Through The Valley by Yates, B.D. (feel good books .txt) 📕

his head with his good arm, his bald head whip lashing back and forth. Pup was screaming too, his words drowned out by Emmit's own pained cries. It sounded like "shut the fuck up", but Emmit was in too deep a state of panic to know or care. Poke was staring at him, and the bastard was smiling. One corner of his weaselly mouth was upturned, his badly tattooed flesh wrinkling with sadistic joy. Roy thumped over to him calmly, as if he had been expecting this to happen all along and had been ready for it.

  Emmit felt like he was having a seizure. His mind was like a crowded subway car, the memories like impatient passengers who were all late for something and pushing and shoving each other, willing to kill for a precious few feet of space.

  He saw flashes of a hospital and remembered horrible grinding hunger pains in his stomach, paired with a hot ache in his lower back from the uncomfortable chair he had sat in.  Some mindless gameshow had been playing soundlessly from the mounted TV, and his wife—

  —they wouldn't let her eat, she couldn't eat so I didn't, for eight hours we couldn't eat—

  —was laying in the hospital bed with a giant absorbent pad under her to soak up the water that slowly leaked from her, her green eyes flashing and filling with tears with each crippling contraction.  A monitor beside her was side scrolling with peaks and valleys, measuring each contraction as they tore through her rounded abdomen.

  —Kelly, her name is Kelly and she's the mother of my child, Kelly is her name she's the mother of my child—

  Next came a brief flash of himself standing by her side, resting his hand clumsily on her shoulder as she pushed and the doctors pulled, bringing a tiny, bloody boy into the cold brightness. His son. His cries had been sharp and tinny, and his first act as a resident of earth had been to send a golden arch of urine onto one of the masked ladies helping to receive him.

  —cut his cord I cut his cord I cut his cord—

  He moaned as he relived the first time he had held his son's hand, his tiny digits wrinkled as if he had been born an old man. He could feel the surprising strength of the baby's hand wrapped around his fingertip. Subconsciously, Emmit had begun to squeeze his own fingertip as he thrashed and bawled. Roy was placing his giant bear paw hands on his shoulders, shaking him gently.

"Deacon!" He cried, as his son's name surfaced amid the turbulent maelstrom. "Deacon, I'm sorry!"

His words were reduced to unintelligible noises and guttural sobs, his chest hitching as he gasped for breath and then exhaled it again with fresh tears. His glasses were fogging over again, and his cheeks were hot and damp.

"No more," he half said and half moaned. "Please God, no more..."

But God had been too busy or too apathetic to spare him. There was more.

Now he saw himself standing nose to nose with Kelly in his cramped little apartment kitchen, after their separation. Her green tiger eyes were sparkling with hate for the man she had once loved enough to marry and carry his child. They were arguing, screaming, soaking each other with spittle and gesturing wildly with their arms and hands. Deacon—

—Deek, you call him Deek, his nickname is Deek, it's only DEACON when he's in trouble—

—Deek had been screaming as well, crying so hard he was about to vomit up his dinner of pizza and Hershey's kisses. His little hands were working furiously, ripping open an aged Paw Patrol backpack and yanking the clothes out of it.  Kelly had wanted him to leave, and he hadn't wanted to, because he loved his dad, and Emmit loved being his dad—

  WHAP!

  Emmit's head was knocked to the side and rocked back on his neck, and his left cheek suddenly felt tingly and scorched. The sound had been unmistakable; Roy had slapped the living shit out of him.

  "Snap out of it," he grumbled, and to his surprise, Emmit did. The new knowledge was still there, nagging at him like a flea under his clothes, but it was no longer a runaway train roaring behind his eyes. Now it was just an uncomfortable out of control feeling; the feeling you got when the first of the month came and went and you realized you forgot to pay the rent, or the shame of those anxiety dreams where you show up to class and realize you were butt naked. It was the complete and unadulterated torture of helplessness and separation— his boy would be wondering where his daddy was and why he hadn't seen him, and he hadn’t been able to say goodbye.

  I have to get back to him.

  "Thanks," he forced himself to say, fighting the urge to put his hand on his cheek. It would almost certainly bruise.  "I just remembered... my son, Deacon. My ex was going to take him from me, she... she didn't care for the neighborhood I lived in, and I was always broke, and... we’re still married, we just…" his eyes were getting wet again, and his lip began to quiver. He wanted nothing more than to be out of that wooden fucking box.

  "Told you it wasn't always pleasant," Roy said flatly, then shoved Emmit back down onto his makeshift bed with a fair amount of force. "Sleep. And let the other guys sleep too. I'm sorry about your boy, but there's no helping that now. The Links coming around here, that's something you can help. But I won't have anyone too exhausted to fight."

  Emmit could feel the other guys staring at him, making him feel like a child again, a child being scolded for throwing a tantrum in the middle of Toys 'R' Us because he didn't get