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

the expensive toy he wanted. He didn't think he was being all that unreasonable.

  Emmit dropped his eyes away from Roy's wide stare, hating how weak he felt. But what could be done? He was powerless here.

  "You're right," he said, fighting the tears and trying to keep his voice steady. The lump in his throat bobbed up and down. "I'll take it out on the Links," he said, trying to sound braver than he felt. He was rewarded with a small puff of laughter.

  "Good man," Roy said, thumping him on the shoulder.

  Yet again Emmit found himself laying down and staring at the ceiling, convinced he would never sleep again. But it didn't take long for the stress to drain him, and he did.

Chapter 6: Never Ever

"Daddy... what happens when someone dies?"

  Hot damn, that night had gotten Emmit into big time trouble with Deek's mom. Deacon had come over to spend the weekend with him once, to celebrate Halloween. Emmit had taken him trick or treating, and he had spent money he didn't have on an adult sized Joker costume (Deacon had gone as Batman). They'd had a blast together like they always did, pausing between houses to battle each other. Emmit had lightly thrown play punches, doing his best evil laugh.  He could envision Deacon's tiny teeth, bared between the pointed nose of his plastic mask. The boy had really been slugging him that night, bruising his thighs and arms. He hadn't cared about that; he was the father of a boy and that was just what boys did. They played rough.

  Deek had told him that he wanted to watch horror movies once they had gotten back to the apartment, and Emmit had been apprehensive at first. He knew that a small child probably shouldn't be watching guts and gore and murder, but he also didn't want to raise Deek to be sheltered and naive.  The type of kid who got bullied for not being "cool".  Hell, he'd grown up watching whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and he had never needed any sort of therapy to repair the mental damage. Eventually he'd decided that graphic sex and rape would disqualify any movie he would show his son (which was fine by him, Emmit didn't care to see that stuff either).  He'd gone old school: George Romero's zombie classic, Day of the Dead.

  It was a long movie, too long to hold Deek's attention until the bloody end.  Deacon had stopped adding to the pile of wrappers beside him and was staring off into space with a concerned look on his face, gnawing his lower lip and fiddling absently with the cloth of his costume cape. Emmit had paused the movie and asked him if he was okay, and that was when he had been hit with that dreaded question, where people went when they bit the big one, that all children must ask of their parents eventually.

  He had ruffled Deek's light blond hair, already messy from the mask, even though he knew he hated it. Deek ducked out from under his hand.

  "Gee pal," he said, trying to keep his voice light and friendly. "That's a great question."

  "What happens?" Deek demanded again, and Emmit had been gutted by the pained, terrified look in his eyes.

  Lie to him, or be honest?

  Emmit decided he would straddle that line to the best of his ability.

  "Well buddy... I guess nobody really knows. Lots of people believe lots of different things."

  "Like what?"

  Man, I am not ready for this, he had thought, searching the limits of his vocabulary to try to find some palatable way to explain death to a child.

  "Okay, well... let's see here, uh... well there are different religions, and..."

  Deek's face was knotting up with confusion and impatience. He was losing him.

"Okay. Some people think that when a person dies, they leave their body behind and their spirit goes to Heaven," he said, raising his hands to the ceiling like he was praying at a church service. "And, there are other people who think that when we die, it's like you go to sleep. Except... you don't wake up."

Deek's eyes had quadrupled in size and his mouth had fallen open, forming a giant elongated oval.

"Never?" He had demanded, beginning to breathe hard. His shoulders, impossibly slender, heaved.

"Never ever," Emmit had tried to say as gently as possible— and Deacon's paralyzing fear of death had begun.

What the fuck did you tell my son?!

Kelly's infuriated voice echoed in his ears as he held his hands out in front of him, and Poke slapped a club into his palms. Emmit squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could, trying to block the memories out. A single tear fell from the duct of his left eye and trickled slowly down to the corner of his mouth.

"The fuck? What are you, scared?" Poke asked stupidly, his mouth slack and his eyebrows raised. Emmit wanted to hit him, very badly.

"No," Emmit said huskily. "Thinking about my son."

Poke shrugged nonchalantly; he didn't give two shits about anyone but himself, which seemed to be a prerequisite for the type of person who chose drug dealing as a profession. Emmit did not want to look him in the eyes. He didn't want that kind of connection with Poke. Somehow, he thought, he would be infected by his nastiness if he spoke to him too much. Emmit didn't think he was the portrait of perfection or any better than anyone else, but people like Poke reeked of disrepute. When they were around, you tended to keep your hand over your wallet.

"Hate to break it to you Papa, but he might as well be on the moon," he said, tugging another layer of stitched clothing down over his skeletal body.

Poke... it is so important to your future that you stop