Comin' Home to You

by Dustin Mcwilliams

  Letting his own anger boil over from Clint’s slight, Owen wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “Fuck you.”

  It was as if Clint was expecting some sort of verbal retort. He gave his trademark stupid smirk and took a quick drink of beer. “Nah, fuck you, pussy. You want to do something about it, or are you gonna cry some more?”

  Owen could tell he was still tweaking from his meth. He would be easy to anger with one easy comment. “I would, but I’m surprised you want to fight me without Scar here to bail your little ass out.”

  Clint’s smirk retreated, and was replaced by an ice cold glare. It was that simple to piss off Clint. Just demean his size and make him feel inferior to his brother, and you have a berserk man ready to brawl. Allowing his beer bottle to slip out of his fingers and shatter onto the concrete porch below, Clint growled like a rabid dog. Owen could tell by the way Clint was positioning his right arm that he would come out with a haymaker. Sure enough, it was as he planned. He swung with all his might, but Owen easily stepped to the side, then quickly countered with a quick left hook. It connected with Clint's face, but judging by his reaction, it didn't faze him as much as he had hoped. Either Owen was truly too weak to even fight, or Clint was truly a tough son of a bitch.

  “My bitch hits me harder than that,” jested Clint, as he put his fists up as a boxer would.

  While being cognizant that Clint just called his daughter a bitch, he had no time to look at Ali to gauge her reaction. He instead focused on his opponent, who now had the physical and mental advantage. With his one-hit plans failing, he now had to battle an angry Clint in fair fisticuffs. While he had a little experience in scraps such as these, his current frail body spelled doom and gloom for his chances. Alas, he still had to try.

  Following suit by putting his fists up, Owen prepared for a true one-on-one battle. Feeling cocky, Clint feigned a punch, laughing when Owen flinched backward. He paid it no matter and retained his undivided attention on his enemy. Owen was on his toes, ready to evade any strike. All he had to do was stay focused, and-

  He never saw it coming. A right hook straight to his jaw. Owen melted to the ground and felt the side of his face slam onto the grassy lawn, hardened by the consecutive dry days the area had experienced. A haze came over his eyes, and a sudden weight upon his torso felt like it was crushing his innards. When he finally came to, Clint had mounted his torso. Quickly, Owen grabbed at Clint’s wrists. It was all he could do to hinder his attacks. However, the more he struggled, the quicker he was becoming exhausted. Sooner or later, Clint would win the positioning battle, and have a field day punching his face. But for now, he had to keep struggling.

  Even through his best efforts to free himself, he could hear his daughter screaming at Clint to get off of him. Was his daughter actually on his side? Or did she just not want to deal with this? Either way, even if he misinterpreted it, Owen made his daughter’s concern his motivation to win. He wasn't going to overpower Clint, so he had to rely on resourcefulness and his own roguish methods. His head turned back and forth, looking for anything that could be of use. His time was running out before Clint broke free of Owen’s hands, and the more he looked, the more distressed he became. There was nothing in sight that he could use as leverage.

  When things really started to seem hopeless, a light bulb lit up in his head. He had a utility knife in his pocket, though attempting to retrieve it would allow one of Clint's arms to be freed. He’d likely take at least one punch, but with his current body, one punch may knock him completely out. But he needed a miracle, and that miracle was in his pocket. However, unless the divine intervened, he had no chance without the knife.

  He was running out of energy and breath. It was now or never. In a quick motion, he let go of Clint's arms and used one of them to grab Clint’s head down to his ribs. This strategy would keep him from smashing his face, though he expected to take shots to his ribs and kidneys. It was a gamble Owen was willing to take. His hand scurried for his pocket, while his upper body twisted and turned, hoping to avoid any blows. Instead, he felt Clint’s forearm press against his throat. Perhaps that was the lucky break Owen needed. He didn't have much air in his lungs to begin with, but this was pain he could manage for a few seconds. Even as he felt each vessel in his head wanting to burst from Clint's surprisingly solid forearm bone, he still felt hope as his fingers rubbed against the metal frame of his knife. Grabbing it from the confines of his pocket, he had to unfold the knife with one hand. Hell, he would settle with unfolding any tool in it, which was what he aimed to do. It was getting harder to think, as most of his heart's blood ceased pumping to his brain. Each second was becoming critical. But he was determined not to die here. Not on his daughter’s lawn. Especially not with her eyes on him.

  In a last effort, his fingers managed to unfold something on his knife, and by judging from its coarse exterior, it was the nail file. It was good enough, as it still had a fairly prominent point to it. With little time to spare, he clenched the knife tightly and thrust it as hard as he could into Clint's exposed and unguarded temple. He felt a rush of enjoyment in his already pulsing head as the file penetrated his skin. He knew it wasn't a deep puncture, but it was more than enough for Clint to cry out in pain and roll off of him. Owen wanted to enjoy the wails of his adversary in agony, but he desperately needed to gasp for air. Each breath that entered his lungs was as refreshing as a cold beer. Of course, alcohol would enter his mind now. Maybe he could have a few after he was done whipping Clint’s ass.

  Clint muttered on the ground as he grabbed his bleeding head. “You fucking piece of shit! I’m gonna kill you!”

  Those words, even in their hateful intent, made Owen grin from ear to ear as he continued to suck in oxygen. His respite of rest wouldn't be long. Even though the blow was stunning, Clint was a tough man and wouldn’t be down for long. With enough air in his lungs, he quickly sat up, then immediately cringed when he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. Perhaps a rapid sit-up wasn't a wise choice, especially with how tentative his stomach had been recently. However, he did his best to ignore the pain. Calmly folding the nail file back into place, he took out the actual knife. Clint was still holding the side of his head with blood trickling down the back of his hand.

  Seeing that blood caused adrenaline to rush throughout his body. It almost felt like he was sexually aroused. He imagined himself as a shark, one that had just smelled fresh blood reddening the blue ocean. A desire to bring what he felt as righteous judgment on Clint took him over. He had a chance to end it right here and right now and give Austin a better chance at life. He may die afterward due to his failing health, or he may suffer something excruciating by the hands of vengeful Graysons. Either way, he wasn’t sure if he cared anymore. But as he glanced at his daughter, who had her hands over her mouth in legitimate concern, he truly wondered if his death would make things worse. Is she concerned for me or for Clint? He asked himself that over and over. She still had no idea of his condition. What would she think if he were to tell her about his illness and fate, especially if he succeeded in killing Clint?

  But as Owen glanced back at the stirring Clint, the desire and life-long hatred of the Graysons, especially the one who fucked his daughter, manifested intensely. He cheated on Ali and brutally abused her regularly, though he wasn’t sure Ali even cared, as long as he kept supplying drugs. Clint also cared little, if at all, about his own son. He predicted that Austin would eventually be a punching bag for Clint too. That boy deserved a better life than the one he was probably going to get. He knew what he had to do. This was something he had wanted to do all along. Clint Grayson had to die.

  Owen stared at the blade in his hand. He hadn’t sharpened it in some time, and specks of rust started to accumulate on the steel. But the blade was sharp enough. The point could penetrate skin deeply. That’s all he needed. Taking one final breath of reassurance, he pounced like a cat and mounted Clint, using his knees to pin down Clint’s arms. A devious smile grew over his
face as he looked upon his prey. He didn't dare look at Ali. She had not screamed for him to stop yet, though he wasn't sure if she could see the knife in his hand. Even if she did plead for him to spare Clint, he couldn’t. There was no turning back now.

  Clint still squirmed as hard as he could, but there was no escaping the leverage Owen had upon him. Even as weak as he was, it would be difficult for even a stronger man such as Scar to maneuver out. His attempts at freeing himself ceased when he noticed the blade in Owen’s hand.

  “What the fuck you gonna do with that?” asked Clint. His tone still contained a hint of cockiness.

  “I think you know damn well what I’m gonna do with this.”

  “You ain't got the guts, pussy.”

  Owen had no time to prepare for the sudden wad of spit from Clint’s mouth. Most of it got on his nose, but the fact that he could taste some of it on his lips and open mouth silently infuriated him. All it did, however, was reinforce Owen’s murderous will. He was going to delight in this slaughter. It enthralled him so that he just had to let Clint know how much this meant to him.

  “Oh...I'm going to kill you the same way I killed your brother Roy.”

  Clint’s eyes widened as Owen slowly raised his knife. Spilling the secret made Clint the second person to know Roy’s fate. Ben had known for a long time, even before he started his police career. Fortunately for Owen, Ben would remain the only person to hold that secret. Clint was going to take this knowledge to his grave. His eyes remained so wide that a hankering to stab him right in the pupils came over Owen.

  As he committed himself to ending this, a creaking sound was heard, followed by the slamming of a vehicle door. Owen was so wrapped up in the moment that he never heard the truck pull up in the driveway. Before he could turn around, a young voice echoed loudly into the still bright evening.

  “Grandpa!”

  Everything about him froze. His hand holding the knife. His lungs that gave him air. His heart skipped a beat. That was a voice he didn’t want to hear at this time. Owen couldn't bear to turn around and look his grandson in the eye. He didn’t want to see his expression, but he did wonder what it was. Was he shocked? Appalled? Unclear as to what was even going on? Whatever it was, he didn’t dare turn around.

  There was no way he could do this anymore. Nothing could crush Austin’s spirit more than by witnessing his grandfather murder his father. Nervously, he lowered his knife and looked at Clint’s face. His eyes were no longer surprised or scared. Instead, they were back to the cocky and brash look that he usually exhibited. He was also devilishly smiling from ear to ear.

  “Told ya you didn’t have the guts.”

  Owen never heard the footsteps behind him. What felt like a vice grip clamped on to his sensitive neck, and in a flash, he was thrown off of Clint like a rag doll. He hit the ground with a sickening thud and rolled ten feet away before his momentum finally ceased. The back of his neck throbbed from the pressure that was placed on it, and his shoulders ached from the impact of the toss. There was no time to process the pain. Swiftly, Owen was once again yanked up by his neck into a practical standing position. He should have known who the brute was that was playing with him like a toy.

  “What are you trying to do with my brother?” calmly asked Scar. His lack of emotion was frightening.

  Owen’s panic escalated after noticing the knife was no longer in his hand. He gulped loudly. “Just having a chat.”

  “Looked like you were tryin' to kill him.”

  “Now why would I do that to my future son-in-law?”

  Scar gently smiled, then unleashed a powerful punch into the gut of Owen. He had taken his fair share of punches in his day, but that shot, combined with his already weak stomach, was one of the most intense pains he had ever felt. He would have crumbled to the grass had Scar let him go. Instead, he started coughing to no end.

  Mid-cough, he was blindsided by another swift punch, this one to the face. It felt weaker, and after he came to, he noticed Clint was back up and standing to his side. It hurt, but compared to Scar’s punches that felt like a medieval flail, Clint’s punches were more than welcome to take the place of his older brother’s blows.

  “How you like that, you pussy ass bitch!?” boomed an elated Clint.

  “Dad! Uncle Scar! Why did you hit grandpa? What the hell?” screamed Austin, while running toward the group of men.

  Scar turned his head hastily. “Austin! Get back to your mom, now!”

  “Grandpa!”

  “Austin,” muttered Owen, just loud enough to where Austin could hear. “Do what he says.”

  Slowly backing away and utterly confused, Austin went back to his mother, who embraced her son warmly. It had been a long time since Owen observed Ali hold her son with actual love. While his vision was a little fuzzy, he could see black streaks of mascara run down his daughter’s face. Who had she cried for? She hadn’t screamed for Clint to beat his ass, which she has before in drunken rages years back. This was different. This was genuine concern. She probably didn’t want to see her father die, but she definitely didn’t want Austin to have such a gruesome memory burned into his mind forever.

  Picking up Owen’s knife that got away from him, Clint had a self-assured grin on his face. “Hey bro, you know what he said to me?”

  “What's that?”

  “He said he killed Roy. He fucking admitted it.”

  Owen expected Scar's eyes to light up like the Fourth of July, but instead, they seemed glum. It was almost like this was news he expected all along, and now that he received the word, a calm sense of closure came over them. “So, he’s dead?”

  “That's what I just said, Scar. I just told-”

  “I'm asking him, Clint.”

  Owen replied by saying nothing.

  A smirk appeared on Scar's face. “Fair enough.”

  Scar delivered another blow to Owen's gut. The shockwave of the blow put him to his knees and made him lose his lunch, along with more bitter bile that he hadn’t become used to tasting. Even through the brutal pain, he wished some of the vomit had got on Scar, but he stepped to the side, as if expecting it.

  Carefully looking around, Scar realized their neighborhood surroundings. Scar was a brute, but he had a brain on him, unlike his younger brother. “Clint, throw him in the back of my truck, alright? We need to take him somewhere else.”

  “The fuck? Why don't you do it?”

  Instead of answering, Scar crossed his arms menacingly. Understanding the message, Clint dragged Owen toward the truck. He wanted to struggle away from Clint’s grasp. He wasn't unconscious, but the gut punch put his body in a virtual stasis. Owen felt like he was living through someone else’s eyes.

  While Clint was stout and sturdy, dragging Owen's dead weight was a chore. His slow pace allowed Ali to frantically stop him halfway to the truck.

  “What are you doing with him!? Stop!”

  “Get the fuck out of my way, Ali.”

  “No! What the fuck are you doing? You better-”

  “I said get the fuck out of the way, bitch!”

  Scar briskly walked to Clint. “Hey, don’t be calling her that.”

  “I’ll call her whatever the fuck I want!”

  Ignoring Clint, Scar asked nicely. “Ali, move.”

  “NO! You’re going to kill him! Hell no!”

  “Get the fuck out of the way!” screamed Clint. “I ain’t gonna tell you again, cunt!”

  Scar bowed up to Clint in surprise. “I thought I told you to stop!”

  Even through the commotion, only Owen noticed Austin’s tears. The two locked eyes. Despite the pain, Owen gave his grandson a warm smile. It was all he could do to make it seem like it would be alright.

  Owen suddenly fell to the ground as Clint dropped him. “Motherfucker, don’t be bowing up to me!”

  Scar had a look of astonishment on his face. “What did you call me, little boy?”

  “Man, don’t be calling me little. I’ll fuck you up.”


  “BOTH OF YOU STOP!” shrieked Ali. “This is bullshit! Stop this-”

  Her voice was interrupted and drowned out by the loud engine of a car driving toward the house at a high speed. Almost as if the driver realized this is where he needed to stop, the vehicle slammed on its brakes noisily against the gravel of the road. Owen raised his head up just enough to see that it was an Adrienne police vehicle. More importantly, it was his brother's car. Owen enjoyed the sense of relief that came over him. He was saved.

  Ben wasted no time opening the driver’s side door and drawing his firearm. “NO ONE MOVE! HANDS UP!” he screamed.

  His partner stepped out of the passenger door and followed suit. His gun was aimed directly at Scar, though compared to Ben’s strong and calm demeanor, his seemed a little shaky.

  “Well hell, how’s it goin’ Ben? What brings you here?” inquired Scar. There was no hesitation in his voice. He was probably used to talking to law enforcement. Following orders precisely, he put his hands up.

  “It's Captain Tomkins. Don't call me by my first name again.”

  Scar just grinned and scratched his head, one arm still partially in the air. “Sorry, boss man. I mean, Captain Tomkins. Now what we can do for such a fine officer of the law such as yourself?”

  “You can step away from Owen for starters.”

  “Man, fuck you,” answered a defiant Clint.

  Ben’s handgun was aimed directly at Clint’s chest. “I ain’t going to tell you again. Move away from him now.”

  “You’re gonna have to make me, officer.”

  Scar knew exactly when to cease snide comments to the authority. “Clint, do what he says.”

  Clint really didn’t want to. It was like pulling teeth for him to step away from Owen. But finally, he took two steps back. Ben’s partner quickly swooped in, braced Owen’s arm over his shoulders, and slowly walked to the squad car.

  Noticing the disobedient Clint keeping his hands in his pockets, Ben trained his gun at him. “I said put your hands up.”