Lester, 52, "The Devil's Offspring"

"Where the hell are you, Amson?!" A woman yelled from the other end, a crazed restlessness to her voice. "I've called you twenty times, dickhead!"

I sat there at the end of my bed, my eyes fixed on the screen of Grinner's phone. Though nothing showed, my curiosity was peaked; I'd never heard the voice of this woman before. I wanted to respond, but I couldn't. The line remained silent, and I sat with the phone lying limply in my palm, unsure of how to answer.

But she was persistent, remaining on the line despite the long pause.

"Hello?" She called, growing more impatient by the second. "Hello?!"

For some reason, I couldn't let go of the phone, despite the strong sensation urging me to leave. This girl... what was his relation to her?

Likely another plaything he'd ordered.

"Hello." I finally responded. "Sorry for the late response, miss. Are you a friend of an Amson Grinner?"

She paused for a moment, but when her voice returned, a chill ran down my spine.

"Who the hell're you?" She snarled, her demeanor completely changing.

It was like a switch, and I was caught off-guard completely. With just my introduction, I'd peeved the thing. Looking at my situation, I understood I'd attracted some sort of suspicion from this woman, and having already answered eliminated my one chance to leave, hanging up. Still, I couldn't understand why this foul-mouthed, bitchy woman remained on the other end of the line.

"I'm sorry." I quickly assured. "I regretted to introduce myself. My name is Lester, the father of the Fletchlin household."

"Fletchlin..." She stopped her speech, seemingly catching herself between thoughts. "What the hell are you doing with my brother's phone, Mister Lester Fletchlin?"

Brother? Another one of those damnable Grinners? I should have recognized from the feeling in my gut, alone. Her snark and, better yet, that smart-ass articulation of words should've been a dead ringer, but my mind was too fuzzy, too disorderly after what I'd done. I tried to calm the anger within me, but the breath of the devil whispered in my ear, inciting my rage.

"I asked you a question, Fletchlin." She reiterated, rude, stern, and steadfast.

"Your little imp-ass left it in my house, girl." I responded, matching her energy. "You'd best mind your manners when speaking to me."

"Who the hell do you think you are, Lester?" She giggled a bit. "You're holding my brother's phone right now and expect me to believe such an idiotic lie? You're out of your mind, boy."

"Who the hell're you calling boy, missy? You want your phone're not?"

The line went silent for what seemed like a full minute, leaving nothing but myself, the phone, and the anticipation of her response. After a while, I thought she'd left for good, taking the easiest route, but as my finger inched toward the "end call" button, I was halted, her voice suddenly creeping through the emissary of lucifer.

"First, I wanna get something straight with you." She explained. "I know who you are, Fletchlin. My dad told me everything there is to know about you."

I stopped.

"Second, I know how you hate my dad, but I don't give a fuck what he did to you. I know how you're a hothead with no brain in his skull, an ace with a gun, and an idiot faithful without a single apprehension about his corrupted sense of religion. All that I know, but it means absolutely nothing to me: I don't care about you, your family, or your problems."

As if she'd pressed her mouth to the phone, her voice became louder yet completely calm and controlled. It sounded as if she'd invaded the space within my head, and I sat there, unable to say a single word. Each word carried the weight of a threat, coursing through every hair follicle on my body, and as if rehearsed, she spoke, not a single blemish in the sound.

"But I want to make this one thing painfully clear to you, Lester. If you so much as breathe in Amson's direction, I'll feed your dick to your inbred children; you hear me?"

Before I could begin to speak, the line was cut, and I looked at the boy's lock screen until it vanished, seeing only my reflection on the blank, black surface. As I looked at the man in the reflection, I saw a pitiful, broken child, too fragile to experience the real world.

I saw who I was, and who I'd inevitably become.

Like a loop, I'd made my way back to square one, the same way I was when I'd first met Grinner, nearly the image of his boy. The screen lit up once more, a message sent under the same name. When I looked, the message opened on it's own, revealing the text:

"That phone'd better be in my hands by midnight tomorrow. I'd hate to be forced to get more involved. *smile*"

No address, no subtext, just a statement with an emoticon.

I placed the phone on the dresser again, facing it downward, grabbing my karambit again, and returning to where I'd left off without hesitation. The longer these sins stuck to me, the longer it would take for me to face her; I couldn't allow myself to step out of this room unless the impurities fastened to my soul were admonished through bloody, tedious sacrifice.

Had it not hurt, I'd find a way, but I'd never allow myself to shed a tear for my own sake. What would the point of my repentance be if I allowed myself such solace? Only the warmth of the blood, the painful actuation of my reconciliation, and the reminder, eternally cut into my skin, were allowed, else I'd start anew, with some greater method.

All in order to maintain the sanctity of my sacrifice to our most holy lord.

I dropped the blade, looking at the fresh wounds. None were deadly, but I would never bandage them; If god say so fit, it would be infected. I lie in our bed, alone, unable to feel the warmth of her touch, the touch of the woman I'd brought myself to love over these years, yet no tears were allowed to graze my skin, for if they did, I'd have another restless night.

"Our father..." I whispered, praying to the heavens to forgive me.

As long as I breathed, I could and would care for my children. No matter what cell I might find myself in, mentally or physically, I'd break it; I need no outside repentance. There was no room for any other factors dictating my judgement, just myself, my knife, and the lord.