicate your own complicity in Timmy’s behavior by transferring the blame onto someone whoseskull he fucking broke? Did you really think it was okay to blame her because aftermonths and months and monthsof his abuse and torture she finally snapped and, what—told him he was a loser and a piece of shit? If you believe his shit—that she finally smacked him a few times, or pulled his hair or scratched him—wouldn’t you have done the same fuckingthing? If someone spent hour after hour telling you that you were a slut, cunt, bitch, ugly, gross, that you should have been raped, that your dead uncle doesn’t matter, that you’re making up health issues, removing pieces of your vehicle so you can’t get away, kidnapping your friend’s son, threatening to kill you constantly, telling you that you won’t be alive soon, and going so far as torapeyou and thenlaughabout it?”
“I—he?—”
"You created him, Phil. You. And instead of owning up to it, you’ve been his accomplice. You’ve called his victims liars, you’ve made them question their sanity, and you’ve let Timmy go free to destroy more lives. How does it feel to know you’re as guilty as he is?"
"I didn’t mean?—"
"Youmeantto protect yourself," I snarl, leaning in close. "It was easier for you to blame Margaux. Easier to call her vile names than to admit your son is the source of all this destruction. You’re acoward, Phil."
He begins to shake, tears slipping from the corners of his forced-open eyes.
“You’re a fucking piece of work, Phil. I’m going to leave you here to let a bit of this sink in to your thick fucking skull.”
He quivers, starts to say something, and then shuts his mouth.
I cross my arms. "Take it in. Every broken bone, every tear-streaked face, every shattered life. This is your legacy. Enjoy it."
I turn the volume up, Timmy’s ranting voice filling the room.
“Have a nice evening, Phil,” I say. “I’d say it’s been nice to meet you, but I’m not a good liar.”
Phil whimpers as I walk out, slamming the door behind me.
When I return the next morning, Phil is broken. His shoulders slump, his head hangs low and his eyes are dull. The fight is gone from his body, replaced by a hollow emptiness.
There’s no more of the bluster he usually reserves to defend his son for his heinous acts. Because Phillovesa good woman-blaming moment, just like his son.
Good.It’s the least this piece of shit deserves after what he’s assisted his son to put innocent people through.
I crouch in front of him, removing the speculums from his eyes. He blinks rapidly, the motion too little, too late.
“Have you accepted the truth?” I ask, my voice cold. “Have you finally accepted who the problem is, Phil?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Say it,” I demand, pulling out my phone and hittingRecord.
Margaux needs to hear this as part of her healing, and I’m sure others do, too. It might be under duress, but after spending a night seeing and hearing my little room of harsh truths, if Phil doesn’t finally accept the facts laid bare, he’s even more fucked than I realized.
He shifts in his chair.